The first time Kaelen knelt before me, it wasn’t in surrender.
It was in rage.
Bound by silver chains in the Hollow Maw’s deepest cell, his fangs bared, his claws scraping stone, his storm-gray eyes blazing with the feral fire of bond fever. He’d been drugged—Vexis’s scent potion flooding his veins, twisting his instincts, turning his love into a weapon. And when I stepped into the cell, fire spiraling from my palm, he didn’t see his mate.
He saw prey.
He lunged—fast, brutal, a snarl tearing from his throat—and I dodged, my fire lashing out, searing the air between us. But he wasn’t fighting to kill.
He was fighting to claim.
And then—
He fell.
Not from my fire.
From the bond.
His body hit the stone with a crack, his muscles seizing, his breath ragged, his magic flickering like a dying flame. And in that moment, as he knelt there—barely human, barely alive—I saw it.
Not dominance.
Desperation.
And I knew—
He wasn’t my enemy.
He was my prisoner.
Now, months after the fall of the Council, after the Blood Pact Renewal, after the Full Moon Festival and the secret chamber and the liberation of the first prison, I stand in the Hollow Maw’s war room once more, the scent of old parchment and healing sigils thick in the air. The maps of the hidden prisons are still spread across the obsidian table, but they’re no longer just plans.
They’re promises.
Kaelen stands at the far end of the room, his back to me, his long coat open, his shoulders tense. He hasn’t spoken since we returned from the Carpathians. Not to me. Not to Riven. Not even to Orin. He just carried the last of the freed hybrids to the healers, watched them settle, and walked away.
And now—
He’s waiting.
I don’t call his name.
Don’t ask what’s wrong.
Just walk to him, my boots echoing against the stone, my fire humming beneath my skin—low, steady, awake. I stop just behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the pulse of his magic, the slow, uneven rhythm of his breath.
“You’re not sleeping,” I say.
He doesn’t turn.
“No,” he says, voice rough, stripped bare. “I keep seeing them. The ones we left behind. The ones still trapped. The ones who don’t know we’re coming.”
“We’ll find them,” I say. “All of them.”
“And if we’re too late?” he asks, finally turning. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see it—
Not fear.
Guilt.
“I was supposed to protect them,” he says. “The hybrids. The weak. The ones who had no one. And I didn’t. I enforced the law. I followed orders. I let them be taken.”
My chest tightens.
Because I know this pain.
Not his. Mine.
The first time I used my fire to burn a man alive, I was sixteen. He’d come for my mother. Silver in hand, lies on his lips, a Council sigil on his chest. I didn’t hesitate. Just raised my hand and let the fire come. And when he screamed, when his flesh blackened, when his bones cracked—I didn’t feel guilt.
I felt power.
And that scared me more than any enemy ever could.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” I say, voice rough. “I’ve burned people. Killed them. Felt the heat of their death and wanted more. But I’m not a monster. And neither are you.”
“You had a reason,” he says. “Revenge. Justice. I didn’t. I did it because I liked it. Because the heat, the blood, the fear—it made me feel alive.”
“And now?” I ask. “Does it still?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—really looks—and I see it.
The truth.
“No,” he whispers. “Now it makes me feel… empty. Like I’m feeding a hunger that will never be full. Like I’m becoming what they made me to be.”
I don’t offer empty words.
Just step closer, my hand lifting, slow, deliberate, and 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.
—
Later, we walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just us.
The streets are alive—torchlight flickers in the alleys, hybrids stand tall in the open, wolves walk beside witches, humans trade with Fae. No more hiding. No more fear.
But Kaelen is quiet.
His hand rests on my lower back, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him—but his mind is miles away.
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.
—
That night, I find him in the northern watchtower, where the wind cuts through stone and the stars burn cold and distant.
He’s not at the edge. Not scanning the horizon. Not barking orders.
He’s kneeling.
Back straight, coat open, head bowed, one hand gripping his thigh like he’s trying to hold himself together. His fangs are retracted. His claws are sheathed. But his breathing—shallow, uneven, too fast—is all wrong.
And the bond?
It’s not screaming.
It’s bleeding.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says without looking up, his voice rough, stripped bare. “This is my watch. My duty.”
“And I’m your mate,” I say, stepping forward, my boots echoing against the stone. “Which means I go where you go. Especially when you’re lying to me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just lifts his hand—calloused, scarred, real—and presses it to his temple, like he’s trying to push something back inside.
I don’t hesitate.
Kneel in front of him.
Not to soothe.
To see.
My fingers brush his jaw—just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. His breath hitches. His body tenses. His magic flares beneath his skin, black-silver and restless, like a storm trapped in bone.
“Talk to me,” I say, voice low. “Not the Alpha. Not the enforcer. Not the Marked. You.”
He finally looks at me.
And I see it—
Not fear.
Shame.
“I dreamed last night,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Of fire. Of blood. Of you—on your knees, throat slit, your fire gone. And me—standing over you, fangs in your neck, your blood on my hands. And I wasn’t stopping. I wasn’t grieving. I was… feeding.”
My breath catches.
But I don’t flinch.
“It was a nightmare,” I say. “Not a memory. Not a prophecy.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It felt like a warning. Like the curse is waking up. Like the vampire blood in my veins—the one that made me a weapon—is remembering what it was made for.”
“You’re not a weapon,” I say, my hand sliding to his neck, not choking, not hurting. Claiming. “You’re a man. A leader. A mate.”
“Am I?” He laughs—low, broken. “Or am I just a beast wearing a man’s skin? A monster who’s been lucky enough to stay caged? I’ve killed more than I can count, Zara. Not in battle. Not in defense. In pleasure. I’ve torn throats out and felt nothing but hunger. I’ve crushed bones and smiled while doing it. And now?” He lifts his hand, stares at his claws. “Now I’m in charge. Now I’m supposed to lead. To protect. To love. But what if I’m not built for that? What if I’m built to destroy?”
My chest tightens.
Because I know this fear.
Not his. Mine.
The first time I used my fire to burn a man alive, I was sixteen. He’d come for my mother. Silver in hand, lies on his lips, a Council sigil on his chest. I didn’t hesitate. Just raised my hand and let the fire come. And when he screamed, when his flesh blackened, when his bones cracked—I didn’t feel guilt.
I felt power.
And that scared me more than any enemy ever could.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” I say, voice rough. “I’ve burned people. Killed them. Felt the heat of their death and wanted more. But I’m not a monster. And neither are you.”
“You had a reason,” he says. “Revenge. Justice. I didn’t. I did it because I liked it. Because the heat, the blood, the fear—it made me feel alive.”
“And now?” I ask. “Does it still?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—really looks—and I see it.
The truth.
“No,” he whispers. “Now it makes me feel… empty. Like I’m feeding a hunger that will never be full. Like I’m becoming what they made me to be.”
I don’t offer empty words.
Just lean in, 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.
—
And then—
He does something I’ve never seen him do.
Something I never thought I’d live to see.
He lowers his head.
Not in defeat.
In submission.
One hand lifts—slow, deliberate—and covers mine where it rests on his neck. His fingers curl around my wrist, not to control, not to dominate.
Just to hold.
“Command me,” he says, voice raw, broken. “Not as your mate. Not as your Alpha. As the man who’s afraid he’s not enough. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to be better. Tell me how to be yours.”
My breath catches.
Because this—
This is the most intimate thing he’s ever given me.
Not his body.
Not his fire.
Not even his love.
His power.
And he’s offering it to me.
Not because he has to.
Because he wants to.
“You don’t need me to command you,” I say, my voice low, rough. “You need to trust yourself. To believe that the man who fought beside me, who bled for me, who carried me from the Blood Pit—is worth saving.”
“Then save me,” he whispers. “Not from the Council. Not from Vexis. From myself.”
I don’t answer.
Just lean in, 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.
—
Later, 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 grows—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.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me.
And I know—
This isn’t just a moment.
It’s a promise.