The kiss doesn’t last.
It can’t. Not when the world is crumbling around us, not when lies are spreading like poison through the fortress, not when Mira’s fake bite mark is being whispered about in every shadowed corridor like gospel. But for one breath, one heartbeat, one *eternity*, it’s real.
Kaelen’s lips are soft now, not brutal. Slow, not desperate. A question, not a claim. And I answer—my hands flying to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, *needing* him closer—because gods help me, I *do*. Need him. Want him. Believe him.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
Because if I let myself love him—if I let myself trust him—then what am I? Not a avenger. Not a liberator. Not the last heir of the Moonblood line.
Just a woman.
And in this world, a woman with a heart is a woman who can be broken.
I break the kiss first. Pull back. Stagger a step, my breath ragged, my skin on fire. His hand is still on my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse, his storm-silver eyes dark with something I can’t name—hunger, yes, but also fear. Regret. *Grief*.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough. “That’s not a game. That’s not a lie. That’s *us*.”
“Then why isn’t it enough?” I whisper. “Why isn’t it enough to stop them? To silence the whispers? To prove I’m not just your prisoner, your pawn, your *test*?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his jaw tight, his fingers flexing against my skin.
And then—
“Because I don’t know the truth.”
The words are quiet. Raw. Like they’re being torn from him.
I freeze. “What?”
He steps back. Turns. Walks to the hearth, where the fire crackles low, casting long shadows across the stone. His back is to me, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench at his sides.
“About your mother,” he says, voice low. “I don’t know what happened that day. I don’t know if she was guilty. I don’t know if she was framed. I don’t know if my father ordered her execution to steal her magic.”
My breath stills.
“I was there,” I say, voice brittle. “I saw it. I *saw* him watching. Smiling.”
“And I was there too,” he says, turning. “In uniform. In position. Sworn to uphold the law. But I didn’t see him smile. I didn’t hear him give the order. I just… followed mine.”
“You stood by.”
“I did.” His voice cracks. “And I’ve lived with that every day since.”
I stare at him. The Alpha of the Northern Fang. The Council’s enforcer. The man who carries himself like a weapon, like a storm, like *fear*—and yet, in this moment, he looks… broken.
“You think I wanted this?” he says, stepping closer. “You think I *like* being the monster’s son? The puppet of a corrupt tribunal? The jailer of the woman who could destroy everything I’ve ever known?”
“Then why serve him?”
“Because I didn’t know how *not* to.” His hands fly to his hair, gripping hard. “He raised me. Trained me. Told me the Moonbloods were dangerous. That they corrupted fae magic with human emotion. That your mother was a traitor. And I believed him. Because what choice did I have? He was all I had.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He lets out a harsh laugh. “Now I have *you*. And the bond. And the truth that’s been clawing its way up my throat since the first time you looked at me like I was the enemy.”
My chest aches. Not from the wound. Not from the bond. From the raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes, the way his body trembles, just slightly, like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“I don’t know what my father did,” he says. “But I know this—I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to live in his shadow. I don’t want to die for his lies. And if the Blood Codex clears your mother’s name… if it proves he’s the real traitor…”
He stops. Swallows. His storm-silver eyes lock onto mine.
“Then I’ll burn his world down with you.”
The words hang in the air, heavy, dangerous, *real*.
And just like that, the ice in my chest cracks.
Not all of it. Not yet. But enough.
Enough that I step forward. Close the distance between us. Enough that my hand lifts, trembling, to his face. Enough that my fingers brush the scar cutting through his eyebrow—the one I’ve seen a hundred times, the one I’ve hated, the one that marks him as *his*—and for the first time, I don’t see his father.
I see *him*.
“You’d really do that?” I whisper. “Turn against your own blood? Risk your rank? Your pack? Your life?”
“I already have.” His hand covers mine, pressing it to his cheek. “The moment I let you live. The moment I let the bond take hold. The moment I chose you over the Council’s orders.”
“And if I asked you to prove it?”
“I already have.” He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. “I’m standing here. Telling you the truth. Letting you see me break. What more do you want?”
My breath hitches.
Not from desire.
From the truth in his eyes. From the way his voice trembles, just slightly. From the way his body leans into mine, like he’s *needing* this as much as I am.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Desperate.
Hard. Deep. *Feral*. My hands fly to his hair, pulling him closer, my mouth opening under his, my tongue sliding against his with a hunger that matches his own. He groans—low, rough, guttural—and his arms lock around me, lifting me off the ground, pressing me back against the wall as he takes more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the heat of it.
And then—
I let go.
Not of him.
Of the mission.
Of the vengeance.
Of the armor.
For one moment, one breath, one *eternity*, I stop fighting. Stop calculating. Stop pretending I don’t want this. Don’t need this. Don’t *love* this.
And I kiss him like I’m dying.
Like I’m burning.
Like I’m *alive*.
His hands slide under my shift, gripping my hips, pulling me against him, his cock hard and insistent against my belly. I moan—low, guttural—and my legs wrap around his waist, holding him closer, *needing* him closer. The bond roars between us, not with fire, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something *real*.
And then—
Tears.
Hot. Silent. *Unstoppable*.
They spill down my cheeks, soaking into his skin, and he feels them. Of course he does. He pulls back, just enough to look at me, his storm-silver eyes wide, his breath ragged.
“Brielle—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his. “Don’t say anything. Just… just hold me.”
And he does.
He turns, carries me to the bed, lays me down with a tenderness that shatters me, and then he’s there—above me, around me, *in* me—not with his body, not yet, but with his presence, his heat, his scent, his hands cradling my face as I cry. Not for my mother. Not for the lies. Not for the pain.
For *him*.
For the man who could’ve let me die in the Archives. Who could’ve handed me over to the Council. Who could’ve used me and discarded me like every other man in my life.
But didn’t.
Who saved me. Protected me. *Chose* me.
And when the tears slow, when my breath evens, when my body stops trembling, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t demand. Just kisses me—soft, slow, *real*—his lips brushing mine, his thumb wiping away the last traces of salt, his voice a whisper against my skin.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. For my father. For the Council. For making you fight so hard to believe me.”
“You didn’t make me,” I whisper. “I chose to.”
He smiles. Small. Real. “Then choose again.”
“What?”
“Choose me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the mission. Not because you have to. But because you *want* to.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his words.
And then—
I do.
I reach up, cup his face, and pull him down into a kiss that’s not desperate. Not angry. Not afraid.
Hopeful.
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the Council accepts us. Not because Mira’s lies are exposed. Not because the Blood Codex is found.
Because *I* accept *him*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just politics.
Maybe it’s *love*.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Soren stands in the threshold, his dark eyes wide, his chest heaving, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“They’re coming,” he says, voice sharp. “Malrik’s enforcers. A full assault. And they know—”
He stops. Looks at us. At me, lying beneath Kaelen, my shift torn at the shoulder, my lips swollen, my skin flushed. At Kaelen, his tunic half-unbuttoned, his hands still cradling my face, his body caged over mine.
“They know who you really are,” he finishes, voice low. “And they’re coming to kill you both.”
The moment shatters.
Kaelen is on his feet in an instant, pulling me up with him, his body moving between me and the door, his claws extending, his fangs bared. The bond *screams*—not with heat, not with lust, but with *danger*.
“How?” I ask, my voice steady despite the fear clawing its way up my throat. “How do they know?”
“Mira,” Soren says. “She’s not just a spy. She’s a blood-tracker. She stole a drop of your blood from the Archives—when you were wounded. Used it to trace your lineage. To confirm you’re Moonblood.”
My breath stills. “And the attack?”
“Malrik’s moving fast. He’s using the fake bite mark as justification—claiming Kaelen broke the bond, that you’re an unmarked traitor. He’s rallying the Fang loyalists. The Southern Claw is already en route. The Blood Tribunal is mobilizing.”
Kaelen’s jaw clenches. “He’s starting a war.”
“To silence you,” Soren says. “To keep the Codex buried. To maintain control.”
I look at Kaelen. His storm-silver eyes are gold now, feral, *hunting*. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for himself. For *me*.
“We can’t stay here,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “We fight. Or we run.”
“And if we run?”
“We lose everything. The Codex. The truth. Your mother’s name.”
“And if we fight?”
“We might die.”
I step forward, pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my fingers. “Then we die together.”
He stares at me. And then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Dangerous.
“I like the way you think, *wife*.”
Soren tosses us weapons—daggers, throwing stars, a short blade for me, a heavy war-knife for Kaelen. We dress fast, silent, efficient, the urgency of the moment stripping away everything but survival. The bond hums between us, not with heat, not with hunger, but with *purpose*.
“The Archives,” I say, strapping the dagger to my thigh. “The scroll I took—*Fated Bond Protocol*. It mentioned a hidden chamber. One only Moonblood magic can open.”
Kaelen nods. “If the Codex is hidden, that’s where it’ll be.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then we burn the Archives down and take the ashes with us.”
Soren moves to the door, peering into the hall. “Guards are already in position. They’ll be here in minutes.”
Kaelen turns to me. “Ready?”
I meet his gaze. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Always.”
He grabs my hand—firm, unrelenting—and pulls me into the hall.
The fortress is alive with chaos—shouts, footsteps, the clash of steel, the flare of magic. Werewolves in full shift race through the corridors, fangs bared, eyes gold. Vampires move like shadows, daggers in hand, fangs extended. Fae glide through the air, glamours shifting, weapons glowing with ancient power.
And in the center of it all—Malrik.
Standing at the head of the main hall, dressed in blood-red silk, his black eyes scanning the chaos, his lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He sees us. Of course he does. And his smile widens.
“There they are,” he says, voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “The traitor and her puppet. The Moonblood whore and the weakling who let her bind him.”
Kaelen growls—low, involuntary—and his claws extend, embedding in the stone as he fights the urge to charge.
“Don’t,” I whisper, gripping his hand. “He wants you to lose control. He wants you to prove he’s right.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on his father, his body coiled, *ready*.
And then—
Mira steps out from behind him.
Dressed in full fae battle regalia, her hair bound tight, her eyes sharp with triumph. In her hand—a vial of dark liquid. Blood.
My blood.
“She’s mine,” Malrik says, holding up the vial. “Traced by blood. Confirmed by magic. The last Moonblood heir. And she will die by dawn.”
Kaelen’s hand tightens around mine. “Run,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold them.”
“No.” I step forward, my voice loud, clear, cutting through the chaos. “You want me? Then come and take me. But know this—” I turn to the assembled enforcers, to the Fang, to the Claw, to the Tribunal. “The Blood Codex is real. And it names the *real* traitor. Not my mother. Not me.”
I point at Malrik.
“*Him*.”
The hall erupts.
Shouts. Gasps. The scrape of steel.
Malrik’s smile doesn’t waver. “Lies,” he says. “All lies. The Codex is sealed. Buried. Lost. And you—” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a whisper only we can hear. “You’re a dead woman walking.”
Kaelen steps in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Touch her,” he growls, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery.
“For her?” Kaelen says, turning his head just enough to look at me. “In a heartbeat.”
And just like that, the line is drawn.
Father against son.
Legacy against love.
And me—Brielle Moonblood—at the center of it all.
Not a pawn.
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
A queen.
And as the first enforcer lunges, as the battle erupts around us, as the fortress shakes with the clash of steel and the roar of magic, I do something I haven’t done in twelve years.
I smile.
Because I’m not alone.
And I’m not afraid.
And if this is the end?
Then let it burn.