The fortress had never been quieter.
Not the silence of fear, not the stillness before a storm, but the deep, contented hush of a kingdom at peace. The revelry from Coronation Night had finally burned itself out—torchlight dimmed, music faded, laughter dissolving into the low murmur of warriors returning to their quarters, omegas tending to the last of the fires, sentries standing watch with relaxed shoulders and unclenched jaws. Even the wind had gentled, slipping through the mountain pass like a lover’s breath, cool against the stone.
I stood at the war table, my boots silent on the flagstone, my fingers tracing the carved borders of the Northern Territory—blackthorn and storm-iron inlaid into obsidian, glowing faintly with the pulse of our bond. Maps sprawled before me: the Southern Clan’s shifting borders, the Iron Clan’s hidden passes, the Fae High Court’s labyrinthine vaults. Scrolls lay open, ink still wet from last night’s negotiations. The air smelled of parchment, pine resin, and something deeper—Kaelen’s scent, storm and iron, clinging to the collar of the coat I’d stolen from his wardrobe.
I hadn’t meant to come here.
After the coronation, after the kiss, after the pack’s unified chant of *“Queen. King. Queen. King,”* we’d slipped away—not to celebrate, not to consummate, but to *breathe*. To stand in the quiet and remember who we were beneath the titles, beneath the power, beneath the weight of a thousand expectations.
And then I’d woken at midnight, my mind racing, my magic humming beneath my skin like a live wire. The Southern Pack’s envoy had left with promises, not oaths. The Iron Clan remained silent, watching. And my grandmother—she was still out there, a shadow with violet eyes and a heart full of lies. I could feel her. Not in the wind. Not in the dreams. But in the silence between heartbeats, in the way the runes on my skin still pulsed with something darker than magic.
So I’d come here.
To work.
To plan.
To *fight*.
Because peace wasn’t the end.
It was just the beginning.
The door creaked open behind me.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just kept my eyes on the map, my fingers tracing the border between Northern and Southern lands. But my body knew him before my mind did—the shift in the air, the deep, even rhythm of his breath, the warmth that rolled off him like a storm front.
“You’re working again,” Kaelen said, his voice rough with sleep.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“Same thing,” he murmured, stepping up behind me. His hands settled on my hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin just above my waistband, and I shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer rightness of it. Of him. Of us.
He didn’t speak. Just leaned in, pressing a kiss to the fresh bite mark just below my ear. It still throbbed faintly, a pulse of heat beneath my skin, a reminder that I was claimed. Not by magic. Not by curse. But by choice. His scent wrapped around me—storm and iron, power and possession—and I leaned back into him, my body arching into his.
“You should be asleep,” he said, his voice low against my neck.
“So should you,” I said.
“I woke up and you were gone.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Because of the Southern envoy?”
“Because of everything,” I said, turning in his arms. My hands rose to his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar that ran from his collarbone to his sternum. He was barefoot, wearing only the black silk trousers he’d slept in, his chest exposed, his gold eyes burning in the dim light. “The crown’s not just a symbol, Kaelen. It’s a target. And we’ve given our enemies time to reload.”
He didn’t argue. Just cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Then we’ll be ready. We’ll expose her. We’ll make sure the Council sees the truth. And if she tries to run—”
“—we’ll hunt her,” I said, stepping into him, my hands rising to his chest. “Not just to punish her. To end her. Because if we don’t, she’ll keep coming. And next time, she won’t frame me. She’ll kill me. And then what? You’ll burn the world? You’ll die with me? I don’t want that, Kaelen. I want to live. With you. As your queen. As your mate. And I won’t let anyone take that from us.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Slow. Deep. A vow sealed in breath and heat. His lips met mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against my lower lip, forcing it open. I moaned—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders. The bond flared, not with need, not with denial, but with truth. I could feel it—his love, his relief, his surrender. And I gave it back. My fire, my fury, my need—pouring into him like a river.
When we broke apart, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths ragged, he spoke.
“Then we end it,” he said, his voice rough. “Not with blood. Not with fire. But with truth. We bring the ledger. We show the Council. We make them see what she’s done. And if they won’t act—”
“—we will,” I said. “Together.”
He nodded. “Together.”
But even as I said it, I felt it—deep in my marrow, in my blood, in the very core of me.
The silence.
Not peace.
Not safety.
Waiting.
And then—
He stepped back.
Not to leave.
But to move the table.
With one hand, he shoved the war table aside, the heavy stone scraping across the floor like a growl. Scrolls scattered. Inkwells tipped. Maps fluttered to the ground. And in the space he’d cleared—
Us.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice breathless.
“Changing the strategy,” he said, stepping forward, his gold eyes burning. “We’ve been fighting like warriors. Planning like tacticians. But we’re not just that.”
“What are we, then?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
And pulled me into his arms.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With *hunger*.
His mouth crashed into mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against my lips, forcing them open. I gasped—soft, broken—as his hands slid down my back, over the curve of my hips, beneath the hem of the coat I was wearing. His palms were warm against the bare skin of my ass, his fingers spreading, pulling me against him. I could feel him—hard, thick, pressing against my thigh—and gods, it made me ache.
But he didn’t rush.
Didn’t claim.
Just *touched*.
His hands moved—up my spine, over my shoulders, into my hair, fisting gently, tilting my head back. His other hand traced the sigil on my thigh, then moved higher, his thumb brushing the edge of my hip, just beneath the waistband of the silk shorts I’d slept in. I gasped—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against my lips.
“So are you,” I whispered.
He didn’t argue. Just kissed me again—deeper, slower, a vow sealed in breath and heat. And then his hands moved—down my back, over my hips, beneath the waistband of my shorts, pulling them down, one slow inch at a time. I lifted my hips, helping him, my breath catching as the cool air hit my skin. And then—
He was naked.
Me.
Us.
And the world fell away.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t claim. Just *touched*.
His hands traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the swell of my hips. His fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, then higher—slow, deliberate—until he found me. Wet. Aching. Ready.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Not just your body. Not just your power. *You*. All of you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just arched into his touch, my breath catching as his thumb circled my clit, slow and steady, building the fire one spark at a time. My magic hummed beneath my skin, not with denial, not with resistance, but with *truth*. I could feel it—his love, his need, his surrender. And I gave it back. My relief, my shame, my *love*—pouring into him like a river.
And then—
He kissed me again.
And his fingers slid inside me.
Two. Then three. Slow. Deep. Curling just right. I moaned—deep, broken—my body arching off the floor, my hands clutching his shoulders. He didn’t stop. Just kept moving—his fingers, his thumb, his mouth—until I was trembling, until I was begging, until I was on the edge.
“Kaelen,” I gasped. “Please—”
“Not yet,” he murmured, his lips against my neck. “I want to feel you come on my hand. I want to taste you. I want to *know* you.”
And then—
He lowered his head.
His mouth found me—hot, wet, relentless. His tongue circled my clit, then flicked, then pressed. His fingers kept moving—slow, deep, relentless. I screamed—raw, broken—my body arching off the floor, my fingers clutching his hair, my magic flaring, lightning crackling at my fingertips.
And then—
I came.
Not with fire. Not with storm.
But with *peace*.
It washed over me—slow, deep, all-consuming. My body trembled. My breath caught. My vision whited out. And when I came back, he was still there—kissing me, touching me, holding me—his eyes burning into mine.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. Because you *chose* to be.”
“I did,” I whispered, my hands rising to his face, my fingers tracing his jaw. “And you’re mine. And I’ll choose you. Every time.”
He didn’t smile.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, a vow sealed in breath and heat. And then he moved—over me, between my legs, his body a wall of storm and iron. I reached for him—my hands on his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar, my nails lightly scraping.
“Tell me,” I said, my voice breaking. “Tell me if you want this. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the curse is gone. But because *you* want it.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Just looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into the Moonfire Hall. Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because you’re *worthy*. Because you’re strong. Because you’re *mine*.”
And then—
He entered me.
Slow. Deep. All the way.
I gasped—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders. He didn’t move. Just held me—deep inside, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath warm against my skin. And then—
He started to move.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
Each thrust was a vow. Each breath a promise. Each touch a claim. Not of ownership. Not of dominance. But of *love*.
And when I came again—harder, deeper, brighter—he was right there with me, his body arching, his roar echoing through the chamber, his seed spilling inside me, hot and thick.
The bond flared—not with need, not with desperation, but with *truth*.
We didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just held each other—breathing, trembling, *alive*.
And then—
He pulled out, rolled to his side, and pulled me into his arms, holding me like I was something fragile, something precious. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Just buried my face in his neck, my breath warm against his skin.
And for the first time since I’d become who I was meant to be, I let myself believe it.
That I wasn’t just surviving.
I was *alive*.
And I would fight—
For him.
For us.
For every breath, every touch, every claim.
Because the curse wasn’t just in my blood.
It was in my heart.
And the only way to break it was to stop running.
To stop fighting.
To stop pretending I didn’t want him.
Because I did.
Not just to survive.
Not just to break the curse.
But because he saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid.
As me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.