The first time I saw Elira, she was standing in the ruins of the Blood Pit, her human scent sharp with fear and something else—defiance. She had no magic. No fangs. No claws. Just a notebook in one hand and a recording crystal in the other, her eyes wide but unflinching as thralls hissed from the shadows. Riven stepped out of the dark, fangs bared, claws ready to silence her. And she didn’t run.
She looked at him—really looked—and said, “You’re not the monster they say you are.”
I remember thinking she was either brave or stupid.
Turns out, she was both.
Now, she stands before the New Council, not in the Hollow Maw, not in shadows, but in the newly restored Council Hall—its obsidian walls no longer pulsing with red runes of control, but glowing gold with truth-runes etched by Orin’s hand. The air hums differently here. Lighter. Cleaner. Like the stone itself has exhaled centuries of lies. Sunlight spills through the high arches, painting the floor in stripes of gold and shadow. No torches. No blood sigils. No chains.
Just light.
And Elira, small and human and unafraid, stands at the center of it all.
They came for her at dawn.
Three Vampire Enforcers—pale, cold-eyed, their fangs bared in false courtesy—arrived at Riven’s chambers with a warrant signed by the remnants of the Oracle’s faction. Accusation: “Unauthorized dissemination of classified supernatural records.” Punishment: indefinite detention for interrogation.
They didn’t expect Riven to block the door.
Didn’t expect me to answer his call.
Didn’t expect the entire eastern wing to rise with us—wolves, witches, hybrids, even a few Fae who’ve dared to step beyond the veil of glamour.
They didn’t expect the truth to have teeth.
And now, here we are.
The Council is gathered—Kaelen and I at the center, Riven to my right, Orin to my left, Lira and Rook behind us. The Fae envoy sits stiffly, her violet eyes sharp with calculation. The Vampire envoy glowers, his crimson gaze locked on Elira like she’s already dead. Mara, the Human Representative, leans forward, her hands clenched on the stone bench, her jaw tight.
And Elira?
She stands tall. Her dark hair is pulled back, her face pale but composed, her recording crystal clutched in one hand. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Riven.
Just stares straight ahead, like she’s already seen the future and doesn’t flinch.
“The charge is clear,” the Vampire envoy says, his voice like ice over steel. “She has broadcast forbidden records to the surface world. She has exposed our existence. She has broken the oldest law—the Veil.”
“The Veil was a lie,” I say, my voice cutting through the chamber. “A cage. A weapon used to control. And Elira didn’t break it—she shattered it. And the world didn’t end. It woke up.”
“You overstep,” the Fae envoy says, her voice smooth, dangerous. “You may co-rule, but you do not unmake law with a word. The Veil protected us. It kept the peace.”
“Peace?” I laugh, low and sharp. “You call hiding in the dark peace? You call hunting hybrids peace? You call feeding humans to thralls peace? The Veil didn’t protect. It imprisoned. And Elira didn’t break it—she set us free.”
“She endangered us all,” the Vampire envoy snaps. “The surface governments will come. They’ll bring weapons. They’ll bring war.”
“Let them,” Mara says, rising. Her voice is quiet, but it carries. “We’ve lived in fear long enough. The humans aren’t our enemies. We are. We’ve been the monsters in their stories. But now? Now we have a chance to be something else. To be allies. To be neighbors. And Elira—” She turns, looks at the young woman. “—she’s the one who gave us that chance.”
The chamber stills.
Not in agreement.
In reckoning.
Because she’s not wrong.
And they know it.
“She’s human,” the Vampire envoy sneers. “She has no right to speak for us. No right to decide our fate.”
“She has the right of truth,” Orin says, his voice calm, ancient. “And the right of witness. She was there in the Blood Pit. She saw the ledgers. She recorded the names. She held the proof when no one else would. And now, you would silence her? For doing what we were too afraid to do?”
“She’s a liability,” the Fae envoy says. “A threat. She knows too much. She’s close to Riven. To you.” Her gaze flicks to me. “She could be used against us.”
“Then let them try,” Riven says, stepping forward. His voice is low, rough, but it cuts like a blade. “I am Beta of the Northern Packs. I have bled for this city. I have fought for this peace. And I stand here not as her protector, but as her mate.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“You cannot be serious,” the Vampire envoy says. “A werewolf Beta, bound to a human? It’s unnatural. It’s—”
“It’s love,” Riven interrupts, his storm-gray eyes locking onto the envoy’s. “And it’s my choice. Not fate. Not magic. Not duty. Choice. And if you think I’ll let you take her, you’re dead wrong.”
“You would defy the Council?” the Fae envoy asks, her voice sharp.
“No,” I say, rising. “He’s upholding it. The New Council. The one that values truth. That protects the weak. That doesn’t exile hybrids or execute humans for knowing the truth. That doesn’t silence those who speak it.” I turn to Elira. “Show them.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
Lifts the crystal.
And the chamber fills with light.
Not magic.
Memory.
The recording plays—crystal clear, no glamour, no distortion. Elira in the Blood Pit, her voice steady as she narrates: “This is the Blood Pit. This is where the Council hides its crimes. Where hybrids are tortured. Where humans are fed to thralls. Where magic is stolen.”
The images flash—rows of cells, silver chains, emaciated bodies, the ledger with Vexis’s name, the forged execution orders, the stolen blood. Then—Riven, stepping out of the shadows, fangs bared, claws ready. And Elira, not running. Not screaming.
Just saying, “You’re not the monster they say you are.”
The chamber is silent.
Not in shock.
In shame.
Because they’ve seen it before.
But never like this.
Never from the outside.
Never from the truth.
“You see?” Elira says, her voice quiet but strong. “I didn’t expose you to destroy you. I exposed you to save you. To show the world that not all of you are monsters. That some of you—like Riven, like Zara, like Kaelen—are fighting to be better. And if that means the old ways die? Good. They should.”
“She’s a threat,” the Vampire envoy says again, but his voice lacks fire. “She’ll turn the surface world against us.”
“Or she’ll turn them toward us,” Mara says. “Imagine a world where humans and supernaturals don’t hide. Where we trade. Where we protect each other. Where we don’t fear each other. That’s what she’s offering. And you want to lock her away for it?”
“She broke the law,” the Fae envoy says, but even her voice wavers.
“The law was wrong,” I say. “And we burned it. Just like we burned the Purity Edict. Just like we burned the Blood Pits. And now, we’re not going back. Elira stays. She speaks. She records. And if anyone tries to harm her—” I look at the envoys, one by one. “—they answer to me. To us. To the New Council.”
The runes on the ceiling flare—gold, steady, unbroken.
The ancient magic of the Spire recognizes it.
Truth.
Choice.
Freedom.
And then—
Silence.
Not defeat.
Acceptance.
The envoys don’t argue.
Just nod.
And I feel it—
The shift.
Not just in power.
But in trust.
—
After the session, we walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just us.
Riven and Elira walk ahead, their hands clasped, her head tilted toward his as she speaks, her voice low, his answering with a rare smile. They don’t look back. Don’t need to.
They’re safe.
And they know it.
Kaelen walks beside me, his hand on my lower back, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him. He doesn’t speak. Just watches them, his storm-gray eyes thoughtful.
“You did good,” he says finally.
“We did,” I correct. “You didn’t have to back me. You could’ve said it was too soon. Too risky.”
“No,” he says. “It was never a risk. It was a test. And we passed.”
“Of what?”
“Of who we are now.” He turns, looks at me. “We’re not just breaking the old rules. We’re proving we can live by new ones. That we can protect the weak. That we can trust the truth. Even when it’s human.”
I smile—just slightly. “You’re getting soft.”
“No,” he says, pulling me close, his lips brushing my ear. “I’m just finally free.”
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She stops in front of us, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf.
“Are you really the Alpha?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Yes,” Kaelen says.
“And you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I’m Zara,” I say, kneeling. “And I’m here to make sure no one takes your wolf away.”
The girl smiles.
And hands me the toy.
I take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “I’ll keep it safe.”
And as we walk away, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the fire.
Home.
And for the first time, I believe it.
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
Of the truth.
Of the fire.
Of us.
—
That night, we stand on the edge of the Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright. Kaelen stands beside me, his hand on my lower back, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice low. “You could’ve marked me. Claimed me the old way.”
“No,” he says, turning. “I needed you. Not just your fire. Not just your magic. You. The woman who looks at me like I’m worth saving. The woman who stood in front of a blade and said, ‘He’s mine.’”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
And I’m not hiding anymore.
“I didn’t come here to save you,” I say.
“No.” He smiles—just slightly. “You came to burn me. And you did. You burned through every lie. Every wall. Every fear. And now—” His hand slides to my neck, not choking, not hurting. Claiming. “—you’re the only thing keeping me human.”
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
“I am.” He leans in, his lips hovering over mine. “But I’m yours.”
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
I taste like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. My thumb brushes his pulse.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
I smile—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
He pulls me down.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Like he’s taking what’s mine.
We fall to the stone, the wind whipping around us, the stars burning above. His body is a wall over mine, his breath hot on my neck, his hands sliding under my tunic, burning over my skin. I arch into him, my fangs grazing his shoulder, my magic flaring in time with his touch.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
He does.
Storm-gray eyes, gold bleeding into gray, fangs just past his lip, claws retracted but ready. Not a beast. Not a monster.
Mine.
“This is mine,” I say, sliding my hand between us, fingers brushing the hard length of him through his trousers. “This fire. This need. This man. You don’t get to hide from me. You don’t get to push me away. You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”
His breath hitches.
“You’re already mine,” I say, unbuttoning his trousers, sliding my hand inside. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
He growls—low, guttural, hungry—but doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Just lets me touch him, lets me explore, lets me claim.
And I do.
I stroke him—slow, deliberate, my thumb brushing the tip, smearing the drop of pre-come. He shudders, his hips bucking, his fangs lengthening, his claws erupting—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t push in. Just lets.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whisper, leaning up, my lips brushing his ear. “You don’t have to be in control. You don’t have to be the Alpha. Just be mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just rolls us—fast, smooth, a shift of power—and suddenly I’m on top, straddling him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his.
“You’re not the only one who can lead,” he says, voice rough.
“No.” I lift my hips, sliding my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance. “But I am the one who chooses.”
And I do.
I sink down—slow, deliberate, a gasp tearing from my throat as he fills me, stretches me, claims me. He’s thick, long, hot—burning—and I take all of him, every inch, every pulse, every groan.
“Zara,” he growls, his hands flying to my hips, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
“Say it,” I whisper, grinding down, taking him deeper. “Say you’re mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just thrusts up—once, sharp, deep—and I cry out, my head falling back, my magic flaring beneath my skin.
“Say it,” I demand, riding him now, setting the pace, controlling the fire. “Say you’re mine.”
He growls—low, guttural, feral—but still doesn’t speak.
So I do it for him.
“You’re mine,” I say, leaning down, my lips brushing his. “And you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just flips us—fast, brutal, a shift of power—and now he’s on top, his body a wall over mine, his thrusts deep, hard, relentless. I arch into him, my nails raking his back, my fangs grazing his shoulder, my magic flaring in time with his thrusts.
And then—
He bites.
Not my neck.
Not to mark.
My shoulder—just above the scar from the Blood Pit, just where the silver burned through. A sting. A pulse. A claim.
I cry out—half pain, half pleasure—and come, hard, my body clenching around him, my magic exploding in a wave of red-gold fire that licks up the cliffs, searing the air.
He follows—growling, thrusting, spilling inside me, his fangs still in my skin, his body shuddering, his breath ragged.
And then—
He collapses.
Not on me.
Beside me.
One arm wraps around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
We don’t speak.
Don’t move.
Just lie there, wrapped in each other, the wind biting through our clothes, the stars burning above, 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—
He shifts.
Just slightly. His head tilts, his 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 he’s not asking for that.
He’s asking for this.
For me to stay.
For me to hold on.
For me to be here.
So I do.
I lower my head, my lips brushing his temple, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
And then—
My hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing his cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. His breath hitches. His body betrays him, arching into me, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
Because he’s spent centuries believing he was.
That the blood in his veins—the curse, the power, the fangs and claws—made him something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, I’m saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With my hand on his face. With my breath on his skin. With the way my body fits against his like it was made for him.
“You’re not,” I say again, my thumb tracing his lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
His heart stutters.
Because he is.
He’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way his pulse jumps, in the way his magic flares, in the way his body trembles when I touch him.
But he’s not running.
He’s not fighting.
He’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
“Why?” I ask, voice rough. “Why aren’t you afraid?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, his lips hovering over mine. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to claim.
But he doesn’t.
Just… waits.
And then—
My hand slides up his chest, over his shoulder, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. My thumb brushes his pulse.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
I smile—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
I taste like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hand slides under his shirt, fingers burning over his stomach, his ribs, his back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
His magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up his arms, searing the air between us.
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull back.
I just moan into his mouth, my body arching into his, my fingers clutching at his skin.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Steps back.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. His lips are swollen. His body aches. His core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I stare at him, my eyes dark, my chest heaving. “You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
“You don’t get to do that,” he whispers.
“I do.” I step closer, my thumb brushing his 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.” I lean in, my lips hovering over his. “You’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
And before he can respond, I turn and walk away, leaving him trembling in the shadows, his body humming with the ghost of my touch, his mind screaming one word—
Yes.