The full moon rises like a bloodstain over the Spire.
It hangs low in the sky, swollen and crimson, pulsing with a light that feels less like illumination and more like exposure. I stand at the window of my suite—*my* suite, though it might as well be a gilded cell—and watch it climb, my fingers pressed to the cold glass. The bond thrums beneath my skin, a low, insistent drumbeat that syncs with the lunar pull. It’s stronger tonight. Deeper. More *alive*.
Three days.
Three days since the Council declared our bond. Three days since Kaelen told me I’d beg for his mark. Three days since I let him pull me through the shadows of the Restricted Archive, his body shielding mine, his voice a dark promise in my ear.
And in that time, I’ve done nothing.
No progress. No proof. No vengeance.
Just this—this slow, maddening spiral of want and war. The way my body betrays me when he walks into a room. The way my magic flares when he touches me. The way my breath catches when he looks at me like I’m already his.
And now—
The moon.
Full. Bright. Inescapable.
For werewolves, the full moon is more than a cycle. It’s a force. A command. A biological imperative. And for a Marked Alpha like Kaelen—wolf and vampire blood fused into something ancient and volatile—it’s a trigger.
Heat.
Not just desire. Not just lust. Heat. A primal, all-consuming need that twists through his veins like fire. It amplifies the bond. Makes it unbearable. Makes *denial* unbearable.
And tonight, the Council has decreed that we share a chamber.
“To honor the bond,” they said.
“To ensure proximity,” they claimed.
“To prevent bond fever,” they warned.
A lie, all of it.
This isn’t about the bond.
This is about control.
They want to see me break. Want to see me submit. Want to watch the moment I let him mark me—publicly, irrevocably—so they can use it as leverage, as proof of loyalty, as another chain around my neck.
And Kaelen?
I don’t know what he wants.
He hasn’t touched me since the library. Not really. A hand on my back in the hall. A grip on my wrist when we walk. But nothing more. No threats. No demands. No whispered promises of what he’ll do if I resist.
Just silence.
And that’s worse.
Because in the silence, I hear the bond. Feel it. *Taste* it.
It’s in the way my skin tightens when he’s near. The way my nipples harden beneath my clothes. The way my core aches with a hollow, pulsing need that no amount of logic can quiet.
I press my forehead to the glass, closing my eyes.
I came here to burn them all.
But right now, I feel like I’m the one on fire.
—
The knock comes at exactly midnight.
Three sharp raps, like a heartbeat.
I don’t answer. I don’t move.
The door opens anyway.
He fills the frame—tall, broad, dressed in black trousers and a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open just enough to reveal the hard line of his throat. His scent hits me first—pine, iron, smoke—thicker tonight, laced with something darker, wilder. Heat.
My breath catches.
His eyes are storm-gray, but there’s a flicker beneath them—gold. Wolf. Close to the surface. Close to losing control.
“You’re supposed to be in the bonding chamber,” he says, voice low, rough.
“I’m not a dog to be summoned,” I say, turning from the window.
“No.” He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “You’re my mate. Which means you answer to me.”
“Not yet.”
“The moon says otherwise.” He closes the distance in three strides, stopping just in front of me. Too close. Too warm. Too *present*. “The bond is screaming. You feel it too.”
“I feel a lot of things,” I say, lifting my chin. “Most of them involve you leaving.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “You think I want this? You think I enjoy watching you fight it? Watching your body tremble when I’m near? Watching your magic flare like a damn wildfire every time I touch you?”
My pulse stutters. “Then stop touching me.”
“I can’t.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek. Just a whisper of contact. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my neck, pooling between my thighs. I don’t pull away. “The bond won’t let me. And neither will you.”
“I *hate* you,” I whisper.
“Good.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hate me. But don’t lie to yourself. You want this. You want *me*.”
“I want the truth.”
“And you’ll get it.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “But not tonight. Tonight, you survive.”
Before I can respond, he turns and walks toward the door. “Come. Now.”
“Or what?”
He stops, glancing back. “Or I carry you. And I won’t be gentle.”
I glare at him. But I follow.
—
The bonding chamber is in the heart of the Northern Wing—a circular room with black stone walls, veins of silver pulsing like slow blood beneath the surface. A massive bed dominates the center, draped in dark furs, pillows scattered like afterthoughts. The air is thick with the scent of him—of *us*—and the low, rhythmic hum of the Spire’s magic.
Kaelen doesn’t speak as he enters. He just moves to the far side of the room, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. His back is a map of scars—old wounds, battle marks, the kind earned in centuries of war. The moonlight catches the hard lines of his shoulders, the ripple of muscle as he rolls his neck, as if trying to shake something loose.
“Take the bed,” he says, voice tight.
“You take it,” I say, staying near the door.
“Zara.”
“Don’t.” I cross my arms. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You’re not sleeping *with* me.” He turns, his gaze locking onto mine. “You’re sleeping *near* me. To keep the bond stable. To keep us both alive.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the fever takes me.” He takes a step forward, his voice dropping. “And when I lose control, I won’t care about your mission. I won’t care about your revenge. I’ll mark you. I’ll claim you. I’ll *take* you—right here, right now—and I won’t stop until the bond is satisfied.”
My breath hitches. My core clenches. The image flashes in my mind—him on top of me, fangs at my throat, hands pinning my wrists, my body arching beneath his, screaming his name—
“You’re bluffing,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Am I?” He closes the distance in two strides, caging me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip. His heat rolls over me, his scent drowning me. The bond flares—hot, violent, *hungry*. “You feel that?” he growls. “That pulse between your thighs? That ache in your chest? That’s not fear. That’s *need*.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You do.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “And if you don’t get on that bed right now, I’ll show you exactly how much.”
I hold his gaze. For a heartbeat, I consider fighting. Consider shoving him back, running, screaming—anything to prove I’m not his.
But then—
A low, guttural sound rips from his throat. Not a growl. Not a snarl.
Pain.
His body tenses. His fingers dig into my hip. His fangs lengthen, just slightly. The gold in his eyes flares—wolf, close to the surface, fighting for control.
He’s not bluffing.
He’s not in control.
And if I push him, he’ll break.
And when he does, I won’t survive it.
“Fine,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. “Say it.”
“I’ll… sleep in the bed.”
“Good girl.”
He releases me, stepping back. I don’t wait. I cross to the bed, kicking off my boots and climbing under the furs. I stay on the far edge, as far from him as possible.
He watches me for a long moment. Then he turns off the lights.
The room plunges into darkness.
Only the moonlight remains, spilling through the high window, painting silver stripes across the floor, across the bed, across his bare chest as he lies down on the opposite side.
We don’t speak.
We don’t move.
We just lie there, separated by a few feet of space and a lifetime of lies, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
Minutes pass.
Then an hour.
The heat doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows. My skin is too sensitive. My breath too shallow. My core aches with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I can feel him.
Not just his presence. Not just his scent.
His *desire*.
It pulses through the bond—hot, insistent, *unrelenting*. A drumbeat in my blood. A fire in my veins. I can feel the way his body tenses, the way his breath hitches, the way his fangs press against his lower lip.
And worse—
I can feel my own body responding.
My nipples tighten. My thighs press together. My hands clench the furs, fighting the urge to touch myself, to ease the ache, to *relieve* the pressure building inside me.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, he’ll know.
And if he knows, he’ll win.
Another hour.
The moon climbs higher.
The heat intensifies.
I’m drenched in sweat. My nightgown clings to my skin. My heart hammers. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
And then—
A sound.
Low. Rough. Human.
“Zara.”
I don’t answer.
“I can smell your need.”
My eyes fly open.
He’s on his side, facing me, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on his stomach. The moonlight gilds the hard lines of his body, the ripple of muscle, the faint trail of dark hair leading below the waistband of his trousers.
“You’re not as cold as you pretend,” he says, voice thick with heat.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“You’re wet.”
“I said shut up.”
“You want me to touch you.”
“No.”
“You want me to kiss you.”
“Stop.”
“You want me to bite you.”
“I *hate* you.”
He smiles—slow, dangerous. “Then why are you trembling?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because I’m cold.”
“You’re not.” He shifts, just slightly, closer. “You’re burning. Just like me.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I can’t.” His voice drops to a growl. “The bond won’t let me. And neither will you.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.
Another silence.
Longer this time.
The heat builds. The bond screams. My body aches.
And then—
A whisper.
“Zara.”
I open my eyes.
He’s closer now. Just a foot away. His hand is out, fingers hovering over my arm, not touching, but *threatening* to.
“If you touch me,” I say, voice shaking, “I’ll burn you.”
“Try.” His fingers brush my skin—just a whisper. But it’s enough. Heat explodes through me, a wave so intense I arch off the bed, a gasp tearing from my throat. “You think fire scares me?” he murmurs. “I was forged in it.”
His hand slides up my arm, over my shoulder, to my neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming.
“You feel that?” he asks, his thumb brushing my pulse. “Your heart. Racing. Not from fear.”
“Get off me,” I whisper, but there’s no force behind it.
“No.” He leans in, his lips hovering over mine. “You want this. You want *me*.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
His mouth brushes mine—just a whisper. A tease. A promise.
And then—
He pulls back.
Rolls onto his back.
Stares at the ceiling.
“Sleep,” he says, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
My lips tingle. My body thrums. My core aches with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
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.