I didn’t sleep.
Not that I expected to. Sleep is a luxury for the innocent, and I haven’t been innocent since the day they sold me to the wolves.
But this? This was different. This wasn’t just danger. This was him.
Kaelen Dain.
His name echoes in my skull like a curse. His touch still burns on my skin, a phantom heat where his fingers gripped my wrist, where his fangs brushed my throat. I can still smell him—pine and frost and something darker, deeper, like blood soaked into winter soil. It clings to me, even after I scrubbed my hands raw in the Council’s private washroom. Even after I changed into the thin silk nightgown they provided, a cruel joke of a garment that barely covers my thighs.
They gave me a room. Or rather, they gave me his room.
The Northern Tower is a fortress of black stone and iron, perched on the edge of Vienna’s oldest district, where the human world ends and the supernatural begins. Kaelen’s suite is at the top—spacious, cold, opulent in a way that feels more like a tomb than a home. High ceilings. Polished obsidian floors. Furniture carved from dark wood, angular and severe. No warmth. No softness. No life.
Just like him.
Two beds. That’s what they said. “You will cohabitate,” Silas had announced, his voice echoing in the chamber. “The Northern Tower suite has been prepared. Two beds. Separate. For now.”
For now.
The words slither through my mind, slick with implication. They think this is about control. About politics. About keeping the fated bond from fracturing their fragile peace.
They don’t know it’s a prison.
I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door—my bed, I suppose—and press my palms into my thighs, grounding myself. The sigils beneath my skin hum, restless. They’ve been reacting to him since the ritual, burning hotter, pulsing with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. I can feel the magic trapped inside me, clawing to get out. The Iceblood power. The truth of who I am.
I can’t let it loose. Not yet. Not here.
A soft click from the hallway. The door opens.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t announce himself. He just walks in, silent as a shadow, his coat still on, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in.
My body tenses. My breath catches.
He stops just inside the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. His eyes are dark again—frozen, unreadable. But I saw them burn earlier. I felt the hunger in them. And I know it’s still there, buried beneath layers of control.
“You’re still dressed,” he says. His voice is low, measured. Not a question. An observation.
“I was waiting for you to confirm the sleeping arrangements,” I say, lifting my chin. “Wouldn’t want to overstep.”
A flicker in his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? I can’t tell. He moves past me, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a chair. His movements are precise, economical. No wasted motion. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, rolls them up his forearms. His hands—those long, scarred fingers—catch the dim light.
“You’ll sleep in the bed by the window,” he says. “I’ll take this one.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I already know. The bed by the window has a direct line of sight to the door. It’s the more defensible position. He’s putting himself between me and the exit. Between me and escape.
“Because I said so,” he replies, turning to face me. “And because if you try to run in the night, I’d prefer to wake up with you in my line of sight.”
My lips curl. “You think I’d run?”
“I think you’re a liar,” he says, stepping closer. “I think you’re hiding something. And I think the bond knows it.”
He stops just a foot away. I can feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the icy air of the room. My pulse kicks. My skin prickles.
“The bond,” I say, forcing my voice steady, “is a political tool. Nothing more.”
“Liar,” he murmurs. “Your pulse just jumped. Your scent changed.”
“Scent?” I scoff. “You’re delusional.”
“Wolves don’t lie about scent,” he says, his voice dropping, rougher now. “And you’re not just wolf, are you? There’s magic in you. Old magic. It’s reacting to me.”
I stand, putting space between us. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I will.”
He turns away, moving to the wardrobe. I watch the line of his back, the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. He pulls out a folded set of sleep clothes—black, simple, functional—and disappears into the adjoining washroom.
I wait until the door clicks shut before exhaling.
My hands are trembling.
Not from fear.
From something else.
I walk to the bed by the window and sit, my back straight, my gaze fixed on the city below. Vienna sprawls in the distance, glittering with human ignorance. They don’t know what walks among them. What burns in the shadows.
I don’t hear him come out. I just feel it.
The air shifts. The heat returns.
I turn.
He’s standing there, shirtless, wearing only loose sleep pants that hang low on his hips. His chest is carved from stone—broad, defined, marked with old scars, some thin and pale, others thick and raised. A battlefield mapped in flesh.
My breath hitches.
His eyes lock onto mine. “You’re staring.”
“You’re half-naked,” I snap, forcing myself to look away. “It’s rude.”
“You’re in my room,” he says, walking to his bed. “And we’re bound. Modesty is irrelevant.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me, and runs a hand through his hair. The movement pulls the muscles in his back, taut and powerful. I look away again, but not before my gaze lingers a second too long.
I lie down, turning my back to him, pulling the covers up. The silk is cool against my skin, but it does nothing to ease the heat building inside me.
And then I feel it.
A low, deep thrum, like a drumbeat in my blood.
My breath catches.
No.
Not now.
I close my eyes, clenching my fists. But I can’t stop it. The heat rises—slow at first, then faster, pooling low in my belly, spreading through my limbs. My skin grows sensitive. Every brush of the sheets feels like a caress. My nipples tighten. My thighs press together, trying to ease the ache.
Heat cycle.
Under the blood moon.
I haven’t had one in years—not since I was a slave, not since I learned to suppress it with magic and willpower. But the sigils are reacting to him, to the bond, and they’re weakening. The dam is cracking.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t even breathe without feeling the pulse between my legs.
And then I feel his gaze.
Hot. Heavy. Unmistakable.
I don’t turn. I don’t speak. I just lie there, frozen, as the heat consumes me.
A low growl rumbles from his chest.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
But possessive.
Primal.
“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough, strained.
I swallow. “Why?”
“Because if you do,” he says, “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
The air between us thickens. Charged. Electric.
I can feel the bond pulling, a taut thread of fire connecting us. My magic surges, responding to him, to the heat, to the raw, untamed energy in the room.
And then the door locks itself.
A soft click. Automatic. The Northern Tower’s security system—designed to keep intruders out. Or prisoners in.
I turn my head.
He’s watching me. His eyes are no longer frozen. They’re amber. Wolf-side awake. Hunger blazing in them.
“You’re in heat,” he says, voice low, gravelly. “And the bond is calling.”
“I can control it,” I whisper, though my voice trembles.
“You don’t have to,” he says, standing slowly. “You’re not alone anymore.”
“I don’t want your pity,” I snap, sitting up. “I don’t want your help.”
“This isn’t pity,” he says, stepping closer. “This is instinct. This is us.”
He stops at the edge of my bed. I can feel the heat of him, the power, the raw male energy that makes my body betray me. My breath comes faster. My core clenches.
“Stay back,” I warn.
“Or what?” he asks, leaning down, his face inches from mine. “You’ll freeze me? You’ll run? You’ll lie some more?”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my cheek. The touch is electric. My skin burns.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he whispers. “You think I don’t know how much you want me?”
“I don’t want you,” I lie, my voice shaking.
His thumb strokes my lower lip. “Your body says otherwise.”
I jerk back. “Don’t touch me.”
He doesn’t move. “You’re trembling.”
“Because you’re suffocating me,” I snap.
“No,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl. “You’re trembling because you’re afraid. Afraid of this. Afraid of me. Afraid of how much you need me.”
I stand, putting space between us. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping forward. “You came here to burn the Council. But you’re already burning. And I’m the only one who can put out the fire.”
“I don’t want it put out,” I hiss. “I want to burn.”
He smiles. Not kind. Not gentle. But knowing.
“Then burn with me.”
And before I can react, he closes the distance, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me against him.
Our bodies collide.
Heat. Fire. Need.
My breath comes in a gasp. His mouth is on my neck, not biting, not marking—just there, warm and wet and maddening. His hands slide up my sides, under the thin fabric of my nightgown, fingers pressing into my skin.
“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against my throat. “So ready.”
“Stop,” I whisper, but my hands are in his hair, pulling him closer.
“You don’t mean that,” he growls.
And he’s right.
I don’t.
The sigils on my back burn, not with pain, but with power. With release. My magic surges, responding to him, to the bond, to the raw, primal connection between us.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Sharp. Insistent.
We freeze.
Kaelen pulls back, his eyes blazing, his chest heaving. I stumble back, my hands shaking, my body aching, my core throbbing with need.
“Alpha,” a voice calls from the other side. Riven. “Council emergency. They need you.”
Kaelen doesn’t look away from me. His jaw clenches. His fangs flash.
“Go,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Do your duty.”
He exhales, slow, controlled. Then he turns, walks to the door, and opens it just enough to speak.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Then I’m back.”
“Understood,” Riven says.
The door closes.
Silence.
Kaelen turns to me. “This isn’t over.”
“It never started,” I say, though my voice trembles.
He smiles, slow, dangerous. “It started the moment our blood touched.”
He grabs his coat, pulls it on, and walks out without another word.
I wait until the door clicks shut.
Then I collapse onto the bed, my body still burning, my mind racing.
I came here to destroy him.
But for the first time, I’m not sure I want to.
And that terrifies me more than any blade ever could.
I press my hand to my lips, still tingling from his nearness.
And I whisper into the dark:
“You’re in heat. Don’t move.”
But I already have.