The fortress still smolders from the battle—charred stone, scorched banners, the lingering scent of blood and moonfire—but already, life resumes. As if nothing happened. As if Malrik’s attempted coup, the ambush, the near-death of the Alpha and his mate were just another ripple in the endless current of supernatural politics.
But I know better.
The fight didn’t end in the hall. It merely shifted—moved from steel and fang to whispers and glances, from open violence to veiled threats. The Council still stands. The Fang still kneels. The Blood Tribunal still watches. But something has changed.
And it’s me.
I stand before the mirror in the private dressing chamber, Elowen’s fingers deftly securing the final clasp of my gown. It’s not black this time. Not the mourning color of duty or deception. This is deep crimson—rich, regal, edged in silver thread that catches the light like flame. The neckline is high, the sleeves long, the fabric clinging to my curves like a second skin. A statement. A challenge.
“You look like a queen,” Elowen murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. Her silver eyes—so like mine, so like my mother’s—flicker with pride. And something else. Fear.
“I look like bait,” I say, touching the fabric at my throat. “They want me to slip. To fall. To give them a reason to destroy me.”
“And you’ll give them the opposite.” She lifts a silver comb, threaded with moonstone, and slides it into my hair, pulling the dark strands into an elegant twist. “You’ll be flawless. Unbreakable. And you’ll make them *believe*.”
“Believe what?”
“That you belong here.”
I don’t answer. Just stare at my reflection. The woman looking back is not the girl who watched her mother burn. Not the witch who infiltrated Shadowveil with fire in her veins and vengeance in her heart. She’s something else. Something dangerous.
Something *his*.
The bond hums beneath my skin, low and steady, a constant reminder of Kaelen’s presence just beyond the door. He’s been with Soren, securing the fortress, silencing dissent, reinforcing loyalty. But I feel him. Always. In the pulse at my wrist, in the heat between my thighs, in the way my breath catches when his scent drifts under the door—pine and iron, frost and fire.
And in the way my body *wants* him.
Even now. Even after everything.
After the kiss. The tears. The confession. The battle.
After he told me he’d kill his own father for me.
Elowen steps back, satisfied. “Ready?”
I take a breath. “No. But I’ll go anyway.”
She smiles. “That’s my girl.”
The Grand Hall is already alive when we arrive—candles flickering in silver sconces, the air thick with perfume and magic, the low murmur of conversation rising like smoke. Fae glide in gossamer veils, their glamours shifting with every step. Vampires stand in clusters, their stillness more menacing than any movement. Werewolves fill the corners, their eyes gold, their postures tense, their loyalty still uncertain.
And at the center of it all—Kaelen.
He stands beside the dais, dressed in black leather, his storm-silver eyes scanning the room, his jaw tight, his body coiled like a predator. The moment I step inside, his gaze snaps to me. Locks on. Doesn’t waver.
And just like that, the bond *sings*.
Not with fire. Not with lust.
With *recognition*.
He moves toward me—slow, deliberate, every step echoing in the sudden hush—and when he reaches me, he doesn’t speak. Just takes my hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is formal. Respectful.
But the look in his eyes is anything but.
“You’re late,” he murmurs, voice low, rough.
“You’re overdressed,” I counter.
His lips twitch. “You’re stunning.”
My breath hitches. Not from the compliment. From the truth in his voice. From the way his thumb brushes my pulse, from the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not here.”
“Why not?” He steps closer, caging me in, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see. Let them know you’re mine.”
“They already do.”
“Not like this.”
And then—
A hand.
Not his.
Not gentle.
It grabs my shoulder, yanks me back—hard—and the fabric of my gown *rips*, the seam tearing from shoulder to elbow with a sound like thunder in the silence.
I stumble. Kaelen catches me before I fall, his arm locking around my waist, his body shielding me as I whirl to face the attacker.
Mira.
Of course.
She stands there, dressed in blood-red silk, her hair loose, her eyes gleaming with triumph. In her hand—a shard of glass, glinting in the candlelight.
“Oops,” she says, voice sweet, mocking. “Did I do that?”
The hall erupts.
Gasps. Whispers. The scrape of steel.
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just holds me, his body a wall, his breath steady, his storm-silver eyes locked on Mira with a cold, lethal calm.
“You will kneel,” he says, voice quiet. Deadly.
She laughs. “For you? Never.”
“Then you will die.”
And just like that, the air shifts.
Werewolves step forward. Vampires draw daggers. Fae raise their hands, magic crackling at their fingertips.
But Mira doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “You can’t kill me, Alpha. Not here. Not now. Not when the entire Council is watching.”
She’s right.
This is a public event. A diplomatic gathering. A test of unity. If he kills her, he breaks the Accord. If he doesn’t, she wins.
And she knows it.
“Then you’ll live,” he says, stepping back, pulling me with him. “But you’ll never speak to her again. You’ll never look at her. You’ll never come within ten feet of her. And if you do—” His voice drops to a whisper only she can hear. “I’ll take your tongue.”
She pales. Just slightly. But she doesn’t back down. Just smiles. “Enjoy your *wife*, Alpha. While she lasts.”
And then she turns and walks away, her hips swaying, her head high, the glass shard still clutched in her hand like a trophy.
The hall watches. Waits.
And then—
Kaelen turns to me.
Not with anger. Not with frustration.
With something deeper.
He lifts his hand—slow, deliberate—and brushes his fingers along the torn edge of my gown, just above my shoulder. The fabric is thin. Delicate. And now, it’s open. Exposed.
My skin is bare.
And his touch—light, careful, *intimate*—sends a jolt through me, not of fear, but of *awareness*.
Of heat.
Of need.
“You’re bleeding,” he murmurs.
I hadn’t even felt it. A thin line of red runs along my collarbone, where the glass must have grazed me. Nothing serious. But the sight of it—my blood, on my skin, under his gaze—makes the bond *roar*.
And then—
He leans in.
Not to kiss me. Not to claim.
To *taste*.
His tongue flicks out—just once—tracing the line of blood, warm and wet and *possessive*. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he pulls back, his storm-silver eyes dark with hunger, with fire, with *mine*.
The hall is silent.
No whispers. No gasps. Just stillness. A breath held.
And then—
The whispers start.
Not about the attack. Not about Mira.
About *us*.
Did you see that?
He licked her blood.
Like she’s his mate in truth.
They must have consummated.
He’s marked her in secret.
She’s not just his wife. She’s his *queen*.
Kaelen doesn’t react. Just lifts a hand, pulls a black silk scarf from his coat, and wraps it gently around my shoulder, covering the tear, the blood, the exposed skin. His fingers brush my neck as he ties it, slow, deliberate, *intimate*.
“Better?” he asks, voice low.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper.
“I didn’t do it for them.” His thumb brushes my pulse. “I did it for me.”
And just like that, the world tilts.
Because he’s not just protecting me.
He’s *claiming* me.
In front of them all.
And I don’t hate it.
I *want* it.
The event continues—speeches, toasts, alliances reaffirmed—but I barely hear them. My skin still burns where he touched me. My blood still hums with the memory of his tongue. And the bond—gods, the bond—is louder than ever, a constant pull, a need so deep it aches.
And then—
It happens again.
Not an attack. Not a lie.
A *gift*.
A fae envoy approaches—Lord Veylan, a minor noble from the Moonspire, his glamour shifting like smoke—and offers me a silver bracelet, etched with runes of protection. “For the Alpha’s mate,” he says, bowing. “A token of goodwill.”
I take it, thank him, slide it onto my wrist.
And the moment I do—
Fire.
Not literal. Not pain.
But the runes on my spine *ignite*, just for a second, a pulse of moonfire that races through me, hot and bright and *alive*.
I gasp.
Kaelen turns. Sees it. Feels it.
And then—
He smiles.
Not cold. Not predatory.
Proud.
And just like that, the room shifts.
Whispers rise. Fae exchange glances. Werewolves straighten. Vampires watch with new interest.
They see it.
They *know*.
The bond is real. The magic is real. And I—I am not just a witch. Not just a spy. Not just a prisoner.
I am Moonblood.
And I am his.
The night wears on. The wine flows. The music swells. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room eases. Not because the threats are gone. Not because the lies have been exposed.
Because we are still here.
Together.
Unbroken.
And when the final toast is made—“To unity! To peace! To the fated bond!”—Kaelen lifts his goblet, turns to me, and says, just loud enough for me to hear:
“You played your part well.”
I lift my own goblet, meet his gaze. “So did you.”
“But we both know you don’t want this.”
My breath stills.
“Don’t I?” I ask, voice low.
He studies me. Then, slowly, he smiles. “No. But you’re starting to.”
And just like that, the truth lands.
Because he’s right.
I don’t want this.
Not the lies. Not the politics. Not the danger.
But I want *him*.
And that terrifies me more than any battle.
We leave together—side by side, hand in hand, the whispers rising behind us like smoke. The fortress is quiet now, the chaos of the attack silenced, the enforcers posted, the traitors watched.
But the real war isn’t over.
It’s just begun.
Back in our chambers, he closes the door, seals the wards, and turns to me. No words. No demands. Just that look—storm-silver, intense, *knowing*.
“Take off the gown,” he says.
“What?”
“The tear. It’s irritating the wound.”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for the fastenings. The crimson silk slips from my shoulders, pools at my feet. I stand before him in nothing but my shift, the scarf still around my shoulder, the blood dried, the runes faintly pulsing beneath my skin.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t leer. Just steps forward, his hand lifting to my neck, his fingers brushing the edge of the scarf.
“You were magnificent,” he says, voice rough.
“So were you.”
“You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You stood there, bleeding, and let me taste you in front of them all.”
“And you marked me,” I whisper. “In front of them all.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t hide what’s mine.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of the truth in his eyes.
And when he leans in, when his lips brush mine—soft, slow, *real*—I don’t pull away.
I don’t push.
I don’t fight.
I just… let go.
And for the first time since I walked into this fortress, I let myself wonder:
What if the fire that was meant to burn me…
Could also be the one that saves me?
And what if the man I came to destroy…
Is the only one who can help me rise from the ashes?
And when he lifts me, carries me to the bed, and lays me down with a tenderness that shatters me, I don’t ask why.
I don’t demand answers.
I just reach for him.
And pull him down.
Because some fires aren’t meant to be extinguished.
They’re meant to burn.
And I’m done trying to put mine out.