The first thing I feel when I see her walking out of his chambers is fire.
Not the slow, creeping kind—the one that smolders 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 suffocating—her perfume, his scent clinging to her skin, the smirk on her lips—and I know, with a certainty that cuts deeper than any blade:
She’s been with him.
Again.
Lysandra.
She’s dressed in nothing but one of Kael’s black silk shirts, the sleeves rolled up, the buttons undone just enough to reveal the curve of her breasts, the faint scar on her neck that she claims is his bite. Her hair is tousled. Her lips are swollen. And when she sees me, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
She smiles.
“Good morning, Jasmine,” she purrs, adjusting the collar. “I was just leaving.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
My breath is gone. My pulse is roaring. My claws slide free, slicing through the air, my fangs bared, my wolf snarling beneath my skin. The bond thrums beneath my ribs, a living thing, coiled and screaming, reacting to proximity, to betrayal, to the way his scent is all over her.
“Did he enjoy it?” I ask, voice low, dangerous. “Did he whisper your name like he does mine? Did he mark you like he marked me?”
She laughs—a low, bitter sound. “Oh, darling. You really think he’d waste his fangs on you? You’re his heir. His daughter. His obligation. I’m his pleasure.”
“Liar,” I growl, stepping forward. “He’d never touch you.”
“And yet,” she says, lifting her wrist, “here I am. Wearing his shirt. His scent. His attention.”
The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, searing, like it knows she’s lying. Like it’s screaming at me to run. But I don’t. I can’t. Because the worst part isn’t the shirt. Isn’t the scent. Isn’t even the smirk.
It’s the way my body aches.
Not with rage.
With jealousy.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I say, voice raw. “That shirt means nothing. That scar is fake. And if he’d really been with you, the bond would’ve—”
“Burned you?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “Oh, it did. Didn’t you feel it? The way it pulsed in the night? The way it burned?”
My breath stops.
Because I did.
Last night. In my sleep. A sharp, sudden flare of heat, a wave of sensation so intense it woke me—his breath on my neck, his hands on my hips, his fangs at my throat—only to find myself alone, the sheets cold, the bond humming with something I couldn’t name.
And now—
Now she’s saying it was her.
“You’re lying,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Am I?” she asks, stepping even closer, her breath warm against my ear. “Or are you just afraid to believe it? Afraid that the man who saved you, who protected you, who claimed you—might want someone else?”
I want to hit her.
Want to shift and tear her apart.
Want to sink my teeth into her throat and taste the lie on her tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I’m not sure I’d win.
Not against her.
Not against the doubt.
Not against the part of me that wonders—what if she’s right?
She turns to leave, her heels clicking against the stone, her hips swaying, his shirt fluttering behind her like a flag of victory. And I don’t stop her.
Just stand there, my claws still extended, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body trembling with the need to run, to fight, to destroy.
But not here.
Not like this.
So I turn.
And I walk.
Fast. Hard. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around me—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. 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.
I don’t go to the training yard. Don’t go to the forest. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
I go to the Library of Whispers.
Hidden beneath the fortress, the library is a cavern of ancient tomes, their spines etched with forgotten magic, their pages humming with suppressed power. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and ink, of dust and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The only light comes from floating orbs of blue flame, their glow flickering over the shelves, casting long, shifting shadows. This is where I come to think. To plan. To remember.
And today—
Today I come to burn.
I pace the central aisle, my boots striking the stone, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My skin is burning. My blood is singing. The mark on my shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, a constant, insistent reminder of what I’ve lost. Not just my choice. Not just my revenge.
My innocence.
And now—
Now I’ve lost him.
Or maybe I never had him at all.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I freeze.
Slowly, deliberately, I turn.
Kael stands in the archway, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, his coat flaring behind him, his presence a wall between me and the rest of the world. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He looks… weary.
“Neither are you,” I say, voice low.
“This is my library,” he says, stepping inside. “I can go wherever I want.”
“And Lysandra?” I ask, stepping closer. “Can she go wherever she wants too? Into your chambers? Into your bed? Into your mouth?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “You saw her.”
“I saw her wearing your shirt,” I snap. “I saw your scent on her skin. I saw the way she smiled, like she’d won.”
“And what did you feel?” he asks, stepping closer. “Anger? Betrayal? Or—” His voice drops. “—jealousy?”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t care who you sleep with,” I lie. “You’re not mine to claim. You’re not mine to—”
“Liar,” he says, cutting me off. “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 shelves. “I don’t want you. I hate you.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping closer. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the door. “It knows the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You think I don’t know what she’s doing?” he asks, voice low. “You think I don’t see how she uses you? How she twists the truth to make you doubt? To make you hurt?”
“Then why does she have your shirt?” I demand. “Why does she have your scent? Why does she have—” My voice breaks. “—your attention?”
“Because I let her,” he says. “To protect you.”
I freeze.
“What?”
“She’s working with Malrik,” he says. “Feeding him information. Spreading lies. And if I cut her off, if I banish her, if I expose her—” He steps closer. “—he’ll come for you. He’ll know you’re a threat. And he’ll kill you.”
My breath stops.
“So you let her wear your shirt?” I ask, voice breaking. “Let her claim you? Let her lie about us?”
“To keep you alive,” he says. “To keep you safe. To keep you from walking into a trap.”
“And what about my heart?” I whisper. “Do you care about that? Or is it just another thing you’re willing to sacrifice?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps closer, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I care,” he says, voice rough. “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.
But then—
A sound.
Low. Gutural. Predatory.
We both freeze.
Slowly, deliberately, we turn.
And there, in the shadows between the shelves, stands a figure.
Not Lysandra.
Not a guard.
Malrik.
His ancient eyes gleam in the dim light, his hands folded like a predator at rest. Behind him, two vampire hunters flank the entrance, their fangs descended, their eyes bleeding black. The air thickens with the scent of iron and something darker, sweeter. Blood.
“How touching,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “The great Kael D’Arenthe, comforting his little hybrid pet. Tell me, Jasmine—do you even know what he did to your mother? Do you know he let them call her a traitor? That he let you believe he killed her?”
“I know,” I say, stepping in front of Kael, my claws extended, my fangs bared. “And I know who really gave the order. You.”
He smiles—slow, deliberate. “And yet, here you are. Protected. Claimed. Loved. While your mother rots in the earth.”
“She’s not forgotten,” I say, voice low. “And neither are you.”
“Then prove it,” he says, stepping forward. “Fight me. Kill me. Take back what’s yours.”
“No,” Kael says, stepping beside me. “This ends now.”
Malrik laughs—a low, bitter sound. “You think you can stop me? You think your little bond, your little hybrid, your little lie—can save you?”
“Yes,” I say, stepping forward. “Because I’m not the woman I was. I’m not the weapon. I’m not the ghost. I’m Jasmine Vale. Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. And the only woman who can fix what’s broken.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just raises a hand.
And the world explodes.
A blast of magic rips through the library, shattering the shelves, sending tomes flying, the orbs of flame snuffing out in a single, breathless second. The air is thick with dust and smoke, the scent of burning paper and blood. I stumble back, my arms flying up to shield my face, my breath ragged.
“Jasmine!” Kael shouts.
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I see it—Malrik lunging, his fangs bared, his claws extended, aimed at my throat.
And then—
Kael is there.
He slams into Malrik, knocking him aside, his fangs closing around the vampire’s throat. A single, brutal twist.
But Malrik is fast.
He twists, breaking free, and with a flick of his wrist, sends a wave of magic that throws Kael across the room. He crashes into the shelves, books raining down on him, his body going still.
“No!” I scream.
But Malrik is already on me.
His hand closes around my throat, lifting me off the ground, his fangs grazing my neck. “You should’ve stayed dead,” he hisses. “You should’ve died with her.”
I claw at his hand, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my vision blurring at the edges. The bond screams. The sigil burns. And then—
A voice.
Low. Rough. Familiar.
“Let her go.”
Kael.
He’s on his feet, his coat torn, his lip bleeding, his storm-gray eyes endless. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak to me. Just stares at Malrik, his fangs descended, his hands clenched into fists.
“Or what?” Malrik sneers. “You’ll kill me? You’ll risk her life? You’ll break your precious bond?”
“No,” Kael says, stepping closer. “I’ll kill you. And if she dies—” His voice drops. “—I’ll follow. The bond won’t let me live. And neither will I.”
Malrik hesitates.
Just for a second.
And that’s all I need.
I shift—fast, desperate. My body ripples, bones cracking, fur sprouting, claws slicing through the air. In wolf-form, I twist, my fangs closing around his wrist, and with a single, brutal twist—
I rip it off.
He screams.
But I don’t stop.
I lunge, my claws tearing through his chest, my fangs sinking into his throat. Blood sprays. He collapses. And I stand over him, my snarls echoing off the stone, my body trembling with the need to destroy.
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 killing him. 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 he’s not worth it. Not your hands. Not your soul.”
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.
He shifts me back to human form, his hands gentle, his breath warm against my neck. I collapse into his arms, my body weak, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
“You’re hurt,” he says, voice rough.
“I’m fine,” I lie, wincing as he probes the gash on my side.
“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.
But then—
A whisper.
Low. Familiar.
“Next time,” he growls, his breath warm against my ear. “I won’t stop.”