The fortress had never been more alive.
Not with war. Not with fear. Not even with the electric silence of Coronation Night, when the world held its breath and waited to see if we would burn or bloom. No—this was different. This was celebration. Pure. Unfiltered. Wild.
Beltane had come.
The ancient festival of fire and fertility, of union and renewal, of life rising from the ashes of winter. The gates stood open. The banners of garnet and storm hung from every tower, rippling in the warm wind. Torches blazed along the battlements, their flames leaping high, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone. The scent of roasted lamb, spiced mead, and wild heather drifted from the great hall, where the pack feasted in joy, their voices rising in song, their fangs bared in laughter. Warriors danced with omegas. Sentinels spun children in circles. Even the wolves howled in harmony, their golden eyes bright with something I hadn’t seen in years—hope.
And at the center of it all—
Us.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the courtyard, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, his storm-gray coat open at the throat, revealing the old scar that ran from collarbone to sternum. No crown. No armor. Just power. Just presence. His gold eyes scanned the crowd, not with suspicion, not with dominance, but with something softer.
Pride.
And when he turned to me—
His eyes softened.
“You’re quiet,” he said, stepping closer.
“I’m thinking,” I said, leaning into the warmth of his chest as he wrapped his arms around me. His scent—storm and iron—wrapped around me like a vow. 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.
“About what?”
“How fast everything changed,” I said, my voice low. “A year ago, I was planning your murder. Now—”
“Now you’re dancing with me at Beltane,” he finished, 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. “And you don’t want to.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a challenge.
And gods, I loved him for it.
I turned in his arms, my hands rising to his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar. “I didn’t come here to dance,” I said. “I came here to destroy you. To break the curse. To survive.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, stepping closer, my body pressing into his, “I want to live. With you. As your mate. As your equal. But not because the world demands it. Not because the Council recognizes it. Because I choose it.”
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 let them see it,” he said, his voice rough. “Let them see that you’re not a pawn. Not a weapon. Not a cursed bloodline waiting to die. Let them see that you’re mine. And I’m yours. And no title, no crown, no curse can ever change that.”
I didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
And then—
The drums changed.
Not a warbeat. Not a mourning call.
A celebration.
The great doors of the fortress swung open, and the pack parted, forming a wide path down the central courtyard. At the end—
The bonfire.
Not just flames. Not just wood.
Carved from blackthorn and storm-iron, its base etched with runes of fire and storm, of blood and bone, of fire and thorn. At its center, a massive log—ancient, sacred—waiting to be lit. Tradition demanded the Alpha and his mate light it together, their joined hands igniting the flame with a spark of magic. A symbol. A vow. A beginning.
Kaelen took my hand.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?” I said, my voice steady. “To be yours? I’ve already done that.”
He didn’t smile.
Just squeezed my hand.
And we stepped forward.
The path was long. The silence heavier than any battle. Every eye was on us—werewolves, witches, hybrids, even a few Fae observers who had come to witness the impossible. They didn’t cheer. Didn’t shout. Just watched, their breaths held, their hearts pounding in time with the drums.
And then—
We reached the fire.
Riven stepped forward, holding a torch of blackthorn and flame. His dark eyes were sharp, but there was something softer beneath the surface—pride. He didn’t speak. Just offered the torch.
Kaelen took it.
Then turned to me.
Not to light the fire.
But to share it.
He didn’t take my hand.
Just placed the torch in my palm, his fingers brushing mine, his gold eyes burning into mine. “You light it,” he said. “Not because I command it. Not because tradition demands it. Because you choose to.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just stepped forward, my bare feet silent on the stone, the torch heavy in my hand. I didn’t speak. Didn’t chant. Just raised the flame to the sacred log—and let my magic flow.
Fire erupted.
Not from the torch.
From me.
Garnet-red flames leapt from my fingertips, racing down the wood, igniting the runes, setting the entire structure ablaze in a single, roaring column of fire. The sky above split with lightning. The wind howled through the mountains like a chorus of wolves. The pack roared—not in fear, not in defiance, but in approval.
And then—
Kaelen stepped beside me.
Not to take over.
But to join.
His hand found mine, his storm-gray magic joining mine, the bond flaring between us—fire and storm, garnet and thorn, life and power. The flames burned brighter, hotter, wilder, until the entire courtyard was bathed in light, until the shadows fled, until the fortress itself seemed to breathe with fire.
And then—
We danced.
Not like warriors. Not like rulers.
Like lovers.
Our bodies moved together—slow, deep, in rhythm with the drums, with the fire, with the bond. His hands on my hips, mine on his chest, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling. No words. No commands. Just movement. Just magic. Just truth.
And then—
The pack joined us.
Not in lines. Not in formation.
In chaos.
Warriors spun omegas. Sentinels danced with healers. Children leapt through the flames, their laughter ringing like bells. Even the wolves joined, their tails high, their eyes bright, their howls rising in harmony with the music. The air was thick with scent—fire and sweat, pine and frost, arousal and magic. The bond hummed beneath my skin, not with need, not with desperation, but with peace.
And then—
I saw her.
Lyra.
Standing at the edge of the firelight, her violet eyes sharp, her silver hair braided with moonstone beads. She wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t laughing. Just watching—me, Kaelen, the fire—with something deeper in her gaze.
Longing.
And then—
Riven appeared beside her.
Not by chance. Not by accident.
By design.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for her. Just stood there, his dark eyes locked onto hers, his body tense, his breath steady. And then—
She smiled.
Small. Rare. But real.
And he—
Smiled back.
Not a smirk. Not a grimace.
A real smile. Faint. Fleeting. But real.
And I knew—
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.
Later, as the fire burned low and the music swelled, we slipped away.
Not to hide.
Not to escape.
But to breathe.
The private chamber was quiet, the fire crackling in the hearth, the scent of pine and frost sharp in the air. I stood at the window, the wind cool against my skin, my hand resting on my stomach, the life inside me pulsing like a second heartbeat. Kaelen came up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.
“I’m not done thinking,” I said. “They’re going to come for us. My grandmother. The remnants of the Crimson Court. The Iron Clan, if they think we’re weak. They’ll try to break us. To divide us. To take this from us.”
He didn’t argue.
Just pressed a kiss to my neck, his fangs grazing my skin. “Let them try.”
“And if they succeed?”
“Then we burn the world,” he said, his voice low, rough. “But not before I tear them apart with my bare hands.”
I didn’t flinch.
Just leaned back into him, my body pressing into his. “I don’t want to rule through fear,” I said. “I don’t want to be another monster. I want to be better. For them. For us. For every hybrid who’s ever been told they don’t belong.”
He turned me gently, his gold eyes searching mine. “Then be better. Not because you have to. Not because the world demands it. But because you want to. Because you’re strong enough to.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped into him, my hands rising to his chest. “I love you,” I whispered. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But 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.
Slow. Deep. A vow sealed in breath and heat.
The bond flared, not with need, but with something deeper.
Peace.
Finally.
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.