The first time I believe I might die for him, I don’t see it coming.
Not in the fire. Not in the blood. Not in the way the bond screams when he touches me.
It comes in silence.
In the hush between breaths as we move through the northern woods, the full moon high above us, its silver light filtering through the pines like scattered stars. The cabin behind us is sealed, the wards humming with ancient magic, Dain’s warning still echoing in my ears: *“You’ll be monitored. If either of you is in danger…”*
We didn’t claim each other.
Not fully.
The blood oath held the fever at bay—again. The kiss—furious, desperate, ours—had been enough to quiet the bond’s screaming need. But not enough to break it. Not enough to seal it. The countdown still ticks in my blood, seven days, six now, maybe less. The bond is a live wire beneath my skin, pulsing with heat, with hunger, with something deeper than magic.
With him.
Kaelen walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush, his presence a wall of heat even in the frost-laced air. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just keeps his eyes on the path ahead, his jaw clenched, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He’s tense. Not from the moon. Not from the heat.
From me.
Because he knows—like I do—that the trial at dawn will be a battlefield. That Lysara has already won half the Council with her lies. That without proof, without the memory-crystal, I’m already condemned.
And he’ll burn the world to stop it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is low, rough from last night’s fever, from the blood on my tongue, from the way his name still burns in my throat. “You could let them try me. Let them see the truth for themselves.”
He stops. Turns to me. His golden eyes catch the moonlight, feral, molten, hers. “And if they don’t?”
“Then I die.”
“No.” His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, his grip firm, unyielding. “I don’t want to survive without you. I don’t want to rule without you. I don’t want to *breathe* without you.”
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—a flicker in the trees.
Not wind. Not shadow.
*Magic.*
I freeze, my magic flaring at my fingertips, the bond humming beneath my skin. Kaelen tenses, his wolf close to the surface, his growl low in his chest. The forest is too quiet. No birds. No rustle of animals. Just the whisper of pine needles and the slow, steady beat of our hearts.
Then—
A pulse.
Not from the moon.
From the ground.
Like a heartbeat. Like a warning.
“Trap,” I whisper.
He nods, drawing his blade. “Back to the cabin.”
We move fast, boots crunching in the snow, our breaths sharp in the cold. The cabin is only fifty yards ahead, the rune above the door glowing faintly. But the forest shifts—branches creak, shadows stretch, the air thickens with enchantment.
Then—
Impact.
The ground explodes.
Not with fire. Not with force.
With *roots*.
Black, thorned, writhing like serpents from the earth, they surge from the snow, coiling around my legs, my waist, my arms. I scream, magic flaring, but the roots are Fae-cursed—immune to fire, resistant to witch-light. They drag me down, into the frozen earth, the thorns biting into my skin, drawing blood.
“Nebula!” Kaelen roars, charging toward me, blade in hand.
But more roots erupt—this time for him. They wrap around his legs, his torso, his arms, pinning him in place, dragging him to his knees. He snarls, muscles straining, fangs bared, but the magic is too strong. Ancient. Queen’s magic.
“Isolde,” I choke, struggling against the thorns. “She’s here.”
“No,” Kaelen growls. “She’s using proxies. Fae assassins. Shadow-walkers.”
And then—
They appear.
Three figures, stepping from the trees like smoke given form. Cloaked in black, their faces hidden beneath hoods, their hands glowing with Fae runes—*death-seekers*, the kind used in silent kills. They don’t speak. Don’t hesitate. Just raise their hands.
And the roots tighten.
Pain lances through me—sharp, deep, *wrong*. The thorns dig deeper, drawing more blood, and I feel it—the pull, the drain. They’re not just binding me.
They’re *feeding*.
“They’re siphoning your magic,” Kaelen snarls, fighting the roots, his voice raw. “Fight it. Burn them. *Now*.”
I try. I summon fire, witch-light, storm-energy—but it’s like trying to light a match in a hurricane. The roots absorb it, devour it, grow stronger. My vision blurs. My breath comes in gasps. The bond flares—not with heat, not with desire.
With panic.
“Kaelen—” I choke.
“I’m here,” he growls. “I’ve got you.”
But he doesn’t. He’s pinned. Trapped. Helpless.
And I’m dying.
One of the assassins steps forward, raising a dagger etched with Fae runes. Not to kill me.
To *mark* me.
A false curse. A fake death-seal. They’ll make it look like I died resisting arrest. That I attacked the King. That I was a traitor to the end.
And Kaelen—
He’ll be broken.
That’s what they want. Not just my death. Not just the bond’s collapse.
His ruin.
The assassin lowers the dagger.
I close my eyes.
Wait for the pain.
Wait for the end.
Then—
A roar.
Not from Kaelen.
From the forest.
Not human. Not wolf.
Something older.
The ground *shudders*. The roots *scream*. And then—
They *burn*.
Not with fire. Not with magic.
With *light*.
Golden, blinding, searing through the forest like a sunburst. The roots blacken, wither, *die*. The assassins stagger back, their hoods thrown back, their faces twisted in agony. The runes on their hands flare—then *shatter*.
And I’m free.
I collapse into the snow, gasping, bleeding, my magic flickering like a dying star. Kaelen is on his feet, his coat torn, his skin slashed from the thorns, but alive. He doesn’t look at the assassins. Doesn’t raise his blade.
He runs to me.
“Nebula,” he breathes, dropping to his knees, pulling me into his arms. “Look at me. *Look at me*.”
I do.
His face is pale, his golden eyes wide with something I’ve never seen before—*fear*. Not for himself. For me.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, even though I’m not. My body is weak, my magic drained, my blood soaking into the snow.
“No,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re not. You’re *dying*.”
And then—
He *howls*.
Not a battle cry. Not a challenge.
A *wail*.
Long. Desperate. Broken.
It rips through the forest, shaking the trees, scattering the shadows, silencing the night. It’s the sound of a wolf who’s lost his mate. Of a king who’s lost his soul. Of a man who’s losing the only thing that ever made him feel *alive*.
And I realize—
This is worse than death.
Because if I die, he’ll survive.
But if I die *now*—
After the blood oath. After the kiss. After the truth in the sacred spring—
He’ll break.
And the bond—
It’ll break with him.
“Don’t,” I whisper, pressing my hand to his face. “Don’t let them win.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me closer, his body trembling, his breath hot on my neck. The bond flares—not with heat, not with desire.
With grief.
Then—
Footsteps.
Dain.
He bursts from the trees, blade drawn, his scarred face grim, his eyes scanning the clearing. The assassins are gone—vanished into the shadows, their bodies dissolved into mist. Only the dead roots remain, blackened, smoking.
“Sire,” he says, kneeling beside us. “Are you hurt?”
Kaelen doesn’t look at him. Just keeps his eyes on me. “She’s dying.”
“No,” I say, my voice weak. “I’m not.”
Dain presses his fingers to my wrist, then to my neck. “Her pulse is fading. The siphon took too much. She needs blood. *Now*.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate.
He presses the blade to his wrist, draws a deep cut. Brings it to my lips.
“Drink,” he says, voice raw.
I do.
My mouth closes over the wound, my tongue flicking against the cut, my magic flaring—weak, faint, but *alive*. His blood floods my veins—hot, thick, *his*—and the bond *screams*, not in pain, not in fever.
In *relief*.
The color returns to my skin. My breath steadies. My magic flickers—then flares, bright and wild, like storm-light in my veins.
But it’s not enough.
“She needs more,” Dain says. “The siphon took her core magic. Without a full transfer—”
“Then give it to her,” Kaelen says, pressing the blade deeper. “Take mine. Use it to heal her.”
Dain hesitates. “Sire, the bond—”
“*Do it*.”
Dain doesn’t argue.
He presses his palm to Kaelen’s wound, draws the blood into his own veins, then places his hand over my heart. The magic flows—wolf-light, ancient, powerful—surging into me, stitching my magic back together, sealing the wounds, stilling the fever.
And then—
I open my eyes.
Whole. Alive. *Hers*.
Kaelen is still holding me, his face buried in my hair, his body trembling. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t speak.
Just whispers—
“Don’t leave me.”
My breath catches.
And for the first time, I see it—
Not the Alpha King.
Not the cold, controlled ruler.
But the man.
Broken. Weeping. Mine.
“I wasn’t saving the king,” I say, my voice quiet, my fingers brushing his jaw. “I was saving *you*.”
He lifts his head. His golden eyes meet mine—wet, raw, *hers*. “And I would’ve died if you hadn’t.”
“No,” I say. “You’d have burned the world. You’d have torn it apart with your bare hands.”
“And?” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Would that have been so wrong?”
I don’t answer.
Just rise onto my toes and kiss him—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Later, we sit by the fire in the cabin, the silence between us thick but not heavy. Dain has gone—back to the city to prepare for the trial, to gather what allies he can. The assassins are gone. The threat is delayed, not gone. But for now—
We are quiet.
Safe.
Together.
Kaelen sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch, his presence a wall of heat. I’m wrapped in a thick wool blanket, my head resting on his shoulder, the bond humming beneath my skin. The fever is gone. The magic is still. But something else is awake.
Desire.
It coils in my gut, low and insistent, a heat that has nothing to do with the bond-sickness and everything to do with the man beside me. The way his breath feels against my neck. The way his hand rests on my knee, warm and heavy. The way his voice drops when he says my name.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, breaking the silence. “The blood transfer. You could’ve let Dain heal me.”
“And let another man touch you?” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “Never.”
“And if it had killed you?”
“Then I’d have died knowing you lived.”
My breath catches.
And before I can think, before I can stop myself—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Furious.
My lips crash into his, teeth and tongue and fire. He groans, his grip tightening, his other hand tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of magic, of merging—our powers fusing, our breaths tangling, our bodies remembering what our minds have denied.
He spins me, presses me back against the wall—cold wood, sharp edges, the scent of pine and storm. His body is a furnace, his hands everywhere—cupping my jaw, sliding down my spine, gripping my hips. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
And then—
His hand slips beneath my tunic.
Warm. Rough. Claiming.
The world narrows to his touch, to the heat between us, to the way the bond screams in triumph.
And I don’t care.
I don’t care about the past. About the lies. About the fire that took my family.
All I care about is this.
Is him.
Is the way he makes me feel—alive, seen, wanted.
His fingers trail up my ribs, calloused, possessive, and I moan into his mouth, my back arching, my magic flaring—wild, bright, hers—crackling up his arms like lightning.
He growls, low and feral, his hips grinding against mine, his arousal unmistakable, pressing into my core. The bond burns, not with pain, but with need. Seven days. That’s all we have before the fever sets in, before the madness starts, before we’re forced to claim each other.
But I don’t want it to be forced.
I want it to be mine.
“Kaelen,” I breathe, pulling back just enough to speak, my lips still brushing his. “I want—”
And then—
The bond flares.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With warning.
We freeze.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “The fever,” he whispers. “It’s returning.”
I nod, my breath coming fast. “We need to do it again. Now.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He presses the blade to his wrist, draws a fresh line of blood. Brings it to my lips.
“Drink,” he says.
I do.
My mouth closes over the wound, my tongue flicking against the cut, my magic flaring, my body arching into his. The blood floods my veins, hot and thick, and the fever recedes, the bond settling, the heat between us shifting from lust to something deeper.
Trust.
He pulls back, his thumb brushing my lower lip, wiping away the blood. “You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my revolution.”
I don’t answer.
Just rise onto my toes and kiss him—soft, slow, hers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Outside, the wind howls.
But inside—
We are quiet.
Safe.
Together.
And for the first time since the fire—
I don’t feel alone.
And that terrifies me more than any truth.
But I don’t let go.
Not this time.
Not ever.