The first thing I feel when the summons arrives is dread.
Not the sharp, snapping kind—the kind that makes your pulse race and your claws slide free. No, this is deeper. Heavier. A slow, creeping unease that coils around my ribs like a serpent, whispering that some rituals can’t be refused. The parchment is sealed with the Oracle’s mark, the wax still warm, the ink shimmering with suppressed magic. I don’t need to read it. I already know what it says.
By order of the High Oracle and the Supernatural Council, the bonded pair Kael D’Arenthe and Jasmine Vale are required to attend the Ritual of Purification at moonrise. Failure to comply will result in immediate dissolution of the alliance and activation of the bond’s death clause.
Translation: if we don’t bathe together, we die.
I crush the scroll in my fist, the magic flaring, the runes dissolving into ash. My skin is already burning. The bond hums beneath it, a steady, insistent pulse, reacting to proximity, to memory, to the way my breath still hitches when he walks into a room. The mark on my shoulder throbs—not with pain, not with possession, but with something deeper. Something like recognition.
I don’t want to do this.
But I don’t have a choice.
The Bathing Chambers are in the lower sanctum, a cavern carved into living stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with obsidian mirrors that don’t reflect light—they absorb it. The air is thick with steam, scented with crushed moonflower and something darker, sweeter. Blood and jasmine. Us. The pool in the center is circular, fed by a waterfall that spills from the ceiling like liquid silver, its surface glowing faintly, rippling with runes that pulse in time with the lunar cycle.
I arrive first.
Of course I do.
Always the one to brace for impact.
I strip slowly, methodically, peeling off my leathers, my boots, my dagger. The sigil on my wrist flares as the fabric falls away, reacting to the magic in the air, to the ritual about to begin. I step into the water barefoot, the heat searing, the runes flaring beneath my soles. It rises to my thighs, then my waist, then my chest, each inch a surrender. My breath comes in shallow gasps. My skin prickles. The mark on my shoulder burns—bright, molten, alive.
And then—
I hear him.
Not footsteps. Not voice.
Presence.
Like a storm rolling in.
Kael.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t announce himself. Just steps into the chamber, his coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. He’s already shirtless, his body a map of scars and strength, his fangs just visible as he exhales. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and molten, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“You’re early,” I say, voice low.
“You’re wet,” he replies, stepping into the water.
The steam thickens. The runes flare. The waterfall’s song grows louder, filling the silence between us. He moves slowly, deliberately, his boots striking the stone, his body cutting through the water like a blade. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just walks to the center of the pool, where the runes are strongest, where the magic demands proximity.
“This is a purification ritual,” I say, trying to sound detached. “Not a mating rite.”
“No,” he says, turning to me. “But the bond doesn’t care about semantics. It only knows hunger.”
“And you?” I ask, stepping closer. “What do you know?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for the vial of moonflower oil on the ledge, his fingers brushing mine as he takes it. A jolt of heat surges through me—bright, sharp, unforgivable. I don’t pull away. Can’t. The sigil burns. The bond hums. And the worst part?
I don’t want to.
“Turn,” he says, voice rough.
“Why?”
“Because the Oracle’s decree requires it,” he says. “The ritual must be completed. Back first. Then front. Then the mark.”
I hesitate.
Then turn.
Slowly. Deliberately.
My back to him. My skin slick with water. My breath shallow. The mark on my shoulder pulses—bright, hot, exposed.
His hands are warm.
Not gentle. Not rough.
Knowing.
He pours the oil down my spine, a slow, steady stream, and then his fingers follow, gliding over my skin, tracing the runes, the scars, the places where my wolf has torn through. His touch is methodical, clinical—supposedly. But I feel it. The way his breath hitches. The way his fingers tremble. The way his fangs extend when the scent of me—storm and jasmine and something darker—fills the air.
“You’re trembling,” he says, voice low.
“It’s the steam,” I lie.
“No,” he says. “It’s the bond. It’s the truth. It’s the way your body arches into my touch even when your mind fights it.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
His hands move lower, down my spine, over the curve of my waist, the dip of my hips. The oil is warm. His fingers are hotter. Every stroke sends fire through me, bright and molten, alive. My breath hitches. My pulse roars. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
“You could’ve sent a servant. A healer. Anyone—”
“And let someone else touch you like this?” he asks, stepping closer. “Never.”
His chest brushes my back. His breath warms my neck. His fangs graze my shoulder—just a whisper of pressure, but my body arches, my breath catching, my wolf snarling beneath my skin.
“You’re not just my heir,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, my voice breaking.
He doesn’t answer.
Just moves his hands to my front, sliding them over my stomach, up to my ribs, his thumbs brushing the edge of my breasts. The oil is slick. His touch is electric. Fire surges through me—bright, molten, unforgivable. My breath hitches. My body arches. And the sigil—
It sings.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice low, rough. “And I’m yours. And no ritual, no decree, no lie will ever change that.”
“And if I don’t want to be?” I whisper.
“Then you’re lying,” he says. “And your body knows it.”
I don’t pull away.
Just press my forehead to the cool stone of the ledge, my hands fisting in the edge, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The water laps at my skin. The runes pulse. The bond screams. And his hands—
They don’t stop.
They glide over my collarbones, down my arms, back to my shoulders, circling the mark. His thumb brushes the punctures—just a graze, but fire erupts beneath my skin, sharp and bright. Not pain. Not pleasure. Recognition.
“This,” he says, pressing his lips to the mark, “is not just magic. Not just fate. It’s truth. You were meant to find me. Meant to remember. Meant to rule.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll let you go,” he says. “But I’ll never stop loving you. Never stop protecting you. Never stop being your father.”
My chest tightens.
He says it as a man. Not as a king. Not as a mate.
As a father.
And gods, it destroys me.
“You don’t get to decide for me,” I say, turning to him. “I’m not your prisoner. I’m not your possession.”
“No,” he says. “You’re my daughter. And I’d rather die than let you be claimed by someone else.”
“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, stepping back. “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 edge.
“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.