The first time I see him, he’s already inside me.
Not in the way that makes my thighs clench or my breath catch—though gods know, that comes soon enough. No. The moment my boots cross the threshold of the Shadowveil Court, something *snaps* in my chest, a thread of fire yanking me forward like a leash. I stumble, just once, catching myself against the obsidian archway. My fingers burn where they touch the stone. Not metaphorically. Actual heat. Smoke curls from my skin.
Across the hall, Kaelen Duskbane turns.
And the leash pulls taut.
He’s standing at the dais, flanked by the three High Envoys of the Supernatural Council. Werewolf, vampire, fae. The ruling triad. The bastards who signed my mother’s death warrant. But my eyes don’t linger on them. They lock onto *him*—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black leather that hugs every lethal inch of him. His hair is dark as a blood moon, eyes the color of storm-churned silver. Half-werewolf, half-vampire. The Alpha of the Northern Fang. The Council’s enforcer. The man who’s spent the last five years hunting down hybrid rebels like me.
And he *feels* me.
I see it in the flare of his nostrils, the way his pupils dilate, the low growl that rumbles through the hall so quietly only I—only *we*—can hear it. He takes a step forward. Then stops. His jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides, claws half-extending before he retracts them with visible effort.
He knows.
No. Worse. *The bond* knows.
I force my spine straight, smooth my expression into the cool neutrality of Lyra Vale, the neutral witch envoy here to observe the signing of the new peace accords. My false identity sits like armor. My real name—Brielle Moonblood—is a death sentence in this place. Moonbloods were exiled a century ago for “tainting” fae magic with human emotion. My mother was the last to be executed. Burned alive in a purification ritual while I watched, twelve years old, screaming behind a soundproof ward.
I came back to burn *them* down.
And now the Council wants me to sign a contract with the one man who could ruin everything.
“Lyra Vale,” intones High Envoy Veyra, the fae representative, her voice like poisoned honey. “You are here as a neutral party to witness the reaffirmation of the Veil Accord. Your presence signifies the Arcanum’s endorsement of continued peace.”
I bow slightly. “Of course.” My voice is steady. Cold. Perfect.
“Approach,” she says.
The dais is a raised platform of black marble, inlaid with silver runes that pulse faintly with containment magic. At its center lies the contract scroll—ancient vellum bound in iron clamps, the ink still wet with the blood of the last signatory. Tradition demands that all parties press their palm to the document, sealing it with a drop of blood. It’s a formality. A show.
But not today.
I step forward. Kaelen does the same. We meet at the edge of the dais, close enough that I can smell him—pine and iron, frost and fire. My pulse stutters. Not from fear. From *recognition*. Like a key sliding into a lock it was forged for.
My skin prickles. The runes on my spine—hidden beneath my high-collared dress—begin to *throb*.
No. Not now. Not *here*.
“Place your hand,” Veyra says.
We both reach for the scroll at the same time.
And our fingers brush.
It’s not skin on skin. It’s *lightning*.
A scream tears from my throat as fire erupts from the scroll, white-hot and roaring. The runes ignite—*moonfire*—and the flames spiral up our arms, binding us in a cage of light. I try to pull back, but I can’t. My body arches, my head thrown back, pleasure and pain crackling through every nerve. The runes on my spine burst to life, searing through the fabric of my dress, glowing like molten silver.
“Fated bond!” someone shouts.
“Impossible!” another gasps.
But it’s not impossible. It’s *happening*.
Kaelen roars—a sound that shakes the pillars—and his claws fully extend, embedding in the marble as he fights the surge. His eyes are gold now, feral, locked onto mine. I see the struggle in his face—the Alpha trying to resist the pull of the bond, the man who *wants* to give in. His chest heaves. His fangs flash.
And then, through the fire, he *smiles*.
Not kind. Not gentle. A predator’s smile. A challenge.
The flames die as suddenly as they came. The scroll is ash. The dais is scorched. And we’re still touching.
My hand is in his. Our blood has mixed on the vellum remains, forming a sigil I’ve only seen in forbidden texts: the Mark of Twin Flames. Fated mates. A bond so rare it was thought extinct. A bond that, by ancient law, *must* be honored—or both parties will suffer bond sickness until they die.
“By the Accord,” Veyra whispers, her voice trembling, “the fated bond supersedes all. They must wed.”
“By moonrise,” adds the vampire envoy, his fangs bared in something between awe and hunger. “Or be exiled as traitors.”
Exile. That’s a death sentence too. Without the Council’s protection, I’d be hunted the moment I stepped into mortal territory. And Kaelen? He’d lose his rank. His pack. His power.
We’re trapped.
He finally lets go of my hand. The moment our skin separates, a wave of nausea hits me. My vision blurs. My bones ache. *Bond sickness*. Already.
“You,” I hiss, backing away, “are not my mate.”
He takes a step forward, slow, deliberate. “You felt it, witch. Just like I did. That wasn’t magic. That was *destiny*.”
“Destiny is a lie the powerful tell the powerless to keep them in line.”
“Then why is your spine still glowing?”
I whirl, but there’s no mirror. Only the wide, horrified eyes of the court. I can *feel* the runes—alive, pulsing, betraying me. Moonblood magic. Forbidden. Dead.
And now, exposed.
Kaelen closes the distance between us in two strides. He grabs my wrist—his grip hot, unbreakable—and pulls me close. His breath is on my neck. His voice a low growl only I can hear.
“You came here to destroy us, didn’t you? I can smell the lies on you. The hatred. But you didn’t count on *this*, did you? You didn’t count on *me*.”
My heart hammers. Not from fear. From fury. From the *pull* of him, deep in my gut, low in my belly, like a hook in my soul.
“Let go of me,” I say, low and dangerous.
“Or what? You’ll burn me alive like your mother tried to burn the Moonspire?”
My breath catches. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”
“I know she was a traitor. I know she died screaming.” His thumb brushes my pulse point. “And I know you’re here for revenge.”
I don’t deny it.
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear. “Good. Because I’m going to give you exactly what you came for. A front-row seat to the fall of the Council. Starting with *you* on your knees, wearing my ring.”
I yank my arm free, but the damage is done. The court has heard everything. The whispers start—*traitor, spy, Moonblood, fated, liar*.
“You have until moonrise,” Veyra announces, her voice cutting through the chaos. “The bonding ceremony will be held in the Moonlit Hall. Failure to comply will result in immediate exile.”
Guards move in. Not to arrest me. To escort me.
To *his* quarters.
Kaelen falls into step beside me as we’re led through the labyrinthine halls of Shadowveil. The fortress is carved into the side of a mountain, all black stone and glowing runes, the air thick with magic and the scent of blood and wolfsbane. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Every nerve in my body is alight, screaming for contact, for touch, for the relief only the bond can bring.
And I *hate* it.
“You think this changes anything?” I say, my voice low. “I’m still going to expose the Blood Codex. I’m still going to clear my mother’s name.”
He stops. Turns to me. His eyes are human again, but the silver is still there, simmering beneath the surface.
“The Blood Codex,” he says slowly, “is locked in the deepest vault beneath the Fang Citadel. Only a bonded Alpha can open it.”
My breath stills.
He smiles. Cold. Victorious.
“So yes, Brielle Moonblood. This changes *everything*.”
He leans in, so close our lips almost touch. “Because now? You need *me*.”
The door to his chambers slams shut behind us. The wards flare to life, sealing us in. Alone.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure whether I want to kill him… or kiss him.
“You’re not leaving this room,” he says, backing me against the door, one hand braced beside my head. “Not until you stop pretending you didn’t feel that.”