The first lie I told was my name.
“Gwendolyn Vale,” I said, voice smooth as polished obsidian, as the Northern Pack sentinel sniffed the air around me. My real name—Garnet Hollow—would have gotten me torn apart before I reached the Moonfire Hall. But Gwendolyn? A minor witch from the Circle of Ash, here to observe the induction ceremony? That was acceptable. Boring, even. Harmless.
My scent was masked with clove oil and iron dust. My magic, the wild, fire-laced pulse in my veins, was bound beneath a sigil carved into my ribs—three days of agony to suppress it, three days of blood drawn in ritual ink. I’d carved it myself in the back of Dr. Vale’s clinic, biting down on a leather strap so no one would hear me scream.
Now, I stood at the threshold of the Moonfire Hall, heart hammering like a war drum.
The fortress loomed above me—stone and thorn, carved into the Carpathian cliffs like a beast’s skull. Torches flickered with blue flame, casting long shadows that slithered across the courtyard. The air smelled of pine, blood, and something deeper—storm musk and dominance, thick enough to taste. His scent.
Kaelen Thorne.
Alpha of the Northern Pack. Last of the Thorned Blood. The man whose family murdered mine.
I adjusted the silk wrap at my throat, fingers brushing the hidden blade beneath my sleeve. My mission was simple: infiltrate, survive, destroy. The curse that poisoned my blood—killing every Hollow woman before her thirtieth year—was forged by Thorne blood magic. Break the line, break the curse. And if I had to carve his heart out with my bare hands to do it?
So be it.
The double doors groaned open, and I stepped inside.
The Moonfire Hall was a cathedral of bone and flame. Chandeliers of antlers dripped molten wax. The floor was polished black stone, inlaid with silver sigils that pulsed faintly beneath my feet. Dozens of werewolves filled the space—Alphas, Betas, Sentinels—dressed in leather and steel, their eyes sharp, their postures coiled. I kept my gaze low, my breath even. Observe. Blend. Survive.
Then I felt it.
A shiver in the air. A pull in my chest.
My head snapped up.
And I saw him.
Kaelen Thorne stood at the far end of the hall, beneath a canopy of thorned ivy. Tall. Broad. Cloaked in black leather that clung to his shoulders like a second skin. His hair was dark as a raven’s wing, his jaw carved from stone. But it was his eyes that stopped me—pale gold, like moonlight on snow, locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken.
But I felt it—like a hook in my ribs, dragging me forward.
The High Witch stepped forward, her voice echoing through the hall. “We gather to welcome new allies, to strengthen old bonds. Let the induction begin.”
I exhaled. Just a ceremony. Just a formality.
Then the floor lit up.
Golden sigils flared beneath my feet, spiraling outward in a web of light. I stumbled back, but the magic held me in place. My skin burned. My blood roared. The sigil on my ribs—my suppression mark—cracked open, blood seeping through my dress.
“What—?”
“Silence,” the High Witch intoned. Her eyes glowed silver. “The old magic stirs. The blood remembers.”
I looked at Kaelen.
He was staring at his own hands. The same sigils burned across his skin—lines of fire that crawled up his arms, glowing like embers. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared.
And then he looked at me.
“No,” he growled.
But the magic didn’t care.
The High Witch raised her hands. “The Hollow-Thorne blood pact—dormant for generations—has awakened. The Garnet Flame answers the Thorned Blood. By ancient law, they shall be bound.”
“Bound?” I choked. “I didn’t agree to this!”
“The blood agrees for you,” she said. “Step forward, Garnet Hollow. Step forward, Kaelen Thorne. Your union is demanded. Your resistance is meaningless.”
The crowd erupted—growls, whispers, snarls of disbelief. I saw the Betas exchange glances. The Sentinels shifted, hands on weapons. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one knew this pact existed.
But I did.
My mother’s journals. The warnings. The stories of a forbidden union, a love that defied the Blood Accord, a curse born of betrayal.
And now it was happening to me.
Kaelen moved first. Slow. Deliberate. Every step he took sent a ripple through the room. The air thickened. My pulse spiked. By the time he reached me, I was trembling.
“You’re not one of them,” he said, voice low, for my ears only. “You’re Hollow. You’re her daughter.”
I lifted my chin. “And you’re Thorne. Your father slaughtered my family. So yes, I’m exactly who you think I am.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then why does your blood sing for mine?”
Before I could answer, the High Witch gripped our wrists and slammed them together.
Pain exploded.
Fire raced up my arm, searing through muscle and bone. I screamed—but it wasn’t just pain. It was heat. A wave of molten desire, sudden and overwhelming, flooding my core. My knees buckled. Kaelen caught me, his grip iron, his body pressed against mine.
And then I felt it—his arousal.
Hard and thick against my hip. A jolt of electricity shot through me, so intense I whimpered. My breath came in ragged gasps. His scent—storm and pine and something darkly male—filled my lungs. My nipples tightened. My thighs clenched.
This wasn’t magic.
This was instinct.
“Fight it,” I hissed, shoving against him. “We don’t want this.”
“I don’t,” he growled, but his voice was rough, strained. His thumb brushed my wrist, and the sigils flared brighter. “But my body doesn’t seem to care.”
The High Witch chanted in Old Tongue. The sigils on our wrists burned deeper, carving into the skin. I felt the bond take root—like a vine wrapping around my heart, tightening with every beat.
“You are bound,” she declared. “Until one of you dies.”
The magic released us.
I stumbled back, clutching my wrist. The sigil was there—a jagged, thorned circle around my pulse point, still glowing faintly. Blood trickled down my arm.
Kaelen stared at his own mark, his expression unreadable. Then he looked at me.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Until death.”
“I’d rather die,” I spat.
He stepped closer, caging me against the wall. His hand pressed beside my head, his body a wall of heat and muscle. “Then I’ll make sure you do. Slowly.”
I didn’t flinch. “Try it. I’ve got a blade with your name on it.”
His lips curled. “You’ll never get close enough.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your scent,” he said, leaning in. His breath was hot against my ear. “I know how your pulse jumps when I touch you. I know how wet you were when our hands touched.”
My breath hitched.
“You felt it too,” he whispered. “Don’t lie.”
I turned my head, our lips inches apart. “I felt disgust.”
His eyes darkened. “Liar.”
For a heartbeat, I thought he’d kiss me.
Or bite me.
My fangs ached—my werewolf side rising, drawn to him like a moth to flame. My mother’s warning echoed in my skull: Never let him mark you.
But the bond pulsed between us, a living thing, feeding on every glance, every breath.
Then a Sentinel cleared his throat.
Kaelen stepped back, but not before his fingers grazed my hip—possessive, claiming.
“You’ll stay in my wing,” he said. “No exceptions. No escapes. If you try to run, I’ll drag you back myself.”
“And if I kill you in your sleep?”
He smiled. Cold. Cruel. “Then I’ll die happy, knowing I took you with me.”
The crowd watched, silent. Judging. I lifted my chin, blood on my wrist, fire in my veins.
I had come here to destroy him.
Now, I was bound to him.
And the worst part?
My body still hummed from his touch.
The walk to his chambers was a blur of stone corridors and watchful eyes. I didn’t speak. Neither did he. But I felt him—the heat of his presence, the weight of his gaze. Every step we took together sent a ripple through the bond. It was maddening. It was intoxicating.
His wing was at the top of the east tower—private, guarded, opulent. Black stone, silver torches, furs on the floor. A massive bed dominated the room, draped in dark velvet. I stood in the center, arms crossed, refusing to look impressed.
“There’s a connecting door,” he said, tossing a key onto the table. “Lock it if you want. It won’t matter. I’ll break it down if I need to.”
“Charming.”
He turned to me, stripping off his gloves. “You think this is a game? That you can play the martyr while plotting my death?”
“I don’t have to plot,” I said. “You’re already dying. The curse will take you—just like it took your father.”
His hand stilled. “You know nothing about my father.”
“I know he was a monster.”
“And I know your mother begged him for mercy,” he said, voice quiet. “Before she died.”
Ice flooded my veins. “You lie.”
“Ask the High Witch,” he said. “Or dig deeper into those journals. You might find truths you’re not ready for.”
I wanted to slap him. To draw my blade. But the bond flared, a warning pulse in my wrist. Pain lanced up my arm, sharp and sudden.
Kaelen stepped forward. “The bond punishes denial. The more you fight it, the more it hurts.”
“Then I’ll suffer.”
“No,” he said, cupping my face. His thumb brushed my cheek. “You’ll burn.”
And God help me—I wanted to.
I stepped back, breaking contact. “Stay away from me.”
“I can’t,” he said. “And neither can you.”
He turned to leave. “Sleep well, Garnet. Tomorrow, we begin the warding test. And if you think tonight was hell—wait until you feel my hands on your skin.”
The door shut behind him.
I sank to the floor, clutching my wrist, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
I had come here to destroy him.
But the bond was already destroying me.
And the worst part?
Part of me didn’t want to fight it.