The silence after the Midwinter Gala was heavier than any storm.
Not because Garnet had set fire to the banner. Not because she’d slammed Selene against the wall, not because the entire supernatural world had watched her magic flare with jealousy so raw it made the torches flicker and the snow illusions turn to ash. No, the silence was worse because of what it meant.
She’d fought for me.
Not to destroy. Not to manipulate. Not even to survive.
But to claim.
And gods, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I’d spent my life believing control was power. That emotion was weakness. That an Alpha could not afford to want, to need, to love. My father had ruled through fear, through blood, through domination. And when he’d died, I’d vowed to be different. To unite the fractured werewolf clans not through brutality, but through strength of will, through discipline, through absolute control.
And then Garnet had walked into the Moonfire Hall.
A witch-werewolf hybrid with fire in her veins and vengeance in her eyes. A woman who’d come to destroy me, only to be bound to me by a blood pact older than memory. A woman who’d accused me of betrayal, who’d believed the worst of me, who’d spat in my face and called me just like my father.
And still, I hadn’t let her go.
Because from the first moment I’d seen her—her violet eyes sharp with defiance, her scent spiced with fire and wild thyme, her body tense with the weight of a curse that would kill her before thirty—I’d known.
She was mine.
Not because of magic.
Not because of blood.
But because she was the only one who’d ever looked at me and seen me. Not the Alpha. Not the monster. Not the tyrant.
Just a man.
And now?
Now she’d proven it.
She’d stood in front of the entire Council, fire in her eyes, power in her voice, and declared me hers. Not because the bond demanded it. Not because the curse forced her. But because she chose to.
And I would die before I let anyone take that from her.
The summons came at dawn.
A raven with silver-tipped wings landed on the balcony outside my chamber, a scroll clutched in its talons. I took it silently, breaking the Council’s seal with my thumb. The message was brief, written in the Elder Witch’s precise hand:
The bond between Garnet Hollow and Kaelen Thorne remains unstable. Despite verification, residual manipulation has been detected. To prevent further conflict and ensure compliance with the Blood Accord, a joint blood ritual is required. You will appear before the Council at noon. No refusal will be tolerated.
I didn’t react.
Just rolled the scroll, tossed it into the fire, and turned to find Garnet standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes sharp.
“They’re summoning us,” she said.
“You knew?”
“I felt it,” she said, stepping inside. “The bond—it flared this morning. Like it was being… tested.”
I studied her. She looked different. Not just in the way she carried herself—shoulders back, chin high, no longer flinching at every shadow. But in her eyes. The fire was still there, but it wasn’t rage anymore. It was certainty.
“They want proof,” I said. “That the bond is real. That it’s not being manipulated.”
“And if we refuse?”
“Then they’ll assume the worst,” I said. “That Selene was right. That you’re unstable. That I’m weak. That the union is a threat to the Blood Accord.”
She didn’t flinch. “And if we do it?”
“Then they’ll see the truth,” I said. “That we’re not just bound by magic. We’re bound by choice.”
She stepped closer, her scent wrapping around me—spiced fire, wild thyme, something deeper now, something like home. “And what if they see more than that?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I knew what she meant.
The ritual wasn’t just about blood.
It was about breath.
One of the oldest werewolf rites—the Veritas Sanguis—required a mouth-to-mouth exchange of blood and breath, a merging of life force so intimate it was reserved only for mated pairs on the brink of claiming. It wasn’t just a test of loyalty.
It was a test of surrender.
And if we did it in front of the Council, if they saw the way my body responded to her, the way my cock hardened when her breath touched my lips, the way the bond flared like a wildfire in my veins—
They’d know.
They’d know that I wasn’t just her Alpha.
I was her mate.
And she was mine.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “I can go alone.”
“No,” she said, stepping even closer. “Because if you go alone, they’ll think you’re hiding something. That you’re protecting me. That I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” I growled.
“Then prove it,” she said, her voice low. “With me. In front of them. Let them see what we are.”
I looked into her eyes—violet, fierce, unrelenting—and for the first time since I’d become Alpha, I felt something I’d spent my entire life denying.
Fear.
Not of the Council.
Not of war.
But of losing her.
Because once we did this, there would be no going back.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready.
But I was done lying.
So I reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed my thumb over her cheek. The sigil on my wrist flared, warm and bright. “Then we do it together.”
She didn’t smile.
Just nodded.
And I knew—
We were already lost.
The Council chamber beneath Edinburgh Castle was colder than I remembered. The floating orbs of blue flame cast long shadows across the black stone, the air thick with the weight of ancient oaths and blood-deep rivalries. Around the central dais sat the leaders of the major factions—Vampire Lords in crimson silk, Fae nobles wreathed in glamour, werewolf Alphas in leather and steel, witches in flowing robes etched with sigils.
Selene was already there.
She stood at the front, dressed in blood-red velvet, her hair coiled like a serpent, her lips painted the same shade as her dress. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Garnet. Just smiled, slow and knowing, as the Elder Vampire Lord rose to speak.
“The Supernatural Council convenes to verify the stability of the bond between Garnet Hollow and Kaelen Thorne,” he intoned. “Due to repeated allegations of manipulation and instability, a Veritas Sanguis ritual is required. You will submit to the rite. No refusal will be tolerated.”
Garnet didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood beside me, her spine straight, her breath steady.
“And if we refuse?” she asked.
“Then the bond will be declared void,” the Fae Queen said. “And both of you will face exile.”
My claws extended.
“You’d risk war over this?” I asked.
“We’d risk chaos,” the Elder Witch said. “A broken bond between bloodlines could destabilize the entire northern region. You know this.”
I did.
But I also knew what they were really after.
They didn’t care about stability.
They cared about control.
And they wanted to see us break.
“Proceed,” I said.
The High Witch stepped forward, her silver eyes glowing. “The Veritas Sanguis requires a willing exchange of blood and breath. One must offer their life force to the other. The bond will reveal the truth.”
She held out a ceremonial dagger—black obsidian, etched with runes of truth and binding. “One cut. One taste. One breath. You will kneel, face each other, and complete the rite.”
Garnet took the dagger.
Not from fear.
Not from submission.
But from choice.
She turned to me, her eyes burning. “I offer my blood,” she said, pressing the blade to her palm. A thin line of crimson welled up, rich and dark. “Will you take it?”
I didn’t hesitate.
I knelt.
Not because I had to.
But because I wanted to.
She held out her hand, her blood dripping onto the stone between us. I leaned in, slow, deliberate, and licked the wound—once, twice, savoring the taste of her. Fire and iron. Life and death. Mine.
The bond flared—just once, a pulse of heat, of recognition.
Then she did it.
She knelt in front of me, her breath warm against my skin. “Now you,” she said. “Offer your blood. And I will take it.”
I cut my palm, held it out.
She didn’t hesitate.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my skin, her tongue tracing the wound. Her fangs grazed my flesh, just enough to sting, not enough to mark. And gods, I wanted her to.
But she didn’t.
Just tasted.
And then—
She leaned in.
And kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Claiming.Her lips met mine, hot and demanding, her tongue sliding against my lips, forcing them open. I moaned—low, rough—my hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. The bond roared to life, a wildfire racing through my veins, burning away every lie, every fear, every wall we’d built between us.
But it wasn’t just a kiss.
It was a transfer.
Her breath flowed into me—warm, spiced with fire, rich with life. And mine into her—storm and salt and something darkly male. The magic flared, not with denial, but with completion. The sigils on our wrists glowed like embers, the air humming with power. I could feel her—her relief, her shame, her love—pouring into me like a river. And I gave it back. My need. My hunger. My vow to protect her, to cherish her, to claim her when she was ready.
The chamber gasped.
Some stepped back. Some covered their eyes. Some—like the Southern Alpha—snarled, his claws extending.
But I didn’t care.
Because in that moment, there was only her.
Her taste. Her scent. Her body pressed to mine.
And then—
She broke the kiss.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
Her lips were swollen, her breath ragged, her eyes dark with arousal. The sigil on her wrist flared, warm and bright.
“The bond is pure,” the High Witch said, her voice trembling. “Unbroken. And… complete. Whatever was done to her, it did not sever the truth between them.”
Selene’s smile vanished.
“The ritual is complete,” the Elder Vampire Lord said. “The bond is verified. No further action will be taken.”
“And Selene?” I asked, standing, pulling Garnet with me.
“She will be monitored,” the Fae Queen said. “Any further attempts to manipulate the bond will result in exile.”
Selene didn’t argue.
Just smiled, slow and cold, as she turned and walked away.
But I didn’t care.
Because Garnet was looking at me—really looking at me—and in her eyes, I saw it.
Not doubt.
Not fear.
Trust.
We returned to the fortress in silence, the bond humming between us, warm and steady. When we reached her chamber, she didn’t turn away. Didn’t lock the door. Just stepped inside—and held out her hand.
“Stay,” she said.
I didn’t hesitate.
I crossed the threshold, closed the door, and pulled her into my arms. She didn’t resist. Just buried her face in my neck, her breath warm against my skin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For doubting you. For thinking the worst.”
“You were hurt,” I said. “And she used that. But you fought back. You found the truth. And you stood in front of the Council and claimed me.”
She looked up. “I did.”
“Then let me do the same,” I said.
And I kissed her—slow, deep, a vow sealed in breath and heat. The bond flared, not with need, but with something deeper.
Belonging.
She was mine.
And I was hers.
Not because of magic.
Not because of blood.
But because, at last, we had chosen each other.
And no lie could ever break that.
Later, as we lay tangled in her sheets, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing the sigil on her wrist, she spoke.
“The High Witch said something after the ritual,” she said, voice quiet.
“What?”
“She said the bond is active. But incomplete.”
I stilled.
“And?”
She lifted her head, her violet eyes searching mine. “She said one of us must mark the other before Beltane—or both of us will die.”
The room went cold.
Not from fear.
But from understanding.
The curse wasn’t just in her blood.
It was in the bond.
And the only way to break it was to complete it.
With a bite.
With a claim.
With love.
And if we didn’t?
We’d both burn.