The funeral pyre had burned to ash, but the weight of it still pressed on my chest like a stone.
I hadn’t meant for them to die.
Not really.
I’d known the risks—the Blackfen Pass was dangerous, the Southern Pack volatile—but I’d told myself the guards would survive. That the sabotage would look like a failed ambush, not a massacre. That no one would get hurt.
But six men were dead.
And Kaelen had stood in front of their burning bodies, torch in hand, and mourned them like brothers.
Not with rage. Not with vengeance.
With grief.
And I’d watched him—really watched him—and for the first time, I hadn’t seen a monster.
I’d seen a man.
It unsettled me more than any threat, any growl, any cold gold-eyed glare ever could.
Now, two days later, I was in the armory, running my fingers over the edge of a silver-coated dagger, testing its balance. The blade was light, sharp, perfectly weighted—meant for throwing. I turned it slowly in my hand, the metal cool against my skin, the sigil on my wrist pulsing faintly in time with my heartbeat.
I shouldn’t have been here.
The armory was restricted. Only Alphas, Betas, and high-ranking Sentinels were allowed inside. But I’d slipped in during the morning shift change, when the guards were distracted, when the scent of fresh bread from the kitchens masked my own. I needed weapons. Not just the hidden blade in my sleeve. Not just the dampener vials Lyra had given me. I needed something real. Something that could kill.
Because Kaelen was right.
Every move I made, he saw through.
He knew I’d sabotaged the caravan. He knew Lyra had helped me. He knew I was still fighting.
And he wasn’t stopping me.
He was watching.
Like I was some kind of game.
And that? That made me dangerous.
I selected three throwing knives, slipping them into the hidden sheaths along my thighs. Then I moved to the racks of long blades—swords, axes, war scythes. My fingers brushed the hilt of a curved silver dagger, its blade etched with runes. Storm-breaker, the inscription read. Forged in lightning, tempered in blood.
I lifted it.
It was heavier than it looked, the balance perfect, the metal humming faintly, as if it recognized something in me. I turned it in the light, watching the runes catch the glow of the torches. It was beautiful. Deadly. The kind of weapon an Alpha would carry.
“You’re not allowed in here.”
I froze.
The voice was low. Rough. Familiar.
I didn’t turn.
“I wasn’t aware the armory had visiting hours,” I said, setting the dagger back on the rack.
“It doesn’t,” Kaelen said, stepping into the room. The heavy door shut behind him with a soft click. “But you’ve never cared about rules.”
I turned slowly.
He stood in the center of the armory, tall and broad, dressed in dark trousers and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No armor. No weapons. Just the sigil on his wrist, glowing faintly, and the storm in his eyes.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked… hungry.
“I was just looking,” I said, backing toward the door. “No harm done.”
“You don’t ‘just look,’” he said, stepping forward. “You plan. You calculate. You strike.”
I kept moving. “Flattered you think so highly of me.”
“I think you’re dangerous,” he said. “And I think you’re reckless. Six men are dead because of you.”
My breath caught.
“I didn’t kill them,” I said, voice tight. “The Southern Pack did. Or the Crimson Court. Or whoever you want to blame.”
“You set the fire,” he said. “And you knew it could burn.”
I stopped. “And you’ve never started a war to prove a point?”
“I’ve started wars to end them,” he said. “To protect my people. To keep the peace.”
“And what about my people?” I snapped. “What about the Hollow women your father cursed? The ones who die before thirty? Was their blood worth peace too?”
He didn’t flinch. “My father was a monster. I’m not him.”
“Then why does your blood still bind me?” I shot back. “Why does your name still curse my bloodline?”
“Because the magic doesn’t care about guilt,” he said. “It only cares about blood. And yours—”
He stepped closer.
“—sings for mine.”
I backed up—right into the stone wall.
He followed, closing the distance in one smooth move, caging me in with his arms on either side of my head. His body was a wall of heat, his scent flooding me—storm musk, iron, something dark and male that made my fangs ache. My breath came fast. My pulse jumped. The sigil on my wrist flared, warm and insistent.
“You think you’re so clever,” he said, voice low, rough. “Sabotaging my caravan. Framing the Vampires. Playing your little games.”
“They’re not games,” I whispered. “They’re war.”
“Then fight me,” he said. “Not my supply lines. Not my alliances. Me.”
My heart pounded. “I will. When the time is right.”
“No,” he said. “Now.”
His hand slid down the wall, then lower, until his palm pressed flat against my stomach, just beneath my ribs. The fabric of my tunic was thin, the heat of his touch searing through. I gasped. My body arched, just slightly, toward him—traitorous, instinctive.
“You want to destroy me?” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of my hip. “Then why does your body burn when I touch you?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie,” he growled. “I can feel it. Your pulse. Your breath. The way your scent spikes when I’m near.”
His other hand came up, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. His eyes burned into mine—gold, fierce, unrelenting.
“You hate me,” he said. “Fine. Hate me. But don’t pretend you don’t want me.”
My skin was on fire. My thighs clenched. The heat in my core was unbearable, a slow, molten ache that pulsed with every beat of my heart. I wanted to shove him. To knee him. To draw my blade and make him pay for the way my body betrayed me.
But I didn’t.
Because he was right.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want him to stop.
His hand slid higher, beneath my tunic, his palm flat against my bare skin, just below my breast. The calluses on his fingers scraped my flesh, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. I whimpered—soft, involuntary.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”
“No,” I breathed, even as my hips shifted, pressing into him. “I won’t—”
“You already are,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Your body’s already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
His thumb circled my nipple through the fabric, slow, deliberate. I gasped. My back arched. My fingers dug into his arms, not to push him away, but to hold on.
“You think this is control?” I panted. “Forcing me—”
“This isn’t force,” he said, leaning in, his breath hot against my ear. “This is truth. The bond sees through every lie. Every denial. Every mask you wear.”
His teeth grazed my neck. My fangs ached. My breath hitched.
“You’re wet for me,” he murmured. “I can smell it.”
Shame flooded me. Hot. Searing. I turned my head, trying to pull away, but his grip in my hair held me in place.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I did.
And in his eyes, I didn’t see cruelty.
I didn’t see triumph.
I saw hunger. Raw. Unfiltered. And something else—something that looked dangerously like need.
“You came here to destroy me,” he said, voice low. “But you’re the one being destroyed. Piece by piece. By the bond. By your own body. By the way you feel me.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he said. “And you know what the worst part is?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine—just a whisper of contact, so light it could have been accidental.
But it wasn’t.
“The worst part,” he whispered, “is that you don’t hate me for it.”
And then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Claiming.His mouth crashed over mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against my lips, forcing them open. I moaned—deep, broken—my body arching into him, my hands clutching his shoulders. His taste flooded me—storm and salt and something darkly male. His beard scraped my skin, rough and real. His hand slid up, cupping my breast, his thumb circling my nipple through the fabric, sending sparks of pleasure straight to my core.
I should have fought.
I should have bitten him. Elbowed him. Kneed him in the gut.
But I didn’t.
I kissed him back.
Hard. Desperate. Like I was drowning and he was the only air.
The bond roared to life, a wildfire racing through my veins, burning away every thought, every fear, every lie. I could feel him—his desire, his hunger, his need for me—pouring into me like a river. And I gave it back. My hands tore at his shirt, my nails scraping his skin, my body grinding against his, seeking friction, seeking release.
He growled—low, possessive—and lifted me, pressing me harder into the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist, my core grinding against the hard ridge of his cock. He was thick. Heavy. Ready. And gods, I wanted him inside me.
“Kaelen—” I gasped, breaking the kiss, my breath ragged. “I—”
“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth moving to my neck, teeth scraping my pulse point. “Say you want me.”
“I—”
“Say it,” he growled, biting down—just enough to sting, not enough to mark. “Or I stop.”
My body screamed. My core throbbed. The bond pulsed, a live wire between us, feeding on every touch, every breath.
“I want you,” I whispered, the words torn from me. “Gods, I want you.”
He stilled.
Then he laughed—low, rough, triumphant.
“Finally,” he murmured. “The truth.”
And then he kissed me again.
But this time, I pulled back.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to think.
“This changes nothing,” I said, my voice shaking. “I still hate you. I still want to destroy you.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t mock. Just looked at me—really looked at me—with those gold eyes that saw too much.
“You don’t have to hate me to want me,” he said. “And you don’t have to destroy me to survive.”
“The curse—”
“Will kill you,” he said. “Unless you break it. And the only blood that can break it is mine.”
My breath caught.
“So here’s your choice,” he said, voice low. “Keep fighting me. Keep sabotaging. Keep pretending you don’t feel what’s between us. And die in three years.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.
“Or let me help you. Let me give you what you need. Let me save you.”
“And what do you get?” I whispered.
“You,” he said simply. “Alive. Here. Mine.”
My heart pounded.
He wasn’t asking for surrender.
He was offering salvation.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I did the only thing I could.
I kneed him in the gut.
He grunted, doubling over just enough for me to twist free. I dropped to the floor, rolled, and was on my feet in an instant, backing toward the door.
He straightened slowly, one hand on his stomach, his expression unreadable.
“You’ll pay for that,” he said, voice rough.
“I’m counting on it,” I shot back.
And then I ran.
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t stop.
But I could still feel him—the heat of his touch, the taste of his mouth, the way his voice had curled around my name like a vow.
And worse—
I could still feel the truth.
That I wanted him.
Not just to break the curse.
Not just to survive.
But because, gods help me, I craved him.
And the worst part?
He already knew.
When I reached my chamber, I slammed the door shut and locked it, pressing my back against the wood, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My skin was still on fire. My core still throbbed. My fingers trembled as I touched my lips—still swollen from his kiss.
I should have felt victorious.
I’d escaped. I’d hurt him. I’d proven I wasn’t his.
But I didn’t.
I felt… empty.
Like I’d torn something vital out of myself.
I slid to the floor, hugging my knees, my breath shuddering. The sigil on my wrist glowed faintly, a constant, insistent reminder of the bond. Of him.
I had come here to destroy Kaelen Thorne.
But with every kiss, every touch, every whispered truth—he was destroying me.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to win anymore.
I stayed on the floor for hours, until the trembling stopped. Until the heat in my blood cooled. Until I could breathe without feeling his hands on my skin.
Then I got up.
I washed my face. Combed my hair. Pulled on a fresh tunic.
I was still bound.
Still trapped.
Still his.
But I wasn’t broken.
Not yet.
I walked to the bed, ready to sit, to gather my thoughts, to plan.
And then I froze.
On the pillow.
His scent.
Stronger than before.
Storm musk. Heat. Male.
He’d been here.
While I was gone.
He’d touched my pillow. Smelled it. Claimed it.
Just like he’d claimed my mouth. My body. My breath.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing the fabric.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this fortress, I let myself wonder—
What if he wasn’t the monster I thought he was?
What if the real enemy wasn’t him?
What if it was me?
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight the dream.
I let it come.
His mouth on my neck.
His hands on my skin.
His voice, whispering my name.
Garnet.
Mine.