The fortress was quiet the morning after Coronation Night, not with the silence of absence, but with the deep, contented hush of a kingdom that had finally exhaled. Sunlight spilled through the high arched windows of our chamber, painting golden stripes across the stone floor, catching in the dust motes like embers. The scent of pine resin and frost still clung to the air, mingled now with the faint, lingering traces of fire and storm—our magic, our bond, our truth.
Kaelen lay beside me, one arm still draped possessively over my waist, his breathing slow and even in sleep. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way the light caught the gold in his lashes, the faint scar that ran from his collarbone to his sternum—a relic of some battle I didn’t know the story of. His face was relaxed, unguarded, the mask of control he wore like armor finally stripped away. No cold authority. No calculated silence. Just… peace.
And gods, it terrified me.
Not because I didn’t want it. Not because I didn’t believe in it. But because peace had always been the enemy. The lie. The thing my mother had warned me against. The thing that had gotten her killed. And now—
Now, I had chosen it.
I had chosen *him*.
And I had no idea how to live in the aftermath.
He stirred, his fingers flexing against my hip, his body shifting closer. I held my breath. Waited. And then his eyes opened—slow, heavy with sleep, but instantly focused on me. Not with suspicion. Not with challenge. With something softer.
Recognition.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“So are you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t smile. Just lifted his hand, his thumb brushing the fresh bite mark just below my ear—the one he’d placed on me during the coronation. The one that declared to the world I was his. Not by force. Not by magic. But by choice. His touch was gentle, reverent, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he pressed too hard.
“You’re real,” he said, his voice low.
“So are you,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just pulled me closer, his body warm against mine, his scent—storm and iron—wrapping around me like a vow. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Just buried my face in his neck, my breath warm against his skin. The bond hummed between us, not with need, not with denial, but with something deeper. Something like *belonging*.
And then—
He moved.
Not with urgency. Not with hunger. But with care.
His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my hip, down my thigh. Then up again—slow, deliberate, tracing the edge of the sigil branded into my skin. It still throbbed faintly, a pulse of heat beneath the surface, a reminder of everything we’d survived. Everything we’d chosen.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Good,” he said, his voice rough. “Because I’m not done touching you.”
And then he kissed me.
Not like before. Not like the desperate, claiming kisses we’d shared in the Moonfire Hall, where fire and storm had spiraled out of control, where the bond had roared to life like a wildfire. This was different.
Slower.
Deeper.
Softer.
His lips met mine, hot and demanding, but not with possession—with *tenderness*. His tongue slid against my lower lip, not forcing entry, but asking. And when I opened for him, he didn’t take. He *worshiped*.
His hand moved again—up my spine, over my shoulder, 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. His hand slid beneath the fabric of my shorts, his palm 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 push.
Just held me. Touched me. *Knew* me.
And then—
He stopped.
Pulled back. Looked at me.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me if you want this. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the curse is gone. But because *you* want it.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just reached for him—my hands on his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar, my nails lightly scraping. “I want you,” I said, my voice breaking. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. But because I *love* you. Because you saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid. As *me*. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.”
He didn’t smile.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, 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 bed, my hands clutching the sheets. 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 bed, 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.
Later, as the sun climbed higher and the fortress began to stir, Kaelen rose, pulling on his clothes with quiet efficiency. I watched him from the bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, the sheet pooled around my waist. He caught me looking, his gold eyes softening as he stepped back to the bedside, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“Stay here,” he said. “Rest. Reclaim. I’ll handle the morning reports.”
“I’m not fragile,” I said, but there was no bite to it.
“No,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You’re not. But you’re also my queen. And queens deserve to be cherished.”
I didn’t argue. Just watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of warmth, of memory, of the lingering scent of him on the sheets, of the soft hum of the bond beneath my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the peace settle into my bones.
And then—
I heard it.
Faint at first. A whisper on the edge of hearing.
A melody.
Not from the courtyard. Not from the great hall. But from somewhere deep within the fortress. A low, mournful tune, carried on the wind, rising and falling like a breath. It wasn’t sung. Not quite. But hummed. Deep. Resonant. Male.
I sat up, my heart suddenly pounding.
It was a lullaby.
And I knew that voice.
Riven.
I threw back the covers and slipped into a robe, padding barefoot to the window. The fortress sprawled below, quiet in the morning light, the sentries moving in slow rotation, the omegas tending to the hearths. And then—
There.
Near the Heart Grove, beneath the ancient blackthorn tree where oaths were sworn and bonds were sealed, Riven stood with a child in his arms. Not one of the warriors’ sons. Not a sentinel’s heir. But a young girl—no more than six, her hair dark as midnight, her eyes wide and violet. An orphan. One of the many hybrids the pack had taken in over the years, children of broken unions, discarded by their bloodlines, left to die in the wild.
And Riven—hard, silent, the blade in the dark—was holding her like she was something fragile. Something precious. Singing to her in a voice so soft it barely carried on the wind.
My breath caught.
Because I’d never seen him like this. Never imagined him like this. The Beta who stood in the shadows, who carried the weight of Kaelen’s sins, who bled so others could live—was gentle.
And then—
She looked up at him.
And smiled.
And Riven—
Smiled back.
Not a smirk. Not a grimace. A real smile. Small. Rare. But real.
And in that moment, I understood.
Love wasn’t just for kings and queens.
It was for the ones who stood in the dark.
For the ones who held the line.
For the ones who bled so others could live.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
I turned from the window, my heart full, my eyes burning.
Because if Riven could find peace…
Then so could I.
And maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.
Maybe it was only the beginning.