The first thing I feel when the scent hits me is fire.
Not the slow, smoldering kind—the kind that builds in the hearth, patient and contained. No, this is wildfire. Explosive. Uncontrollable. A raw, jagged pulse of heat that surges through my veins like molten iron, setting every nerve ending alight. It floods the corridor, thick and intoxicating—storm and jasmine and something deeper, darker, *sweeter*—and I know, with a certainty that cuts deeper than any blade:
Jasmine is in heat.
And she’s not alone.
I stop mid-step, my hand tightening around the scroll I was carrying—some meaningless report on border patrols, now forgotten. My fangs extend, sharp and true, unbidden. My pulse hammers, not from exertion, but from the primal, animal need clawing at my ribs. The bond roars to life, a living thing, coiled around my spine, screaming for proximity, for *her*.
Thirty days.
That’s how long we’ve been bound. Thirty days of forced alliance, of political games, of blood and breath shared under the Council’s watchful eyes. Thirty days of resisting the hunger, the need, the *truth* of what we are. And now—now the Moonborn in her blood is rising, and the magic is demanding what I’ve been denying.
Her.
Mine.
But not like this.
Never like this.
Not when she’s vulnerable. Not when she’s drowning in the cycle, her body betraying her, her mind fogged with need. Not when every predator in this fortress will scent her, will *hunt* her.
I move.
Fast.
My boots strike the stone like thunder, my coat flaring behind me as I cut through the corridors, following the scent, the bond, the pull that’s been guiding me since the moment she stepped into this cursed fortress. The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes wide, their instincts screaming at them to *run*. They know what’s coming. They’ve seen it before. The Moonborn heat cycle is rare, but when it strikes, it’s chaos. Blood. Violence. *Claiming*.
And Jasmine?
She’s not just Moonborn.
She’s hybrid. Heir. Fated mate. And the most powerful bloodline in two centuries.
If she’s unclaimed during heat—
There will be war.
I find her in the training yard.
Of course I do.
The cavernous sparring ring is lit by floating orbs of blue flame, their light flickering over the black stone, casting long, shifting shadows. She’s in the center of it, barefoot, shirtless, her skin slick with sweat, her dark hair clinging to her temples. She’s shifting—fast, desperate—her body rippling between forms, claws slicing through the air, fangs bared, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The training dummies are already in splinters, their wood and leather scattered across the floor. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just tears into the shadows, her movements sharp, frantic, *furious*.
She’s fighting it.
And losing.
“Jasmine.”
My voice cuts through the echoes, low, commanding.
She freezes.
Slowly, deliberately, she turns.
And the world narrows to her eyes—gold and storm-gray, swirling with magic, with hunger, with *recognition*. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parted, her scent spiking, thick and sweet, curling around me like smoke. Her wolf is close to the surface, claws still extended, fangs glistening. But it’s not just her beast I see.
It’s *her*.
The woman who came here to destroy me.
The woman who cut me with a child’s dagger and said, *“If I die, you die too.”*
The woman who’s been my daughter for twenty years.
And now—
Now she’s *herself*.
“Don’t,” she says, voice raw. “Don’t come near me.”
“Too late,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re in heat. And this fortress is full of predators who’ll scent you, who’ll *take* you if I don’t stop them.”
“I can handle myself,” she snaps, backing up. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”
“Liar,” I say, not unkindly. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your scent doesn’t lie. And the bond?” I take another step. “It knows the truth.”
She snarls—low, guttural—and lunges.
Fast. Desperate. *Furious*.
Her claws slice through the air, aimed at my throat. I don’t dodge. Don’t block. Just let her hit me—let her feel the strength in my neck, the immovable wall of my body, the fangs that extend when her scent floods my senses.
She stumbles back, her breath ragged, her eyes wide.
“You’re not going to fight me,” she says, voice breaking. “You’re not going to let me win.”
“No,” I say. “Because if I do, you’ll die. And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want this. I don’t want *you*.”
“Then why,” I ask, stepping closer, “does your body arch into my touch? Why does your breath hitch when I say your name? Why does your sigil *burn* for me?”
She doesn’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I’m right.
And that’s what terrifies her most.
“You’re not safe here,” I say, voice low. “Not like this. Not with Malrik watching. Not with Lysandra waiting. Not with every vampire, werewolf, and witch in this fortress who’d kill to claim the lost heir.”
“Then let them try,” she says, lifting her chin. “Let them come. I’ll tear them apart.”
“And what if they do?” I ask. “What if one of them gets close? What if they touch you? What if they *mark* you?”
Her breath stops.
“No one touches you,” I say, stepping closer. “Not like that. Not ever. You’re mine. And I won’t let anyone take what’s mine.”
“You don’t own me,” she hisses.
“No,” I say. “But I’d die for you.”
And then—
I move.
Fast. Unrelenting. My hand closes around her wrist, not to hurt, not to control—but to *claim*. I pull her against me, her back to my chest, my arms wrapping around her, my fangs grazing her neck—just a whisper of pressure, but her breath hitches, her body arching into me.
“You’re burning,” I murmur against her skin. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent—storm and jasmine and something darker—”
“Stop,” she chokes. “Just stop.”
“I can’t,” I say. “The bond won’t let me. And neither will I.”
She struggles—wild, desperate—but I hold her tighter, my strength unbreakable, my body a wall between her and the world. Her claws dig into my arms, her fangs graze my wrist, but I don’t let go. Can’t. Not when every instinct is screaming at me to *claim*, to *protect*, to *possess*.
But I won’t.
Not like this.
Not when she’s not herself.
“You’re not imprisoning me,” she says, voice breaking. “I won’t let you.”
“Then what do you want?” I ask. “Do you want to shift and run? Do you want to hide in the forest and let the beasts hunt you? Do you want to let someone else mark you, claim you, *break* you?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just trembles in my arms, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body betraying her, her scent spiking, thick and sweet, curling around me like smoke.
“I’m taking you to your chambers,” I say. “You’ll be safe there. Warded. Protected. And when the heat passes—” I press my lips to her ear “—we’ll talk. As equals. As father and daughter. Not as king and heir. Not as predator and prey.”
She doesn’t fight.
Just goes still, her body sagging against mine, her breath warm against my neck.
And then—
She shifts.
Not fully. Not to wolf.
But enough.
Her ears twitch, her claws retract, her fangs shorten. She’s not fighting me. Not resisting.
She’s *trusting* me.
And gods, it destroys me.
I carry her through the corridors, her body light in my arms, her head resting against my chest. The guards step aside, their eyes down, their instincts screaming at them to *run*. Torin meets us at the door to her chambers, his expression unreadable.
“Secure the perimeter,” I say. “No one enters. No one leaves. And if Malrik or Lysandra so much as *look* in this direction—”
“I’ll kill them,” Torin says, voice flat.
I nod.
Then I step inside, closing the door behind me.
The chambers are dim, lit only by the faint glow of the hearth. I lay her on the bed, pulling the covers over her, but she grabs my wrist, her fingers trembling.
“Don’t leave,” she whispers.
My breath catches.
“I won’t,” I say, voice rough. “I’ll be right here.”
She doesn’t let go.
Just holds on, her grip weak but unyielding, her eyes half-closed, her breath shallow.
And then—
She speaks.
Not to me.
But to the memory.
“You’re safe,” she murmurs, her voice soft, distant. “I’ll always keep you safe.”
My chest tightens.
It’s what I said to her. Twenty years ago. In the forest. When she was twelve. When I was the boy who loved her mother. When I promised to protect her.
“You’re safe,” I whisper, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “I’ll always keep you safe.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just curls into me, her body seeking warmth, seeking *me*.
And I hold her.
Not as a mate.
Not as a king.
As a father.
Hours pass.
The heat rages on, the bond screaming, the magic clawing at my ribs. I don’t sleep. Can’t. Not with her so close, so *mine*, and yet so far. I stay beside her, my hand on her wrist, my thumb brushing the sigil, feeling the pulse of her blood, the rhythm of her breath, the truth of what we are.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Urgent.
I don’t move.
Another knock. Louder.
Then the door opens.
It’s not Torin.
It’s Rhys.
He stands in the doorway, golden wolf-eyes fixed on me, his body tense, his scent sharp with anger. Behind him, two vampire guards flank the entrance, their expressions blank, their hands on their weapons.
“Let her go,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
“She’s in heat,” I say, not looking at him. “She’s not safe. Not out there.”
“And you think locking her up is better?” he snaps. “You think caging her makes her safe? You don’t get to decide for her. You don’t get to control her.”
“I’m not controlling her,” I say, standing. “I’m protecting her. From Malrik. From Lysandra. From every predator in this fortress who’d scent her and *take* her.”
“Then let *me* protect her,” Rhys says. “I’m her brother. Her blood. Not some vampire king who thinks he owns her.”
“I don’t own her,” I say, stepping closer. “But I’d die for her. And if you think for one second I’ll let anyone—*anyone*—risk her life, you’re wrong.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me, his golden eyes blazing. “And what if she wakes up and hates you for this? What if she sees it as imprisonment? What if she never trusts you again?”
“Then I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of her,” I say. “Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I didn’t save her life twenty years ago.
I just delayed the inevitable.
Because the woman I love?
She’s already trying to kill me.
And this time…
I don’t know if I’ll survive it.
But I’ll die trying.
He doesn’t answer.
Just looks at her—his sister, his protector, the only family he thought he had.
And then—
He steps back.
“Keep her safe,” he says, voice low. “But don’t forget—she’s not yours to claim. She’s not a prize. She’s a woman. And if you treat her like anything less—” He meets my gaze. “—I’ll rip your throat out.”
I don’t argue.
Just nod.
And then he’s gone.
The door closes.
Silence.
And then—
She stirs.
Slowly, deliberately, she opens her eyes.
And the world narrows to her gaze—gold and storm-gray, swirling with magic, with hunger, with *recognition*.
“You don’t own me,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“No,” I say. “But I’d die for you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just presses her forehead to my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
She lets herself cry.