The first thing I notice when I wake is the scent.
Pine. Iron. Smoke.
His scent.
It’s soaked into the sheets, tangled in the air, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I inhale sharply, my body reacting before my mind catches up—heat flares low in my belly, my pulse stutters, my nipples tighten beneath the thin silk of my nightgown. I squeeze my eyes shut, fists clenching the duvet. Stop it. Stop reacting. He’s not here.
But he might as well be.
Kaelen Dain isn’t in the room, but his presence is stamped into every corner of it. I’m in one of the guest suites in the Northern Wing—technically under his jurisdiction, though the Council Hall claims neutrality. The walls are black stone, veins of silver running through them like frozen lightning. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting long, shifting shadows. The bed is massive, draped in dark furs, the pillows still dented where his head might have lain.
I wasn’t supposed to sleep here.
After our confrontation in the antechamber, he didn’t touch me again. He just stepped back, released me, and said, “You’ll stay here tonight. My guards will escort you in the morning.”
I should’ve refused. I should’ve walked out. But I didn’t. Because walking out would’ve been defiance. And defiance gets you killed.
So I stayed.
And now, as dawn bleeds through the narrow windows, I lie here, my body humming with the ghost of his hands, his voice, the heat of his breath on my neck.
“You’re mine in every way.”
I roll onto my side, pressing my forehead into the pillow. The bond thrums beneath my skin, a low, insistent pulse, like a second heartbeat. It’s not painful—just there, constant, undeniable. And worse, I can feel him. Not physically. Not mentally. But… emotionally. A shadow in the back of my mind, a flicker of something dark and restless. He’s awake. He’s moving. He’s close.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet meet cold stone. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. I need to get out of this room. Need to move. Need to remind myself who I am.
Zara Emberborn.
Daughter of Lysara Ember, executed for loving a werewolf.
Half-blood. Outcast. Avenger.
Not his mate.
Not his anything.
I cross to the wardrobe, yanking it open. Inside are clothes—elegant, tailored, all in dark colors. A dress of deep crimson velvet, another in black lace. Undergarments of silk and lace. All in my size. All chosen for me.
My stomach twists. Did he pick these out? Did he imagine me in them?
I grab the simplest thing—a high-collared gray dress, modest, unassuming—and pull it on. The fabric is soft, but it feels like a costume. Another mask.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Lady Selene?” A male voice. Werewolf. Beta, by the scent. “The Alpha requests your presence in the Council antechamber.”
Of course he does.
I smooth my hands over the dress, lift my chin. “Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“He said now.”
I grit my teeth. “Then tell him I said five minutes.”
Silence. Then footsteps retreating.
Good. Let him wait. Let him see I’m not some obedient pet.
I step to the mirror. My reflection stares back—dark eyes, high cheekbones, hair a wild cascade of black waves. I look like her. My mother. The resemblance is sharp enough to hurt. I press a hand to my chest, just over my heart. I’m doing this for you.
But then—
A flicker in the mirror.
Not my reflection.
Something else.
Fire. Just for a second. Dancing in my irises. Then gone.
I blink. Rub my eyes. It’s nothing. Just the light. Just the bond messing with my senses.
I turn away. Grab my boots. Lace them tight.
Time to play the part.
—
The antechamber is crowded.
Not with Council members—no, they’re above, in their thrones, untouchable. But with attendants, guards, scribes. And her.
Mira Solen.
She’s leaning against the wall near the entrance, dressed in a gown of shimmering emerald green that clings to every curve. Her hair is platinum, her eyes a pale, unnatural violet—Fae-blooded. Her lips are painted bloodred, and she’s smiling. Not at me. At him.
Kaelen stands at the center of the room, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’s still in his black armor, but the top is unzipped, revealing the hard planes of his chest beneath a tight black undershirt. His scent hits me first—stronger now, more deliberate. Like he’s broadcasting it. Mine. Claimed. Taken.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t look at me. Not at first. He’s speaking to Riven, his Beta, a broad-shouldered werewolf with a scar running down one cheek. They’re talking in low tones, but I catch the words: “…security sweep. No leaks. No records of last night.”
Good. At least he’s not broadcasting our confrontation.
But then Mira sees me.
Her smile widens. She pushes off the wall and glides toward me, hips swaying. “Lady Selene,” she purrs. “How lovely to see you again.”
I force a polite smile. “Mira. I didn’t know you were back in the Spire.”
“Oh, I’ve been here for days.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Kaelen and I… we’ve been reconnecting.”
My blood runs cold. “Is that so?”
She lifts her wrist, showing off a silver ring—a serpent coiled around a moon. “He gave me this. Said it was time to make things official.”
I stare at the ring. It’s ancient. Northern Pack sigil. His family crest.
“Funny,” I say, voice icy. “He didn’t mention you last night.”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Men are like that. They don’t always tell us everything.” She tilts her head. “But I’m sure he’ll tell you all about our night together soon enough.”
Before I can respond, a hand lands on my shoulder.
Strong. Possessive.
I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
“Mira,” Kaelen says, voice flat. “You’re dismissed.”
She pouts. “But we were just catching up.”
“Now.”
She gives me one last smug look, then glides away, her scent—jasmine and something cloyingly sweet—lingering behind her.
Kaelen’s hand doesn’t leave my shoulder. If anything, it tightens.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I said five minutes.”
“I said now.”
I turn to face him. “And I’m not your dog.”
His eyes darken. “No. You’re my mate. Which means you answer to me.”
“Not yet.”
“The bond says otherwise.”
“The bond doesn’t sign contracts.”
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “It does in this city. And by tonight, everyone will know you’re mine.”
I pull back. “What are you planning?”
“A public appearance. You and I. At the Moonlight Gala. You’ll be introduced as my intended.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I expose you.” His thumb brushes my collarbone, just above where his mark would go. “And you die before sunset.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No.” His voice drops. “I’m doing what I have to. Just like you.”
For a second, I see it—something flicker in his eyes. Not cruelty. Not dominance.
Regret.
But it’s gone in an instant.
“Get ready,” he says. “The gala starts at dusk. And Zara?”
I freeze. He hasn’t used my real name since last night.
“Don’t run,” he says. “Because if you do, I’ll chase you. And when I catch you—” His gaze drops to my lips. “—I won’t stop at words.”
—
The Moonlight Gala is held in the Garden of Whispers—a vast, enclosed courtyard beneath the Spire, where bioluminescent vines climb the walls and the air hums with fae magic. Lanterns float above, casting soft blue light. Music drifts from hidden speakers—something slow, sensual, with a deep, pulsing rhythm that matches the beat of my heart.
I’m dressed in the crimson velvet gown now, the one I pulled from the wardrobe. It hugs my curves, plunges just low enough to be dangerous, and has long sleeves that hide my arms. My hair is pinned up, a few strands left loose to frame my face. I look like a noble. A queen. A liar.
Kaelen stands beside me, a silent, looming presence. He’s in full ceremonial armor now—black and silver, the Northern Pack sigil emblazoned on his chest. His scent is overwhelming—predator, power, possession—and every time he moves, the bond flares, sending heat spiraling through my veins.
We’re surrounded by supernaturals—vampires in tailored suits, fae in flowing gowns, werewolves in leather and steel. They watch us. Whisper. Point.
“Is that the Alpha’s new mate?”
“She’s not from any of the pure covens.”
“Did you see her at the treaty signing? They touched—there was a spark.”
“Fated bond. It has to be.”
Kaelen’s hand is on the small of my back, fingers splayed, pressing me forward. A claim. A warning.
I keep my expression neutral. My spine straight. My breathing even.
But inside, I’m screaming.
This is a disaster. Every second I spend with him, the bond grows stronger. I can feel his emotions now—frustration, hunger, something deeper, darker. Need. And worse, I can feel my own body responding. My skin is too sensitive. My breath too shallow. My core aches with a need I can’t name.
Then I see her.
Mira.
She’s across the garden, near the fountain, laughing with a group of vampire nobles. She’s wearing the same emerald gown, her hair down, her neck bare—
Wait.
I squint.
There. On the left side of her neck. A faint, silvery mark. Like a bite.
My stomach drops.
She’s claiming a bond.
She’s saying he marked her.
Before I can stop myself, I step forward.
“Zara.” Kaelen’s hand tightens, holding me back. “Don’t.”
“She’s lying,” I hiss.
“I know.”
“Then do something.”
“I will. But not here. Not now.”
“She’s poisoning the narrative—”
“And you charging over there will make it worse.” His voice is low, urgent. “Trust me.”
Trust him?
I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to rip that mark off Mira’s neck with my bare hands.
But then—
A sharp pain in my ankle.
I gasp, stumbling.
Kaelen catches me before I fall, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him. My hands land on his chest, my body pressed to his from hip to chest. Heat explodes between us—his, mine, the bond screaming in approval.
“What happened?” he demands, voice sharp.
“Something—bit me—” I look down. A small, jagged piece of glass is embedded in my ankle. From a shattered goblet on the ground.
“Hold still.”
Before I can protest, he scoops me into his arms, one arm under my knees, the other around my back. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Kaelen—”
“Quiet.”
He carries me through the garden, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the sudden silence that falls in our wake. His scent surrounds me. His body is hard, warm, unyielding. Every step jostles me, pressing me closer. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heat of his skin through his armor.
And then—
His breath on my neck.
Hot. Steady. Intimate.
My breath catches. My core clenches. The bond flares, a wave of heat rolling through me, pooling between my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the reaction, fighting the way my body arches into him, seeking more.
He doesn’t say a word.
He carries me into a side chamber—a private sitting room, dimly lit, empty. He sets me down on a low couch, then kneels in front of me, his hands going to my ankle.
“Stay still,” he says.
I nod, unable to speak.
He pulls the glass out with two fingers, then presses a cloth to the wound. His touch is clinical. Precise. But his scent—his presence—is anything but.
And then, as he leans in to check the cut, his fangs graze my pulse point.
Just a brush.
But it’s enough.
My breath hitches. My nails dig into the couch. My body floods with heat, with want, with the undeniable, terrifying truth—
I want him to bite me.
I want him to mark me.
I want to be his.
“Don’t test me, little liar,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Because if you do—” He lifts his head, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “—I won’t stop at a kiss.”