The heat doesn’t leave.
Not truly.
Even after the blood test. Even after Mira’s lie shattered like glass beneath the weight of truth. Even after I stood in the Blood Hall with Zara’s hand in mine and told the Council—told the world—she’s mine, the fire still licks at my veins. Low. Persistent. A drumbeat beneath the skin, a pulse in the blood that won’t quiet.
It’s the bond.
Amplified. Strained. Pushed to its edge by the tests, the fights, the near-constant threat of exposure and attack. And now, after Vexis triggered the heat inducer in the corridor—after I nearly lost control, after I pulled her into me and growled, “Touch me, or I’ll take it”—the beast inside me is restless. Not feral. Not broken.
Awake.
And it wants her.
I stand at the edge of the Northern Balcony, the cold mountain wind biting through my shirt, the city of Veridian Spire spread out below me like a wounded beast. The full moon has passed, but the heat remains—twisted by blood magic, fed by the bond, stoked by the way she looked at me after the test. Not with defiance. Not with hatred.
With something softer.
Something dangerous.
She didn’t pull away when I kissed her in the scriptorium. Didn’t fight when I pressed her against the shelf, when my hand burned beneath her shirt, when my fangs grazed her lip. She arched into me. Trembled. Said yes when I asked if she wanted me.
And then I left.
Again.
Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have stopped.
And if I’d taken her there, in that crumbling chamber with the scent of old parchment and her sweat thick in the air, the bond would have sealed. Fully. Irrevocably. And she would have hated me for it. Not because I forced her—because I didn’t. She said mine. She let me in. Let me touch her. Let me taste her.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not for that.
Not for me.
And I—
I wasn’t ready to lose her.
So I walked away.
Left her trembling in the shadows, her lips swollen, her breath ragged, her body humming with the ghost of my touch. Left her with one word echoing in the silence:
Yes.
And now, hours later, the beast inside me knows it.
She’s mine.
And I will never let her go.
—
“Alpha.”
Riven’s voice cuts through the wind. He steps onto the balcony, his boots silent on stone, his expression unreadable. “She’s asking for you.”
My jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t be.”
“She is.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. “Says it’s urgent. That she needs to see you. Alone.”
“She’s not safe with me right now.”
“She’s not afraid.” He meets my gaze. “And she’s not running. She’s standing. She’s fighting. And she’s asking for you.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
Zara doesn’t ask for anything.
She takes. She fights. She burns.
But she doesn’t ask.
Not for help.
Not for mercy.
Not for me.
And if she is—
Then something’s wrong.
“Where is she?”
“Your chambers.”
I don’t wait.
I move.
Fast.
Through the winding corridors, past the silent guards, past the flickering runes embedded in the stone. The bond hums between us—stronger now, sharper—like it’s pulling me toward her, like it knows she’s waiting.
And then—
I see her.
She’s standing at the edge of the hearth, her back to me, her silhouette sharp against the firelight. She’s not in armor. Not in silk. Just black trousers, a fitted tunic, her hair loose, falling over one shoulder. The mark on her collarbone pulses faintly beneath the fabric, a crescent of heat that calls to me like a war drum in my veins.
She doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, her fingers pressed to the stone mantel, her breath steady, her spine straight.
“You asked for me,” I say, voice low.
She doesn’t look at me. “You left.”
“I had to.”
“No.” She turns, her storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “You didn’t. You walked away. Again.”
My jaw tightens. “I was protecting you.”
“From what?” Her voice is sharp. “From yourself? From the bond? From the truth?” She steps forward, her magic flaring just beneath her skin, the air around her shimmering with heat. “You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t know what you are? What we are?”
“Then why call me?”
“Because I’m not done.”
“With what?”
“With you.” She closes the distance between us, stopping just in front of me. Too close. Too warm. Too present. “You think you can kiss me like that—like I’m already yours—and then just walk away? Like I’m some prize you’ve claimed and can ignore until you’re ready?”
“I didn’t ignore you.”
“You left.”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You think that hurt me?” She laughs—sharp, bitter. “You think I care about a kiss? A touch? A mark?” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing the crescent on her collarbone. “I’ve had worse.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to stop running.” Her voice drops, rough with something I can’t name. “I want you to stop pretending you’re protecting me when all you’re doing is pushing me away. I want you to stop acting like this bond is yours to control. Like I’m yours to command.”
“You are mine.”
“Am I?” She tilts her head. “Then why do you keep leaving?”
My breath hitches.
Because she’s right.
And I don’t know how to answer.
So I do the only thing I can.
I pull her into me.
One arm wraps around her back, the other cradling her head, shielding her as the world dissolves into fire and need. Her body arches into mine, her breath catching, her magic flaring. The bond surges—hot, violent, hungry. I can feel her heart, her breath, her need.
And then—
She doesn’t fight.
She doesn’t push me away.
She just… holds on.
Her hands fist in my shirt, not to shove me back, but to pull me closer. Her face buries in my neck, her breath hot, unsteady. Her body trembles—not from fear. From need.
“Kaelen,” she whispers, voice raw. “I don’t want you to leave.”
My chest tightens.
Because I’ve spent my life believing I wasn’t worthy of being wanted.
That the curse in my blood—the wolf, the vampire, the monster—made me unfit for love. For loyalty. For her.
And now, she’s saying it.
Not with words.
With her body. With her breath. With the way her fingers clutch at my back like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling.
“I’m not leaving,” I murmur, my lips brushing her temple. “Not this time.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just holds on.
And I let her.
Let her anchor me. Let her ground me. Let her be the one who stays.
—
Hours pass.
We don’t speak. Don’t move. Just stand there, wrapped in each other, the fire crackling in the hearth, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The heat is still there—low, insistent, alive—but it’s different now. Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Contained. Like a fire banked, not extinguished.
And then—
She shifts.
Just slightly. Her head tilts, her lips brushing the column of my throat. A whisper of contact. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my neck, pooling between my thighs. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to mark.
But I don’t.
Because she’s not asking for that.
She’s asking for this.
For me to stay.
For me to hold her.
For me to be here.
So I do.
I lower my head, my lips brushing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
And then—
Her hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing my cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. My breath hitches. My body betrays me, arching into her, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” she whispers.
My eyes close.
Because I’ve spent centuries believing I was.
That the blood in my veins—the curse, the power, the fangs and claws—made me something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, she’s saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With her hand on my face. With her breath on my skin. With the way her body fits against mine like it was made for me.
“You’re not,” she says again, her thumb tracing my lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
My heart stutters.
Because she is.
She’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way her pulse jumps, in the way her magic flares, in the way her body trembles when I touch her.
But she’s not running.
She’s not fighting.
She’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
“Why?” I ask, voice rough. “Why aren’t you afraid?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, her lips hovering over mine. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to claim.
But she doesn’t.
Just… waits.
And then—
Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, to my neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. Her thumb brushes my pulse.
“You feel that?” she asks, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
She smiles—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
She kisses me.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. Her lips are soft, demanding, her tongue sliding against mine like a claim. I gasp, my hands flying to her waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
She tastes like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. Her fangs graze my lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make me growl.
And then—
Her hand slides under my shirt, fingers burning over my stomach, my ribs, my back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
My magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up my arms, searing the air between us.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back.
She just moans into my mouth, her body arching into mine, her fingers clutching at my skin.
And then—
I break the kiss.
Step back.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. My lips are swollen. My body aches. My core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
She stares at me, her eyes dark, her chest heaving. “You feel that?” she asks, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
“You don’t get to do that,” I whisper.
“I do.” She steps closer, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “Because you’re mine. And no matter how much you run, no matter how much you hide—you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Liar.” She leans in, her lips hovering over mine. “You’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
And before I can respond, she turns and walks away, leaving me trembling in the shadows, my body humming with the ghost of her touch, my mind screaming one word—
Yes.
—
That night, I dream of fire.
Of her.
Of a mark burning into my skin, of fangs at her throat, of a voice whispering, “You’re mine.”
I wake drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my body aching.
And in the silence, beneath the fury and the fear and the mission—
I feel it.
The truth.
The bond.
And the fire that will either consume us both…
Or make us unbreakable.
—
The next morning, she comes to me again.
Not in the chambers. Not in the shadows.
In the training yard.
I’m sparring with Riven, blades flashing, sweat slicking my skin, the heat still a low burn beneath my ribs, when I feel her presence. Not through sight. Not through sound.
Through the bond.
It flares—hot, insistent—like a beacon in the dark.
I turn.
She’s standing at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, her storm-gray eyes locked on me. She’s not dressed for combat. Not for ceremony. Just black trousers, a fitted tunic, her hair pulled back, the mark on her collarbone bare, pulsing with heat.
“She’s here,” Riven says, lowering his blade.
I don’t answer.
I walk to her.
“What is it?” I ask, voice low.
She doesn’t look away. “I saw the Oracle.”
My blood runs cold. “Why?”
“She warned me.” Her voice is steady, but I feel it—the flicker of fear beneath her skin. “Said I shouldn’t trust anyone. Not even my blood.”
“She’s playing with you.”
“She said someone knows my mother’s last words. Someone who walks in shadows. Someone who speaks with my voice.”
My jaw tightens. “Orin?”
She nods. “And then her eyes turned red. Like fire. Like blood. And she whispered—” Her breath hitches. “—‘She died screaming your name.’”
I pull her into me, one arm wrapping around her back, shielding her. “It’s a trick. The Oracle’s bound by prophecy, but she’s not infallible. Vexis could have influenced her. Mira could have—”
“No.” She pushes back, her eyes blazing. “It wasn’t her. It was something else. Something dark. And it knew things. Things only a few people know.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that my mother’s final message was hidden in the Vault. That she wrote it in blood and ash. That she called me little ember.” Her voice cracks. “No one knows that. Except Orin.”
I stare at her. “You think he betrayed you?”
“I don’t know.” Her hands clench at her sides. “But I need to know the truth. And you’re the only one who can give it to me.”
“Me?”
“You were there.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “The night they executed her. You were in the chamber. You saw it happen.”
My breath stops.
Because I was.
And I’ve spent every day since trying to forget.
“I didn’t sign the order,” I say, voice rough. “My blood was stolen. Used without my consent. I was drugged. Bound. They made me watch. Made me believe I’d given the command.”
Her breath catches. “You were there?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes. “I woke up in a cell, my memories wiped, my name on an order I never gave. And when I found out what they’d done—” My hand tightens on her arm. “—I wanted to burn the Council to the ground. But I couldn’t. Because if I fell, there’d be no one left to protect the ones they’d come for next.”
Tears burn her eyes.
“You didn’t kill her,” she whispers.
“No.”
“You didn’t confirm it.”
“No.”
“You were framed.”
“Just like you.”
And then—
She steps into me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face burying in my chest. Not to hide. Not to run.
To hold on.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For hating you. For blaming you. For not seeing—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” I pull her close, my voice rough. “I’m the one who should be sorry. For not stopping it. For not fighting harder. For letting them use me.”
She looks up at me, her eyes stormy, fierce. “You didn’t. They used us both. And now—” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing the mark on her collarbone. “—we’re going to make them pay.”
“Together?” I ask.
“Always.”
And for the first time, I believe it.
The bond hums between us—steady, strong, unbroken.
And I know—
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.