The first thing I feel when I wake is the fever.
Not the slow, creeping kind—the one that burns in the blood and clouds the mind. No, this is sharper. Deeper. A cold fire that coils around my ribs, pulsing in time with the bond, with the sigil, with the mark on my shoulder. My skin is slick with sweat. My breath comes in shallow gasps. The chamber is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the hearth, the air thick with the scent of cold stone and storm—*his* scent—wrapped around me like a shroud.
Kael.
He’s here.
Still.
Seated beside the bed, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, his hand resting lightly on my wrist. His thumb brushes the sigil—just a graze, but fire erupts beneath my skin, sharp and bright. Not pain. Not pleasure. *Recognition.*
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low.
I don’t answer. Can’t. My throat is raw, my head pounding, my body a battlefield of instinct and will. The heat cycle hasn’t passed. If anything, it’s worse. My wolf snarls beneath my skin, claws scraping against bone, desperate to shift, to run, to *escape*. My magic hums in my veins, the sigil on my wrist pulsing faintly, reacting to his proximity. And my heart—gods, my *heart*—it hammers like it’s trying to break free, like it already knows the truth I’ve been fighting for weeks.
I don’t hate him.
I don’t want to destroy him.
I want to belong to him.
“You kept me locked up,” I say, voice hoarse.
“I kept you alive,” he corrects, not unkindly. “The fortress is full of predators who’d scent you and take what’s theirs. I couldn’t risk it.”
“I can handle myself,” I snap, sitting up. My legs tremble. My vision blurs at the edges.
“And what if you couldn’t?” he asks. “What if one of them got close? What if they touched you? What if they *marked* you?”
I freeze.
Because I know.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You don’t get to decide for me,” I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m not your prisoner. I’m not your possession.”
“No,” he says, standing. “You’re my daughter. And I’d rather die than let you be claimed by someone else.”
My breath catches.
Daughter.
The word still feels foreign. Wrong. And yet… right. Like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed.
“And if I don’t want to be?” I whisper.
“Then you’re lying,” he says. “And your body knows it.”
I want to scream. I want to shift and tear the room apart. I want to sink my teeth into his throat and taste the lie on his tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the bond thrums between us, steady and unrelenting. And because, despite everything, a part of me *believes* him.
Not the words. Not the story. But the raw, aching grief in his voice. The way his fingers trembled when he touched my hand. The way his eyes darkened not with hunger, but with something deeper. Something like *recognition*.
“I need to move,” I say, standing. “I can’t stay here. I can’t—”
“Then don’t,” he says. “But not alone. Not like this.”
“And who’s going to stop me?” I challenge, stepping toward the door.
“No one,” he says. “But I’ll be with you. Every step. Every breath. Because if you fall, I’ll catch you. And if you run—” He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the door. “—I’ll follow.”
I want to argue. Want to scream that he doesn’t get to decide, that I’m not his to protect, that I don’t need him.
But the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I do.
So I don’t fight.
Just walk.
Fast. Hard. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around me—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. Kael follows, silent, a shadow at my back. The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes down, 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 I?
I’m not just Moonborn.
I’m hybrid. Heir. Fated mate. And the most powerful bloodline in two centuries.
If I’m unclaimed during heat—
There will be war.
We don’t go to the Council chamber. Don’t go to the Archives. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
We go to the forest.
Hidden beneath the fortress, the Midnight Grove is a cavern of ancient trees, their roots twisting into the earth like veins, their leaves glowing faintly with stored moonlight. The air is thick with magic—old, sharp, *hungry*. The scent of pine and iron wraps around me, grounding me, reminding me of Rhys, of home, of the life I thought I’d lost.
I strip off my shirt, rolling up my sleeves, and step into the clearing.
No hesitation. No fear.
Just *need*.
I shift—fast, desperate. My body ripples, bones cracking, fur sprouting, claws slicing through the air. In wolf-form, I charge, tearing into the undergrowth, my snarls echoing off the stone. I leap, twist, bite, claw, *destroy*—until my muscles burn and my breath comes in ragged gasps.
And still, it’s not enough.
The heat rages on, the bond screaming, the magic clawing at my ribs. I run—faster, harder, deeper—until the trees blur, until the air burns, until the world narrows to the rhythm of my paws on stone.
And then—
I hear it.
A growl.
Low. Gutural. *Predatory*.
I freeze.
Slowly, deliberately, I turn.
And there, in the shadows, stands a wolf.
Not Moonborn.
Not allied.
One of Malrik’s hunters.
His fur is black as night, his eyes red with hunger, his fangs glistening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift. Just watches me, his body coiled, ready to strike.
And behind him—
Two more.
Then four.
Then six.
They emerge from the shadows, silent, efficient, their scent sharp with intent. Not just to hunt.
To *claim*.
My wolf snarls, claws scraping against stone. I don’t back down. Don’t run. Just crouch low, my fangs bared, my tail lashing.
Let them try.
Let them *all* try.
But then—
A hand closes around my neck.
Not rough. Not cruel.
But *firm*.
I turn—fast, furious—and see Kael, his storm-gray eyes endless, his grip unyielding.
“No,” he says, voice low. “You’re not fighting them. Not like this.”
I growl, low and guttural, my body tensing.
“I know you want to,” he says. “I know you think you can handle it. But they’re not here to fight. They’re here to *take*. And if one of them gets close—” He leans in, his breath warm against my fur. “—they’ll mark you. And I can’t let that happen.”
I don’t pull away.
Just stay there, my body trembling, my breath ragged.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“Then what do you want?” I snarl, shifting back to human form, my voice raw. “Do you want to lock me up again? To cage me like some damn animal?”
“No,” he says. “I want to *protect* you. From them. From yourself. From the magic that’s tearing you apart.”
“And what if I don’t want to be protected?” I snap. “What if I’d rather die than live like this?”
“Then you’re lying,” he says, stepping closer. “Because your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the edge of the mark. “It knows the truth.”
Fire surges through me—bright, molten, *alive*. I gasp, stumbling back, but the wave of sensation follows me—his touch, his warmth, his *need* flooding into me like a tide. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And the sigil beneath my sleeve—glowing so brightly it burns—proves I’m lying to myself.
“Don’t touch me,” I choke.
“Then stop reacting,” he says, not unkindly. “Stop pretending you don’t want this. Stop pretending you don’t *need* me.”
“I don’t need you,” I say, backing toward the trees. “I don’t want you. I *hate* you.”
“Liar,” he says. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the hunters. “It knows the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Then—
A snarl.
Fast. Desperate.
One of the hunters lunges.
Not at me.
At *him*.
Kael doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
Just shifts—fast, seamless—and in an instant, he’s a wolf, larger, darker, *deadlier* than any of them. His fangs close around the hunter’s throat, and with a single, brutal twist, he rips it out.
Blood sprays.
The hunter collapses.
The others hesitate.
But only for a second.
Then they attack.
All at once.
Snarling, clawing, biting.
Kael meets them—fast, furious, *relentless*. His body is a blur of motion, his fangs tearing through flesh, his claws slicing through bone. He doesn’t fight to win.
He fights to *protect*.
And then—
One of them breaks through.
A black wolf, larger than the rest, lunges for me, fangs bared, eyes red with hunger.
I shift—fast, desperate—but I’m too slow.
His claws slice through my side, drawing blood, and I cry out, stumbling back.
But before he can strike again—
Kael is there.
He slams into the hunter, knocking him aside, his fangs closing around the wolf’s throat. A single, brutal twist.
Another body hits the ground.
Silence.
The remaining hunters back up, their tails between their legs, their eyes wide with fear.
Kael stands over me, his chest heaving, his fur slick with blood—*my* blood—and for a single, breathless second, I swear he *knows*—knows the way my body aches for him, knows the way my pulse quickens, knows the way my sigil *burns*.
Then he shifts.
Back to human form, naked, unashamed, his body a map of scars and strength. He crouches beside me, his hands gentle as he presses them to my wound.
“You’re hurt,” he says, voice rough.
“I’m fine,” I lie, wincing as he probes the gash.
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
He leans down, his lips brushing the edge of the wound—just a whisper of contact, but fire erupts beneath my skin, bright and molten. My breath hitches. My body arches into him. And then—
He licks it.
Not to heal.
Not to claim.
But to *soothe*.
His tongue is warm, rough, *alive*, and the pain fades, replaced by something deeper, darker, *sweeter*. My wolf calms. My magic stills. And the bond—
It *sings*.
“You don’t get to do that,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to touch me like you care.”
“I do care,” he says, voice raw. “More than you know. More than I should.”
“Then let me go,” I say, my voice breaking. “If you care, let me go.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Because if I do, you’ll die. And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
I want to argue. Want to scream that he doesn’t get to decide, that I’m not his to protect, that I don’t need him.
But the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I do.
So I don’t fight.
Just press my forehead to his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I let myself cry.
He holds me. Not as a mate. Not as a king.
As a father.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.