The first time I believe he might love me, I walk in on another woman wearing his robe.
It’s not the robe that strikes me first. Not the sight of smooth, pale skin beneath black silk, or the way her fingers linger at the collar like she has the right. It’s the *scent*.
Not mine.
Not his.
Hers.
Lysara.
Dark roses and iron. Vampire perfume, thick and cloying, laced with something sharper—victory. It floods the chamber, wrapping around the lingering traces of pine and storm that belong to Kaelen, smothering them like smoke over fire.
I freeze in the doorway, the Soul-Key still warm in my pocket, my breath caught in my throat. The skimmer ride back was silent, the bond humming between us like a live wire, charged with everything we hadn’t said. The kiss on the platform—public, claiming, real—had silenced the Council, but not the war inside me. I still want to destroy him. I still want to burn him to ash.
But I also want to keep him.
And now—
Now I don’t know what to believe.
Lysara stands by the hearth, one foot propped on the stone, the firelight dancing across her bare legs. She’s wrapped in Kaelen’s sleeping robe—long, tailored, edged with wolf-fur, the kind only his mate should wear. Her hair is down, a cascade of midnight waves, her lips painted the same shade as her gown last night. Blood-red. A challenge.
She doesn’t startle. Doesn’t gasp. Just turns her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto mine with a smile that cuts deeper than any blade.
“Nebula,” she purrs. “Back so soon? I was just… warming myself by the fire.”
My fingers curl into fists. The bond flares—sharp, sudden, a spike of heat that isn’t desire. Jealousy. Raw. Unfiltered. It burns through me, a wildfire in my veins, and I know—he feels it too.
“Where is he?” I ask, voice low, controlled. Dangerous.
“Gone to the war chamber,” she says, stepping down from the hearth, the robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. “Left me here to… wait.” She lets the word hang, thick with implication. “Said I could borrow his robe. Said I looked cold.”
Lies.
The bond burns.
He wouldn’t. Not after the glade. Not after the kiss. Not after he said, she is mine, like it was a vow.
But the evidence is right in front of me.
Her skin is flushed. Her pulse is high. And the scent—
It’s not just hers.
It’s his.
His arousal. Faint, but unmistakable. Mixed with guilt. Mixed with something else—shame.
My breath hitches.
“You don’t believe me?” Lysara steps closer, her hips swaying, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Ask the bond. Ask *him*. See if he denies it.”
I don’t answer.
I turn and walk away.
Not running. Not fleeing.
But I don’t look back.
The corridor is dim, the torches spaced far apart, the air thick with the scent of old stone and wolf musk. My boots echo on the floor, sharp, deliberate. The bond hums beneath my skin, a constant reminder of *him*—his presence, his heat, the way his breath felt against my neck when he kissed me on the platform.
And now—
Now I feel his guilt like a brand.
He didn’t deny it.
He didn’t say, I didn’t touch her. He didn’t say, she’s lying. He just let her wear his robe, let her scent fill his chambers, let her *win*.
And I hate him for it.
Not because I think he fucked her.
But because I think he *wanted* to.
Because for one second, when Lysara whispered in his ear, when she pressed her body against his, when she offered him comfort in the silence—he *considered* it.
And that’s worse than betrayal.
That’s *weakness*.
I don’t go to my chambers. I don’t retreat. I head straight for the war chamber, my spine straight, my jaw clenched. The guards at the door snap to attention, but I don’t acknowledge them. I push the doors open and stride inside.
The war chamber is dim, lit only by the glow of the runes on the central table. Maps of Veridion and the human world beyond are scattered across the surface, weighted down by obsidian markers. Kaelen stands at the head, his back to the fire, his coat open, his crown absent. He’s alone. His shoulders are tense, his hands braced on the table, his head bowed.
He knows I’m here.
He doesn’t turn.
“You let her wear your robe,” I say, voice quiet. Cold.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “She came to me. Said she had information about the Fae. Said she needed to speak with me in private.”
“And you let her wait in your chambers?”
“I didn’t think—”
“No,” I cut in. “You didn’t. You never do.”
He turns then, his eyes gold, feral, hers. “I didn’t touch her, Nebula.”
“But you wanted to,” I whisper. “Just for a second. Just enough for the bond to *feel* it.”
He freezes.
And in that freeze, I see it—guilt. Regret. Something darker.
“I was weak,” he admits, voice rough. “For a moment, I thought—maybe it would be easier. Maybe if I let her believe there was something between us, she’d stop pushing. Stop spreading lies. Stop trying to tear us apart.”
“And did it work?” I step closer, my magic flaring, crackling at my fingertips. “Did she leave satisfied?”
“No.” His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “Because the moment she touched me, all I could think of was *you*. The way you taste. The way you *move* against me. The bond—it doesn’t lie. It only feels *you*.”
My breath catches.
And for the first time, I see it—doubt. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.
Hope.
“Then why,” I whisper, “do I feel like a prisoner in your bed?”
“Because you *are*,” he says, stepping closer. “And so am I.”
He pulls me to him, his arm locking around my waist, his body a wall of heat. His breath is hot on my neck. His heart hammers against my spine.
And the bond—
It screams.
Not with desire.
With warning.
“You didn’t deny it,” I say, my voice trembling. “When she said you’d reconnected. When she said you let her wear your robe. You didn’t *deny* it.”
“Because I was afraid,” he says, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Afraid that if I fought for you, they’d see how much I *need* you. And that… terrifies me more than any war.”
My breath hitches.
And for the first time, I see it—not the Alpha King. Not the cold, controlled ruler.
But the man.
Lonely. Afraid. Hers.
But before I can respond—before I can think—the doors burst open.
Lysara.
She glides in like smoke given form, her gown a cascade of blood-red silk, her hair coiled in intricate braids studded with obsidian. Her lips are painted the same shade as her dress. Her eyes—dark, knowing—find mine first.
And she smiles.
“Apologies for the interruption,” she purrs. “But I forgot my shawl.”
She steps into the chamber, her gaze flicking between us. Kaelen doesn’t release me. His arm stays locked around my waist, his body a shield.
“It’s not here,” he says, voice low, final.
“Pity,” she says, not looking at him. Her eyes are on me. “I was hoping to remember how it felt. The weight of your coat. The heat of your skin. The way you whispered my name in the dark.”
The bond burns.
Lies.
All of it.
But Kaelen doesn’t correct her.
He just pulls me closer, his hand sliding to the small of my back, pressing me against him.
“She’s mine,” he says, voice low, final. “And if you speak her name again, Lysara… I’ll rip out your tongue.”
The threat hangs in the air, thick with violence.
Lysara’s smile falters.
And for the first time—
I believe him.
He would.
For me.
She turns and leaves without another word, the doors clicking shut behind her.
The silence that follows is heavier than any war cry.
Kaelen doesn’t let go of me. His hand stays at my back, his breath warm on my neck. The bond hums, not with heat, not with desire, but with something deeper.
Understanding.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, voice quiet. “Threaten her.”
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
“And the robe?”
“I’ll burn it.”
I swallow. “And if I said I didn’t believe you?”
He turns me, his hands cupping my jaw, his eyes searching mine. “Then I’d say you’re lying.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Because the bond doesn’t lie. And right now, it’s screaming that you believe me. That you trust me.”
I don’t deny it.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and kiss him—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Later, in the quiet of his chambers, I sit on the edge of the bed, the Soul-Key in my lap, its pulse slow, steady. Kaelen stands at the window, his back to me, the moonlight casting his silhouette in silver. The fire crackles. The bond hums. The mark on my neck has faded to a faint pink line.
“Dain said something today,” I murmur.
“What?”
“That he’s never seen you hesitate before. Not until me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And for the first time, I don’t care.
Let them see me hesitate.
Let them see me break.
As long as I break for her.
“You’re not weak,” I say, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re… human.”
“I’m a wolf,” he corrects.
“No,” I say, lifting my head to look at him. “You’re a man. And you’re mine.”
And for the first time in eighteen years—
I believe it.
The next morning, I wake to silence.
No scent of pine and storm. No heat of his body beside me. Just cold sheets and the faint glow of dawn through the drapes.
I sit up, my hand flying to my wrist—the mark is still there, pulsing faintly, but the bond feels… distant. Not broken. Not severed. But strained.
Like something has changed.
I rise, pull on the tunic and trousers from the servant’s stores, and step into the outer chamber.
Empty.
No Kaelen. No Dain. No guards.
Just the echo of footsteps fading down the hall.
I follow them.
They lead to the east wing—the private chambers, the ones only the Alpha and his mate should enter. The door is ajar. I push it open.
And stop.
Kaelen stands by the hearth, his back to me, his coat gone, his shirt open at the throat. And Lysara—
She’s in his arms.
Not kissing. Not touching below the waist.
But close. Too close. Her head is on his shoulder, her hands clutching his shirt, her body pressed to his. And he’s holding her. One arm around her waist, the other at the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair.
Comforting her.
Protecting her.
Claiming her.
My breath catches.
The bond screams—a wave of pain, of grief, of betrayal so sharp it steals my breath.
He feels it. He *has* to.
But he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he whispers something in her ear. Something soft. Something intimate.
And then—
She looks up.
And smiles.
Not at him.
At me.
“Nebula,” she says, her voice thick with false sorrow. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
I don’t answer.
I just turn and walk away.
Not running. Not fleeing.
But I don’t look back.
Because if I do—
I might not hate him at all.
And that would destroy me.