The first time I woke beside Kaelen, I reached for the dagger under my pillow.
Not because I didn’t trust him.
Because I did.
And that was more dangerous than any lie.
It was the night after the burning archive—the night of the desperate kiss, the bite, the marking. The night I’d let the bond win, even as my mission burned to ash around me. I’d woken tangled in his arms, his breath warm on my neck, his fangs just grazing my pulse, and for one heart-stopping second, I’d believed the lie—that we were mates, not enemies. That his claim was protection, not possession.
Then I remembered.
My mother’s scream. The silver dagger. The Council’s sigil.
And I’d nearly slit his throat before he opened his eyes.
Now, months after the fall of the Council, after the Blood Pact Renewal, after the liberation of the first prison and the rise of the New Council, I wake in the same bed, to the same breath on my neck, the same warmth at my back, the same storm-gray eyes watching me from the shadows.
But this time—
I don’t reach for the blade.
I reach for him.
My hand slides across the sheets, over the hard plane of his stomach, up his chest, to the pulse beating steady beneath his skin. His breath hitches. His body tenses. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me—really watches—as if I’m something he still can’t believe is real.
“You’re awake,” I say, voice rough with sleep.
“I’ve been awake,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough. “Watching you dream.”
“And?”
“You smiled.”
My breath catches.
Because I don’t dream of fire anymore.
Not of burning. Not of blood. Not of vengeance.
I dream of children laughing in the courtyard. Of Lira lighting her first flame. Of the Full Moon Festival, where the city danced as one. Of a tiny hand pressing a wooden wolf to my heart.
I dream of home.
“You’re not supposed to watch me,” I say, sliding closer, my leg brushing his. “It’s invasive.”
“I’m not the Alpha anymore,” he says, turning onto his side, his hand lifting, slow, deliberate, to brush my hair from my face. “I’m your mate. And I’m allowed to look.”
“You’re still the Alpha,” I say. “Just not the only one.”
“No,” he says, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “I’m ours now. Not just yours. Not just mine. Ours.”
I don’t answer.
Just lean in, my lips brushing his—soft, slow, a promise. He gasps, his hand flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
The kiss deepens—slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl. His magic flares beneath his skin, black-silver and restless, like a storm trapped in bone. Mine answers—red-gold, alive, mine—spiraling from my palms, searing the air between us.
And then—
He breaks it.
Steps back.
“We have a meeting,” he says, voice rough. “With the Human Liaison. Mara. The Southern Beta. They want to discuss the new border patrols.”
“Let them wait,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his neck, my fangs grazing the pulse beneath. “I’m not done with you.”
He shudders—low, deep, hungry—but doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t take. Just lets me touch him, lets me explore, lets me claim.
“You’re insatiable,” he says, his voice breaking.
“You bring it out in me,” I whisper, sliding my hand down his chest, over his hip, to 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.”
He growls—low, guttural, feral—but still doesn’t speak.
So I do it for him.
“You’re mine,” I say, unbuttoning his trousers, sliding my hand inside. “And you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just arches into me, his hips bucking, his fangs lengthening, his claws erupting—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t push in. Just lets.
And I do.
I stroke him—slow, deliberate, my thumb brushing the tip, smearing the drop of pre-come. He shudders, his breath ragged, his body trembling beneath my touch.
“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.
—
Later, we stand in the war room, sunlight spilling through the open arches, the maps of the hidden prisons spread across the obsidian table. Mara sits at the head, her sharp gaze moving between the documents, her hands steady as she takes notes. The Southern Beta leans against the wall, arms crossed, his Beta’s instincts already calculating entry points. Orin stands beside him, his ancient eyes scanning the sigils etched into the edges.
Kaelen stands at the center, his long coat open, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. I stand beside him, my fire humming beneath my skin, my storm-gray eyes locked on the map.
“The next prison is in the Scottish Highlands,” he says. “Isolated. Warded. Guarded by Fae-blooded enforcers.”
“Then we go in with Fae diplomacy,” Mara says. “Elira’s already negotiating with the Summer Queen’s envoy. We offer trade. Protection. A seat at the Council.”
“And if they refuse?” I ask.
“Then we burn,” Kaelen says. “Not just the prison. The lie. The silence. The fear. We make it so loud, so bright, that no one can pretend they didn’t see it.”
“And the hybrids?” Orin asks. “If they’re too weak to move?”
“We carry them,” I say. “We fight for them. We die for them if we have to. But we don’t leave a single one behind.”
Silence.
Then—
The Southern Beta nods.
“My pack will stand with you,” he says. “Not as your soldiers. As your brothers.”
“And the humans?” Mara asks.
“We’ll bring supplies,” I say. “Food. Medicine. Shelter. We don’t just free them. We give them a future.”
“Then it’s decided,” Kaelen says. “We move at twilight.”
—
That night, 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.
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.