The moment I wake, I know she’s gone.
Not from the bed—I still feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the silk of her nightgown tangled with my skin, the scent of her—magnolia and wild magic—clinging to the air. But from the bond.
It’s still there. Still thrumming. Still fused to my soul like a second heartbeat.
But it’s… distant.
Like she’s pulled back. Like she’s retreating into that fortress of vengeance she’s built around her heart, brick by bloody brick, since the day her father died.
I open my eyes.
The bed is empty.
The balcony doors are open. The morning light spills in, silvering the black silk sheets, the scattered buttons from her torn dress, the dagger lying on the floor where she dropped it last night.
And there—on the edge of the balcony—Magnolia stands.
Back to me. Hair loose. Shoulders rigid. One hand gripping the stone railing like she’s afraid she’ll fall.
She doesn’t turn.
Just stares into the gardens below, where the Lupari envoy has arrived.
Varek.
The Alpha.
Broad-shouldered. Restless. His scent thick with moon-heat and challenge.
And he’s watching her.
Not with lust.
Not with hunger.
With *interest*.
Like he sees something in her—not just the consort, not just the king’s claimed mate—but the fighter. The rebel. The woman who stood in the Council and told them all to burn.
And she sees him too.
Because her fingers tighten on the railing. Her spine straightens. And then—
She smiles.
Not a warm smile.
Not a kind one.
A challenge.
And that’s when I know—
She’s going to make me jealous.
She’s going to flirt with him. Provoke me. Test me. See how far I’ll go to keep her.
And gods help me—
I want to stop her.
I want to stride over, grab her, drag her back inside, pin her to the wall, and remind her in every way possible that she’s *mine*.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, I lose.
She’ll see it as control. As possession. As the same old game.
But if I let her play—
If I let her think she has the upper hand—
Then I can show her the truth.
That I’m not just a king.
I’m a man who loves her.
And love?
Love is more dangerous than any throne.
I rise. Dress in silence. Button my coat. Roll up my sleeves. The scar on my shoulder—Elara’s mark—itches, a ghost of a bond that died too soon. I don’t think about it. Not now.
Now, I think only of her.
Of the way she arched into my hand last night. The way she came apart beneath my fingers. The way she whispered, *“I don’t want to let you go.”*
And then fled at dawn.
Not from fear.
From *shame*.
Because she wanted me.
And wanting me means betraying her father.
But she doesn’t understand—
I didn’t kill him.
I *tried* to save him.
And I’ll spend every day until my last breath proving it to her.
I step onto the balcony.
She doesn’t look at me.
Just keeps her gaze on Varek, who’s now walking the garden path, his guards flanking him, his eyes locked on her.
“You’re up early,” I say, voice low.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, not turning. “The bond kept me… *awake*.”
Her emphasis is sharp. Accusatory.
Good.
Let her hate me.
Let her fight me.
As long as she’s alive.
“Varek’s here for the border talks,” I say. “He’ll be in the Council chamber in an hour.”
“How *convenient*,” she says, finally turning. Her eyes are dark, fierce, *alive*. “Just in time for me to ask him about Lupari mating rituals. I hear they’re… *passionate*.”
My fangs press against my gums.
She sees it. A flicker of satisfaction in her gaze.
“Careful,” I say, stepping closer. “The Lupari don’t play games. If you flirt with him, he’ll take it as a challenge.”
“And what if I do?” she asks, stepping closer. “What if I want to be challenged? What if I want to be *wanted* by someone who doesn’t carry my father’s blood on his hands?”
The words are a blade.
But I don’t flinch.
Just step closer. Until I’m close enough to feel the heat of her, to smell the wild magic in her blood.
“You think he could give you what I do?” I murmur, my lips inches from her ear. “You think his touch could make your magic sing? His fangs could make you burn? His blood could make you *live*?”
Her breath hitches.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe I just want to be *free*.”
“You’re not free,” I say. “You never were. The moment you stepped into that hall, the bond claimed you. And I didn’t do it. *Fate* did.”
“Then why,” she whispers, “do I feel like I’m the one who’s caging myself?”
I don’t answer.
Just reach out—slow, deliberate—and brush a strand of hair from her face.
Her skin is warm. Soft.
And the bond *screams*.
Heat. Fire. A surge of pure, unfiltered sensation that rips through me like lightning. My cock hardens. My fangs ache. My hands clench at my sides.
She feels it too.
Her breath comes fast. Her pulse jumps beneath her skin.
And then—
She steps back.
“I’m going to the gardens,” she says. “To *breathe*.”
“You don’t leave my side,” I say, voice low. “Not after the assassin. Not after Mab’s spies.”
“Then come with me,” she says, already walking. “Or don’t. I’m not your prisoner.”
She is.
And she knows it.
But I follow.
Because if I don’t, she’ll walk straight into Varek’s arms just to prove she can.
The gardens are quiet this morning—dew on the hedges, mist curling around the fountains, the scent of night-blooming magnolias still thick in the air. Varek stands near the eastern hedge, his guards a few paces behind, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
He turns as we approach.
“Kael,” he says, voice a low growl. “Your consort graces us with her presence.”
“She does,” I say, stepping slightly in front of her. “And she’s not here to entertain you.”
“No?” He smirks. “Because she was watching me from the balcony. Looked like she wanted to be *entertained*.”
My fangs press harder.
“Careful, Alpha,” I say, voice dangerous. “You’re on my land. My rules.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “your *mate* seems eager to learn about mine.”
Magnolia steps forward.
“I asked a question,” she says, voice cool. “About Lupari mating. You never answered.”
“Oh, I’ll answer,” he says, stepping even closer. “We don’t play games. We don’t whisper sweet nothings. We *claim*. With teeth. With claws. With fire. And when a Lupari chooses his mate, he doesn’t let her go. Not even if she fights. Not even if she *hates* him.”
His gaze flicks to me. A challenge.
And Magnolia—
She smiles.
“Sounds… *intense*,” she says. “I like intense.”
That’s it.
The bond *roars*.
Not with magic.
Not with ritual.
With *jealousy*.
Pure. Primal. A hunger so deep it feels like my soul is tearing in two.
I move.
Faster than thought. Faster than blood.
I grab her wrist, yank her back, and drag her into the nearest alcove—a shadowed recess between two hedges, hidden from view.
She gasps. Struggles.
“Let go—”
“No,” I growl, pinning her against the stone wall, my body pressing into hers, my fangs grazing her neck. “You don’t get to flirt with him. You don’t get to *test* me. You’re *mine*.”
“I’m not yours!” she hisses, her hands fisting in my shirt. “I’m no one’s!”
“Liar,” I say, my lips brushing her throat. “You came apart in my hand last night. You whispered my name. You *wanted* me.”
“It was the bond!”
“It was *you*,” I say, grinding against her, my cock hard against her stomach. “It was *us*. And you know it.”
Her breath hitches.
Her body betrays her—arching into me, aching for my touch, my claim, my fangs in her throat.
And I—
I want to give it to her.
Want to bite. To mark. To *claim*.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, she’ll hate me.
So I just hold her. Press into her. Let her feel me—hard, hungry, *needing*.
“You think I’d let anyone else touch you?” I growl. “You think I’d let anyone else *breathe* the same air as you? You’re *mine*, Magnolia. Not because of fate. Not because of blood. Because I *chose* you. And I’ll burn this court to the ground before I let you walk away.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath mingling with mine.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Hard. Angry. *Needing*.
Her lips crash against mine, hot and hungry, her hands clawing at my shoulders, pulling me down, into her. I groan, my arms locking around her, lifting her against me, her legs wrapping around my waist as if she’s afraid I’ll let go.
And I won’t.
Never.
The bond *screams*—raw. Primal. A hunger that’s been building since the moment we met. My fangs press against my gums, aching to taste her, to claim her, to mark her as mine.
But I don’t.
Just kiss her—deep, devouring, like I’m trying to swallow her whole. Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue tangling with mine, her breath hot and sweet. She tastes like wine and rebellion and *home*.
And I’m lost.
Completely.
My hands slide under her dress, up her thighs, her skin hot and smooth. She arches into me, a moan tearing from her throat, her nails digging into my back.
“Kael,” she gasps, breaking the kiss, her lips brushing mine. “I—”
“Don’t,” I growl, kissing her again, harder, deeper. “Don’t think. Don’t fight. Just *feel*.”
And she does.
Her body melts against mine, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart hammering against my chest. The bond thrums between us, a live wire, fusing us together, making us one.
And for the first time in centuries—
I’m not alone.
And then—
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at me.
Her eyes are dark, fierce, *alive*. Her lips are swollen from my kiss, her skin flushed, her chest rising and falling.
“You’re mine,” she whispers.
Not a question.
A vow.
And I—
I believe her.
“Always,” I say, my forehead against hers. “And you’re mine.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just kisses me again—soft this time. Slow. *Yielding*.
And I know—
She’s not mine because of the bond.
Not because of the Concord.
Not because of fate.
She’s mine because she *chose* me.
And that’s more powerful than any magic.
I carry her back to the wing, her legs still wrapped around me, her face buried in my neck. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t speak. Just holds on, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Back in the chambers, I set her on the bed, but I don’t leave. Just crawl in beside her, pull her against me, my arm around her waist, my chest to her back.
“Sleep,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses back into me, her body soft, warm, *trusting*.
And as I lie there, the bond humming between us, her scent clinging to my skin, her breath steady against my chest—I whisper into the dark:
“You came to kill me.”
“But you ended up saving me.”
And for the first time in centuries—
I believe it.
Because love?
Love doesn’t care about fate.
It only cares about *her*.