The explosion rocks the hall like a war drum.
One second, I’m pressed against Kaelen, his mouth on mine, my body arching into his, the aphrodisiac burning through my veins like liquid fire. The next—smoke billows from the eastern corridor, torches flicker and die, and the scent of blood and burning stone floods the air. Shouts echo through the ballroom. Guards scramble. Fae and werewolves alike scatter, their masks of civility shattered by the stench of real danger.
Kaelen doesn’t move.
Not at first.
His hand is still cradling my face, his golden eyes locked onto mine, the pulse of his thumb against my cheekbone steady, unshaken. He doesn’t flinch at the chaos. Doesn’t break the moment. Just watches me—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to growl, “Not like this,” his voice rough, dark, edged with something that sounds almost like regret.
My fingers twist in his coat. “Then make it happen,” I whisper, my hips grinding against him, desperate, needing. “Don’t stop. Not now. Not when I’m finally—”
“You’re not thinking,” he says, stepping back, his hands falling away. “You’re poisoned. You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking,” I snap, my voice sharp, my breath ragged. “I want you. I want this. I want to feel something real for once, instead of fighting, instead of lying, instead of pretending I don’t—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, his jaw tight. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
My chest tightens.
Because I do mean it.
And that terrifies me more than the attack, more than the fire, more than the truth I’ve been running from since the moment I stepped into this court.
He turns. Barks orders to his enforcers. The Moonfangs move like shadows, silent, efficient, fanning out toward the breach. The High Priestess raises her staff, chanting a warding spell. Silas watches from the corner, his smile venomous, his eyes calculating. Lysara is gone—slipped into the chaos like the snake she is.
And me?
I stand there, barefoot on the cold stone, my dress torn at the hip, my lips swollen, my body still humming with the ghost of his touch. The aphrodisiac hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s stronger now—amplified by adrenaline, by the nearness of death, by the way he looked at me when he said not like this.
Like he wanted it.
Like he needed it.
And that—
That is the most dangerous thing of all.
I turn and walk out.
No one stops me. No one even looks. They’re too busy with the attack, too focused on the smoke and the shouting and the blood. I don’t care. Let them think I’m weak. Let them think I ran.
Because I didn’t come here to survive.
I came here to burn.
The corridors are dark. The torches flicker, casting long shadows across the stone. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps, my heart pounding, my skin still tingling from the aphrodisiac, from the kiss, from the way his hands felt on my body. I press my fingers to the mark on my hip—still tender, still real—and I feel it. The bond. The pull. The need.
“No,” I hiss into the dark. “I am not yours.”
The sigil on my wrist pulses—slow, steady, alive—and I feel him. Just a whisper. Just a breath. But there. Watching. Waiting. Knowing.
I came here to destroy him.
Not to want him.
Not to need him.
I reach my chambers. Slam the door shut. Lock it. Press my back against the wood, breathing hard, my hands fisted at my sides. The room is silent. Cold. The bed is still unmade, the sheets tangled like a battlefield. The balcony doors are open, the wind howling through, carrying the scent of pine and fire and him.
I cross to the wardrobe. Yank it open. My fingers fly over the gowns—silk, velvet, lace—until I find it. The black leathers Mira smuggled in last week. Tight. Functional. Built for killing. I strip off the ruined dress, let it fall to the floor, and pull on the leathers—pants, tunic, boots. I don’t care about comfort. I care about survival. About escape.
I grab the dagger from the dressing table—thin, silver, etched with Shadow Fae sigils for silence and death. I tuck it into my boot. Then the vial of witch-blood—dark, viscous, powerful. One drop can burn through stone. Two can level a wall. I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t know how far I’ll get. But I know I can’t stay.
Not after tonight.
Not after the way I kissed him. The way I needed him. The way my body still burns for his touch.
I came here for justice. For my mother. For the truth.
Not for this.
But the bond doesn’t care what I came for.
It only knows what I am.
His.
And I hate it.
I hate him.
Don’t I?
I move to the balcony. Step into the night. The wind bites at my skin, sharp and cold, but I don’t care. I need air. Need space. Need to run.
The drop to the courtyard is thirty feet. Too far for a human. Too easy for a Fae with witch-blood in her veins. I press my palm to the stone railing, whisper the incantation—umbra, tenebris, cadere—and let the magic flow. Shadows coil around me, softening the fall, guiding me down like a whisper.
I land silent. Crouched. Ready.
The courtyard is empty. The attack has drawn the guards east. The western wall is unguarded. Weak. Vulnerable. Just like the court thinks I am.
They’re wrong.
I move fast. Low. Along the edge of the fortress, my boots silent on the stone. The wind howls. The scent of blood and fire still lingers, but it’s fading. The attack was a diversion. A test. I don’t know who ordered it. Don’t care. All I know is that it gave me a chance.
And I’m taking it.
The western wall is ancient—black stone, carved with runes that hum with warding magic. But the wards are weak here. Neglected. Forgotten. I press my palm to the stone, feel the pulse of the enchantment. It’s old. Brittle. And with a twist of my will, a drop of witch-blood from the vial, I break it.
The runes flicker. Fade.
I don’t hesitate.
I scale the wall—fast, silent, like a shadow. My fingers find the cracks, my boots grip the stone. I don’t look down. Don’t think about the fall. Don’t think about him.
And then—
I’m over.
The forest looms below, dark and endless, the trees thick with mist and moonlight. The Hollow is three days’ walk from here. If I move fast, if I avoid the patrols, if I don’t get caught—
“You’re not getting far.”
The voice is low. Rough. Familiar.
I freeze.
Turn.
Kaelen stands on the wall behind me, tall and broad, his gold eyes burning in the dark, his chest rising and falling like he’s been running. He’s not dressed for battle. Just black trousers, a fitted gray shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. No coat. No armor. Just him.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, voice low, dangerous.
“Neither are you,” he says, stepping toward me. “But here we are.”
“I’m leaving,” I say. “And you can’t stop me.”
“You think I haven’t been watching?” he asks. “You think I don’t know every move you’ve made since you stepped into this court? The leathers. The dagger. The witch-blood. You’ve been planning this for weeks.”
“And you let me?”
“I let you think you could,” he says. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do. How far you’d go. If you’d really leave.”
“And now you know.”
“No,” he says. “I know you’re lying to yourself. You don’t want to leave. You want to win. And you think running is the only way.”
“It’s the only way to stay alive,” I snap. “To stay me.”
“You think I’m the enemy?” he asks, stepping closer. “You think I’m the one trying to break you?”
“You’re the one who marked me,” I say. “The one who claimed me. The one who—”
“The bond did that,” he says. “Not me. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want it. But it happened. And now we have to live with it.”
“I don’t have to live with anything,” I say. “I can walk away. Right now. Into that forest. And you’ll never see me again.”
He doesn’t react. Just watches me, his golden eyes unreadable. “And then what? You’ll hide in the Hollow? Wait for another chance? Spend the rest of your life running from the truth?”
“Better than being your prisoner.”
“You’re not my prisoner,” he says. “You’re my mate.”
“I’m not your mate,” I hiss. “I’m not yours. I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Then why does your body burn for me?” he asks, stepping closer. “Why does your magic flare when I touch you? Why does the sigil on your wrist glow every time I’m near?”
I don’t pull away. Can’t. His touch is fire. His fingers are warm, calloused, and the bond flares beneath my skin, a jolt of heat shooting down my arm, pooling low in my belly.
“Take your hand off me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning. “You think this is a game,” he says. “You think you can play me, use me, destroy me when the time comes. But you’re wrong, Cosmos. The bond doesn’t care about your revenge. It doesn’t care about your lies. It only knows the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That you’re mine.”
My breath catches.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “And that you want to be.”
I shove him back. Hard.
He stumbles, just slightly, but doesn’t fall. Just smirks. Slow. Dangerous. Like he’s already won.
“You’re impossible,” I hiss.
“And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
I glare at him. “I hate you.”
“No,” he says. “You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Then why does your body betray you?” he asks. “Why does your scent change when I’m near? Why does your pulse race when I touch you?”
“Because of the bond.”
“No,” he says. “Because of me.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I’d let her touch me after you?” he growls, echoing his words from earlier, but louder now, fiercer. “You think I’d let anyone else have what’s mine?”
“Prove it,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask what I mean.
He knows.
His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my throat. His breath fans my pulse point. Hot. Heavy. Wanting.
And then—
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A claim.
Hard. Possessive. Devouring.
I bite his lip. He growls. His hands slide down my back, gripping my ass, lifting me, pressing me harder against him. The wall is cold against my back, the wind howling around us, but I don’t care. My body arches into him, helpless, hungry, needing. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled—and the air crackles with energy. The sigil on my wrist pulses, hot and bright, and I feel it—him—flooding my mind, my body, my soul.
Mine.
Yours.
No.
But the bond doesn’t care.
It only knows the truth.
And the truth is—
I want him.
Not because of the aphrodisiac.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His chest heaves. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. His lip is bleeding where I bit him. And his voice—when he speaks—is ragged.
“You think this proves something?” he asks. “You think running makes you strong? You’re not escaping. You’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say. “I’m surviving.”
“Survival isn’t enough,” he says. “Not for you. Not for me. You want justice. I want peace. But we’ll never get it if we keep fighting each other.”
“Then let me go,” I whisper. “Let me walk away. Let me live my life.”
“No,” he says. “Because if you go, you’ll die. And if you die—” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “—I’ll burn this court to the ground to avenge you.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t get to decide my fate,” I say.
“I don’t,” he says. “The bond does. And it’s not letting you go. Not ever.”
“Then I’ll fight it,” I say. “I’ll fight you. I’ll fight everything.”
“Then fight,” he says, stepping back. “Fight me. Right here. Right now. Prove you can win.”
I don’t hesitate.
I launch myself at him—fists flying, dagger drawn. He blocks me easily, one hand catching my wrist, twisting it until the blade clatters to the stone. I kick. He catches my leg, pulls me off balance. I spin, elbow him in the ribs. He grunts but doesn’t fall.
And then—
He pins me.
Back against the wall. One hand on my throat—not squeezing, just holding. His body flush against mine. His thigh pressing between my legs, grinding up, against me. The heat is instant, unbearable. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. My hips buck—once, twice—before I can stop them.
“Get off me,” I snarl, thrashing. “You don’t own me!”
“I don’t have to,” he says, voice dark, rough. “The bond does.”
His face is inches from mine. His eyes burn into me. His breath fans my lips. And then—
His thigh grinds up, hard, against my core.
I cry out. My back arches. My hips roll, helpless, chasing the friction. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled—and the air crackles with energy. The sigil on my wrist pulses, hot and bright, and I feel it—him—flooding my mind, my body, my soul.
Mine.
Yours.
No.
“You think this proves something?” I hiss, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You think pinning me down makes you strong? You’re just a brute. A beast in a king’s clothes.”
He doesn’t react. Just stares at me, his golden eyes unreadable. And then—
His grip on my throat loosens.
Just enough.
“Prove it,” he says. “Fight me.”
I don’t hesitate.
I yank my hands free, shove at his chest, roll us both—using his weight against him, twisting, flipping us so I’m on top. My knees straddle his hips. My hands press into his shoulders. My hair falls around us like a curtain.
And for the first time, I see it.
Desire.
Raw. Unfiltered. In his eyes.
He wants me.
Not because of the bond.
But because of me.
And that—that terrifies me more than anything.
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “You want me to fight?” I whisper. “Then fight back.”
He does.
One hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back. The other wraps around my waist, flipping us again—back to the wall, back to him on top. His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A claim.
Hard. Possessive. Devouring.
I bite his lip. He growls. His hips grind against mine, and I feel it—hard, thick, ready—pressing against me through the fabric. My body responds instantly, heat pooling, my core clenching, my breath coming in broken gasps.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at me.
His chest heaves. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. His lip is bleeding where I bit him. And his voice—when he speaks—is ragged.
“You’re not getting out of this,” he says. “Not ever.”
I don’t answer.
I just stare at him. My heart pounding. My body aching. My mind screaming.
And then—
“Then I’ll fight forever.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze, his thumb brushing my lower lip—where his mouth was, where my pulse thrums.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not because he makes me.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because I want to.
My mouth crashes against his, fierce and desperate, my fingers twisting in his hair, my hips grinding up, seeking more, needing everything. He groans, deep in his chest, and his hands slide down my back, gripping my ass, lifting me, pressing me harder against him. The wall groans beneath us. The wind howls. The forest waits.
But I don’t care.
Not about escape.
Not about revenge.
Not about fire.
Right now—
There’s only him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
He breaks the kiss. Steps back. “You’re coming back with me.”
“Or what?” I challenge. “You’ll claim me?”
“No,” he says. “I’ll keep you.”
And I know—
This changes everything.
I came here to destroy him.
But my body—and my heart—have other plans.