The moment I stepped into the bathhouse, the heat hit me like a physical force—thick, wet, fragrant with eucalyptus and pine resin, rising in curling tendrils from the sunken stone pool at the center. The air shimmered, distorting the edges of the room, turning Kaelen’s silhouette into something half-real, half-dream. He stood waist-deep in the water, steam clinging to his skin, his golden eyes locked on mine. Not predatory. Not possessive.
Waiting.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway, barefoot on the cold flagstone, my cloak pooled at my feet, my body still humming from the vision in the Veil Spring. My mother’s face. Her fear. Her last words—*“Never let him mark you”*—not a warning against Kaelen, but a confession of her own failure. A plea born of regret, not protection.
And now, I was here.
Not to destroy him.
Not to break the curse.
But to face what I’d spent my entire life running from.
Myself.
Kaelen didn’t rush me. Didn’t try to pull me in. Just watched, his expression unreadable, his breath slow and steady. The water lapped at his chest, revealing the hard lines of his abdomen, the old scars that mapped his past—claw marks, bullet wounds, the faint silver line across his collarbone where a blade had nearly severed his throat. He looked like a man who had survived too much. Who had fought too long. Who had waited too patiently.
And now, he was waiting for me.
“You don’t have to,” he said, voice low. “You can walk away. Right now. I won’t stop you.”
I swallowed.
That was the worst part.
He meant it.
He wouldn’t force me. Wouldn’t claim me. Wouldn’t even touch me unless I asked.
And gods, I wanted him to.
“I saw the truth,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “About the curse. About my mother. About… us.”
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “And what truth is that?”
“That I’ve been wrong,” I said. “All this time. I thought you were the monster. But the real enemy wasn’t you.”
“Then who was?” he asked.
“Me,” I said. “I’ve been so afraid of becoming like her—afraid of losing control, afraid of love, afraid of being weak—that I turned strength into cruelty. I used my mission as an excuse to hate you. To deny what I felt. To pretend I didn’t want you.”
The bond flared—just once, a pulse of heat beneath my skin, like it was approving.
Kaelen stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The water rippled around him, steam curling off his shoulders. “And do you want me?”
My breath hitched.
Not because of the question.
But because of how he asked it—not with triumph, not with demand, but with something dangerously close to *tenderness*.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Gods help me, I do.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me. “Then why are you still standing there?”
Because I was terrified.
Not of him.
Not of the bond.
But of what would happen if I let go. If I stepped into that water and let myself feel everything I’d spent years denying. If I let myself trust him. Need him. *Love* him.
Because once I did, there would be no going back.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready.
But I was done lying.
So I stepped forward.
One foot. Then the other. The stone was warm beneath my soles, the air thick with moisture. I could feel his gaze on me—hot, steady, unrelenting—as I reached the edge of the pool. The water was clear, lit from below by faint blue runes embedded in the stone, casting shifting patterns across the ceiling like constellations.
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I stepped in.
The heat was instant—searing, penetrating, wrapping around me like a living thing. I gasped, my skin tingling, my muscles loosening as the water rose to my waist, then my chest. I could feel the magic in it—old, deep, purifying—washing over the scars on my soul, peeling back the layers of fear and denial.
Kaelen didn’t touch me.
Just stood there, watching, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“I’m not afraid of the water,” I said.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“Of this,” I said, gesturing between us. “Of us. Of what happens if I stop fighting. If I let myself want you. If I let myself *need* you.”
He stepped closer.
Not touching. Just near.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the way my pulse jumped when he was near, the way my skin burned for his touch.
“You think needing me is weakness?” he asked.
“I thought it was,” I said. “I thought love made you vulnerable. That it made you soft. That it got you killed.”
“And now?”
I looked up at him—really looked at him.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Not the Alpha. Not the enemy. Not the monster.
Just a man.
A man who had carried me through a storm. Who had held me through fever. Who had let me accuse him of betrayal and still called me *mine*.
A man who had waited for me.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
“Now,” I said, my voice breaking, “I think maybe love isn’t the weakness.
Maybe it’s the only thing that makes us strong.”
He didn’t speak.
Just reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed his thumb over my cheek. The calluses on his fingers scraped my skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. I gasped. My body arched, just slightly, toward him—traitorous, instinctive.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “Not yet. Not if you’re not ready.”
“But I want to,” I whispered. “I want to say it. I want to *mean* it.”
He smiled—just once, faint, fleeting—and it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
Then he did the one thing I didn’t expect.
He stepped back.
“Then prove it,” he said.
I froze. “What?”
“Prove it,” he said. “Not with words. Not with lies. Not with duty. With *choice*.”
“What kind of choice?”
“The kind that matters,” he said. “The kind that can’t be faked. The kind the bond can’t manipulate.”
My breath came fast. “And what’s that?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned and walked to the edge of the pool, stepping out of the water. Steam clung to his body, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every scar, every inch of him. He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t reach for a towel. Just stood there, naked, powerful, *mine*.
And then he did it.
He sat on the stone ledge, his back against the wall, his legs in the water, his arms resting on his knees.
And waited.
My pulse roared.
He wasn’t coming to me.
Wasn’t forcing me.
Wasn’t even looking at me.
He was letting me decide.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Because now, there was no excuse.
No blame. No denial. No mission.
Just me.
And what I wanted.
I could walk away.
I could step out of the water, wrap myself in my cloak, and return to the fortress. I could keep fighting. Keep hating. Keep pretending I didn’t feel what I felt.
Or I could stay.
I could close the distance.
I could touch him.
I could *choose* him.
And if I did, there would be no going back.
The water rippled as I moved.
One step. Then another. My heart pounded. My breath came in shallow gasps. The heat was unbearable, not from the bath, but from the truth of what I was about to do.
I stopped in front of him.
He looked up.
His eyes were gold. Fierce. Unrelenting.
But there was something else there.
Something I hadn’t seen before.
Fear.
Not of me.
But *for* me.
Like he was afraid I’d change my mind. Like he was afraid I’d run. Like he was afraid that after everything, I’d still say no.
And that was when I knew.
He wasn’t the one holding us apart.
I was.
So I reached out.
My fingers brushed his chest—warm, damp, solid. His breath hitched. His muscles tensed. But he didn’t move. Just watched me, his eyes burning.
I trailed my hand up, over his collarbone, his throat, his jaw. His beard was rough against my fingertips, real, *alive*. My pulse screamed. My core ached. The bond flared, not with denial, but with something deeper.
Recognition.
And then I did it.
I leaned in—and kissed him.
Not desperate. Not angry. Not a surrender.
A choice.
My lips met his, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if I was reclaiming what had always been mine. He didn’t move at first. Just let me lead, let me take what I wanted, let me prove what I felt.
And then—
He responded.
His hand rose, slow, deliberate, and cupped the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His other arm wrapped around my waist, anchoring me to him. His kiss turned possessive—hot, deep, consuming—like he was branding me from the inside out. The bond roared to life, a wildfire racing through my veins, burning away every lie, every fear, every wall I’d built between us.
I moaned—soft, broken—my body melting into his. My fingers tangled in his hair, my hips grinding against his, seeking friction, seeking release. He was hard against me, thick and ready, but he didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just held me, kissed me, *claimed* me in the only way that mattered.
With consent.
With choice.
With love.
When we broke apart, our breaths were ragged, our foreheads pressed together, our hearts pounding in unison. The bond hummed between us, warm and steady, no longer a curse, but a promise.
“Say it,” he whispered.
“Say what?”
“That you’re mine,” he said. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. Because you *choose* to be.”
I looked into his eyes—gold, fierce, unrelenting—and for the first time, I didn’t see a threat.
I saw a future.
“I’m yours,” I whispered. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. Because I *want* to be.”
He didn’t smile.
Just pulled me into his arms, holding me like I was something fragile, something precious. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Just leaned into him, my face buried in his neck, my breath fogging the damp skin of his throat.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this fortress, I let myself believe it.
That I wasn’t here to destroy him.
I was here to save him.
From her.
From the lie.
From me.
And maybe—just maybe—I was saving myself too.
We stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in each other, the water warm, the steam rising, the runes glowing beneath the surface like stars. The bond was quiet now, not with denial, but with something deeper.
Peace.
Finally.
And then—
He spoke.
“The next fever is coming,” he said, voice low. “Stronger than the last. And if we’re not ready—”
“—it will break us,” I finished.
He nodded. “But if we face it together—”
“—we’ll survive,” I said. “And if we don’t?”
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. “Then we die together. And I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
Tears burned my eyes.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight them.
Because I knew—
He wasn’t just my Alpha.
He wasn’t just my mate.
He was my home.
And I was his.
Not because of magic.
Not because of blood.
But because, at last, we had chosen each other.
And no lie could ever break that.