I came here to kill you.
The thought is a blade I press between my ribs with every breath, sharp and familiar. It’s the only thing grounding me as I wake in Vale’s bed—fully clothed, back to him, the length of his body radiating heat against mine. Again. Another night survived. Another dawn endured.
The bond hums between us, a low, insistent thrum that pulses in time with my blood, in time with my pulse, in time with the ache between my thighs. It’s quieter now, tamed—by the blood oath, by proximity, by the forced compliance of skin-to-skin contact that the Council demands. Every morning, Vale presses his palm to my hip, over the sigil, for exactly one minute. A ritual. A reminder. A violation disguised as necessity.
I don’t flinch anymore. I don’t fight. I let him touch me. I let the heat flare, the wetness bloom, the traitorous arch of my spine. I let him see the effect he has. But I don’t give him my voice. Not a moan. Not a whisper. Not a single syllable of surrender.
He watches me. Always. His golden eyes track my every movement, my every breath, my every suppressed tremor. He knows when the bond tightens. He knows when the ache builds. He knows when I’m close to breaking.
And he waits.
Today, I break first.
I slide out of the bed before he stirs, boots silent on the cold marble. I don’t look at him. I don’t speak. I grab my bag, pull on a fresh suit—black, tailored, no silver trim—and head for the door.
It’s unlocked.
Progress.
Or a trap.
The halls of the Obsidian Spire stretch before me, lit by flickering sconces of blue witch-fire. The air is thick with old magic, the scent of ozone and blood and something deeper—moonlight trapped in stone. I move fast, silent, scanning for guards, for watchers, for Silas, Vale’s ever-present shadow. But the wing is quiet. Too quiet.
They’re letting me walk. Testing me.
Let them.
I head for the training grounds—a vast chamber beneath the Spire, carved from volcanic rock, warded against magic leaks. It’s where the Council enforcers train. Where hybrids are broken. Where I’ll find Kael.
If he’s still loyal.
The door groans open. The chamber is empty except for one figure—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair tied back. Kael. Werewolf Beta. My father’s lieutenant. The only man who knew I was alive.
He turns. His eyes—deep brown, watchful—narrow. “You’re up early.”
“I don’t sleep much.” I step inside, the door sealing behind me. “Not with him in the bed.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me. “The bond?”
“It’s real.” I unbutton my jacket, roll up my sleeves. “And it’s getting stronger.”
“You look… tense.”
“I’m not tense. I’m *angry*.” I step onto the training mat, fists clenched. “I need to hit something.”
He nods. “Then let’s spar.”
—
We fight.
No magic. No weapons. Just fists, feet, fury. Kael holds back—he’s stronger, faster, a full-blooded werewolf in peak form—but I don’t care. I push him. I feint, strike, spin, kick. My body remembers the training, the years of discipline, the endless drills in the hidden coven compound. I’m smaller, lighter, but I’m fast. I’m relentless.
And I’m *angry*.
Every punch is for Vale. Every kick is for the bond. Every grunt is for my mother, for the Pact, for the lie that binds me to the man who signed her death warrant.
Kael blocks, counters, but I land a solid hit to his ribs. He grunts, stumbles back. I press forward—elbow to the jaw, knee to the gut—then he sweeps my legs, and I hit the mat hard.
He looms over me, hand extended. “Yield?”
I slap his hand away, rolling to my feet. “Never.”
He exhales, shaking his head. “You’re not fighting me. You’re fighting *him*.”
“I’m fighting *everything*.”
“Then stop holding back.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” His eyes flick to my hands. “You’re afraid to use magic.”
My breath catches. “I don’t have magic.”
“You’re a moon witch.”
“I’m *nothing*.”
“You’re her daughter.”
“And that’s exactly why I can’t use it.” I clench my fists. “Magic got her killed. The Pact was sealed with her blood. I won’t make the same mistake.”
“You’re not her.”
“I’m all that’s left.”
He steps closer. “Then *be* her. Not her death. Her *power*.”
“I don’t want power.”
“You don’t have a choice.” He gestures to the mat. “Again.”
I lunge at him—fist, spin, kick—but this time, when I strike, something *snaps*.
Heat.
Not from the bond. Not from rage.
From *me*.
A spark—silver-white, crackling with lunar energy—flares in my palm as my fist connects with Kael’s shoulder. Not hard. Not enough to hurt.
But enough to *burn*.
He stumbles back, staring at his arm. A thin line of frost blooms where I touched him, then melts into steam. His eyes snap to mine—wide, stunned.
“Hurricane…”
I look down.
My hands—trembling, open—cradle tiny flames of moonlight. Not fire. Not heat. But *light*—pure, silver, pulsing with power. It dances on my skin, cool and alive, responding to my breath, my heartbeat, the thrum of the bond.
“No,” I whisper.
But it’s real.
My magic.
Awake.
“You’re a moon witch,” Kael says, voice low. “Like her.”
“I’m not.” I close my fists, crushing the light. It flickers, dies. “I can’t be.”
“You don’t get to deny it.” He steps forward, eyes blazing. “You’re *her* daughter. You have her power. You have her *fire*.”
“And it got her killed.”
“Or it could save you.”
“I don’t want to be saved.”
“Then use it to destroy him.”
The words hang in the air.
Destroy him.
Not the Pact. Not the Council. *Him*.
Vale.
The man whose blood runs in my veins. Whose mark burns on my hip. Whose touch I crave in the dark.
I look down at my hands. Empty. Cold.
But the power is still there. Beneath the skin. In the blood. In the *bond*.
And it’s waking up.
“You need to tell Lira,” Kael says. “She’ll know what to do.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No one can know. Not yet.”
“They’ll find out.”
“Let them try.” I turn, heading for the door. “And don’t you dare tell Vale.”
“He’ll feel it.”
“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
But as I step into the hall, the bond *pulses*—sharp, sudden, as if it knows. As if it’s *pleased*.
And I know—this changes everything.
—
I avoid Vale all morning.
Breakfast in my quarters. A report on treaty revisions—read and discarded. A walk through the lower gardens—monitored, but silent. I keep my hands in my pockets, my magic buried deep. The sigil on my hip thrums, but I ignore it. I focus on the mission. On the Pact. On the knife hidden in my sleeve.
But he finds me at noon.
I’m in the archives—a cavernous hall of floating tomes and enchanted scrolls, where ancient pacts are stored in glass sarcophagi. I’m pretending to study the Northern Coven treaties, but I’m really searching for any mention of the Blood Moon Pact’s original wording. A loophole. A flaw. A way to break it without killing Vale.
Because if I kill him, I die.
And if I die, the Pact lives.
Footsteps echo.
Boots on stone. Slow. Deliberate.
I don’t turn.
“You’re avoiding me,” Vale says.
“I’m working.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re interrupting.”
He steps beside me, tall, imposing, dressed in black with silver sigils at the cuffs. His presence is a weight, a pressure, a *pull*. I keep my eyes on the scroll.
“You used magic this morning,” he says quietly.
My breath hitches. “I didn’t.”
“Kael reported it.”
“Kael lies.”
“He doesn’t.” Vale turns, his golden eyes locking onto mine. “Moonfire. Silver flame. Only a true moon witch can summon it.”
“I’m not a moon witch.”
“You are.”
“And what if I am?” I snap. “Does that make me more useful to you? Another weapon in your arsenal?”
“It makes you *dangerous*.”
“To you?”
“To everyone.” His gaze drops to my hands. “Including yourself.”
“I can control it.”
“You haven’t used it in twenty-eight years. You don’t know what it can do.”
“I know what it did to my mother.”
“And I know what it could do for you.”
“You don’t know *anything* about me.”
“I know your blood.” He reaches out, not touching, just hovering his hand over mine. “I know the bond reacts to your magic. It’s stronger when you use it. *We’re* stronger.”
“We’re nothing.”
“You felt it this morning. When the spark flared—you *liked* it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” His voice drops. “Your pulse jumped. Your breath changed. Your hips shifted forward, just slightly. You *wanted* it.”
My face burns. He’s right. I *did* want it. The power. The fire. The *freedom*.
But I won’t admit it.
“Stay out of my head,” I hiss.
“I’m not in your head. I’m in your *blood*.” He steps closer. “Let me help you control it.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do.” His hand closes over mine—gloved, but still, the contact sends a jolt through me. The sigil flares. Heat floods my core. My breath hitches. “The bond amplifies your magic. Without guidance, it could consume you. Or worse—it could expose you.”
“Expose me to what?”
“The truth.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “About who you are. About who *we* are.”
“There is no *we*.”
“There is.” He pulls me forward, just slightly, my body leaning into him before I catch myself. “And if you don’t learn to control your power, the Council will lock you away. Or kill you.”
“Then let them try.”
“I won’t.” He releases my hand, but the heat lingers. “You’ll train with me. Every evening. In the ritual chamber.”
“No.”
“Yes.” His voice is final. “Or I’ll tell the Council you’re unstable. That your magic is a threat.”
My blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I glare at him. “You’re using the bond to control me.”
“I’m using it to *protect* you.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“You do.” He turns, heading for the door. “Training starts tonight. Don’t be late.”
—
That night, I stand in the ritual chamber—a circular room of black stone, lit by floating orbs of moonlight. The air hums with ancient energy. The floor is etched with lunar sigils, glowing faintly beneath my feet.
Vale stands at the center, stripped to the waist, his pale skin marked by the scar on his chest—the one that mirrors my sigil. He holds a silver dagger, its blade inscribed with blood runes.
“Remove your jacket,” he says.
“No.”
“You’ll need full range of motion.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are.” He steps forward. “The bond responds to emotion. To intent. To *desire*. Your magic is tied to it. To *us*.”
“I don’t want it tied to you.”
“Too late.” He grabs my wrist, pulling me forward. “Focus. Feel the moonlight. Let it in.”
“I don’t—”
But then he touches me.
His free hand presses to my hip, over the sigil.
Fire.
Not pain. Not magic.
*Connection*.
The bond roars to life, a surge of heat and light that races through my veins. My breath catches. My spine arches. My hands fly to his chest, not to push him away—to *hold on*.
And then—
It happens.
Silver flame erupts from my palms, wild and bright, spiraling up my arms like liquid moonlight. It doesn’t burn. It *lives*. It *breathes*.
Vale doesn’t flinch. He watches, eyes wide, not with fear—but with *recognition*.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Moonfire. Pure. Untamed.”
I stare at my hands. At the fire. At *me*.
And for the first time in twenty-eight years—
I don’t feel afraid.
I feel *alive*.
“Now,” he says, voice low, “let it go.”
I close my eyes.
And I do.
The moonfire surges—outward, upward, filling the chamber with silver light. The sigils on the floor blaze. The orbs explode into starlight. The air shivers.
And Vale—
He *smiles*.
Not cold. Not cruel.
But *proud*.
And in that moment, I hate him more than ever.
Because I want to see that smile again.
And that terrifies me more than any mission.