The moment the door bursts open, the world fractures.
One second, she’s in my arms—flushed, trembling, her lips still warm from mine, her body arching into me like she’s starving—and the next, the bond *screams*, not with heat, not with hunger, but with *danger*. Raw. Blinding. *Feral*.
Soren stands in the threshold, his dark eyes wide, his chest heaving, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Behind him, the fortress roars—shouts, footsteps, the clash of steel, the flare of magic. Malrik’s enforcers. A full assault. And they know. They *know* who she is.
And they’re coming to kill us.
I don’t think. I *move*.
One second, I’m caged over her, my body pressing her into the wall, my mouth still tasting the fire of her kiss. The next, I’m on my feet, pulling her up with me, my body pivoting to shield her from the door, my claws extending, my fangs bared, my entire being coiled like a weapon.
“How?” Brielle demands, her voice steady despite the flush still staining her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks *ready*.
“Mira,” Soren says, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. “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 jaw clenches. “And the attack?”
“Malrik’s moving fast.” Soren’s voice is tight, controlled. “He’s using the fake bite mark as justification—claiming you broke the bond, that she’s an unmarked traitor. He’s rallying the Fang loyalists. The Southern Claw is already en route. The Blood Tribunal is mobilizing.”
“He’s starting a war,” I growl, the words tearing from my throat like a snarl.
“To silence you,” Soren says. “To keep the Codex buried. To maintain control.”
Brielle steps forward, pressing her palm to my chest, her fingers splayed over the thunder of my heart. “We can’t stay here.”
“No,” I agree, my voice rough. “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.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her gaze to mine, her winter-sky eyes sharp, clear, *on fire*.
“Then we die together.”
And just like that, the last thread of control snaps.
Not from the poison. Not from the bond’s heat. From *her*. From the way she looks at me—not with fear, not with doubt, but with *fire*. With *trust*. With *love*.
And gods help me, I *believe* her.
I grab her hand—firm, unrelenting—and pull her 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.”
I growl—low, involuntary—and my claws extend, embedding in the stone as I fight the urge to charge.
“Don’t,” Brielle whispers, gripping my hand. “He wants you to lose control. He wants you to prove he’s right.”
I don’t answer. Just keep my eyes on my father, my 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.”
My hand tightens around Brielle’s. “Run,” I murmur. “I’ll hold them.”
“No.” She steps forward, her voice loud, clear, cutting through the chaos. “You want me? Then come and take me. But know this—” She turns 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.”
She points 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.”
I step in front of her, shielding her with my body. “Touch her,” I growl, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery.
“For her?” I say, turning my head just enough to look at her. “In a heartbeat.”
And just like that, the line is drawn.
Father against son.
Legacy against love.
And her—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.
We fight our way through the fortress—side by side, back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. Brielle is a storm—her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire, her dagger flashing, her voice sharp with command. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t *break*.
And I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
We reach the Archives—smoke curling from the door, the wards flickering, the scent of old paper and blood thick in the air. Soren secures the entrance, sealing it behind us with a blood sigil. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of enchanted tomes, the air thick with dust and memory.
“The hidden chamber,” Brielle says, her voice tight. “Only Moonblood magic can open it.”
“And only a true heir can survive the trial,” I say, stepping beside her. “You don’t have to do this.”
She turns to me, her winter-sky eyes sharp. “I do. The Codex is here. I can *feel* it.”
I don’t argue. Just nod. “Then I’m with you.”
She presses her palm to the far wall—black stone, etched with ancient runes. The moment her skin touches it, the runes *ignite*—silver fire spiraling up the stone, pulsing with her magic. The wall trembles. Cracks. Then—
It opens.
Not with a groan. Not with a crash.
With a *whisper*.
A hidden passage—narrow, dark, descending into the mountain’s heart. The air that spills out is cold, thick with the scent of old magic and blood.
“Stay close,” I say, drawing my war-knife.
She doesn’t answer. Just steps inside.
The passage is tight—walls of black stone, the floor slick with frost, the only light coming from the faint glow of her runes. We move slowly, silently, every sense stretched. The bond hums between us, low and steady, a constant reminder of her presence, her heat, her *life*.
And then—
A sound.
Not from ahead. Not from behind.
From *above*.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
The ceiling collapses.
Not on us.
Behind us.
The passage seals shut, cutting us off from the Archives, from Soren, from escape.
“Trapped,” Brielle murmurs, her voice calm.
“Or protected,” I counter, stepping closer. “No one can follow.”
She turns to me. “Then let’s find the Codex.”
We press on—deeper, darker, the air growing colder with every step. And then—
The chamber opens.
Vast. Ancient. A cathedral of stone, its dome lost in shadow, its walls lined with shelves of blackened tomes, its center dominated by a pedestal of obsidian. And on it—
The Blood Codex.
A massive tome, bound in crimson leather, its cover etched with silver sigils that pulse with forbidden power. The air around it hums, thick with magic, with danger, with *truth*.
Brielle steps forward, her breath catching. “It’s real.”
“And deadly,” I say, scanning the room. “This place is warded. Trapped. If you touch it without the right blood—”
“I’ll die.” She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps her eyes on the Codex. “Then let me die.”
“No.” I grab her wrist, pulling her back. “You don’t get to throw your life away. Not now. Not when we’re so close.”
She turns on me, her eyes blazing. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your mate.” My voice drops. “And I won’t lose you.”
For a heartbeat, we stand there—facing each other, breathing hard, the bond screaming between us, not with heat, not with lust, but with *need*. Raw. Unfiltered. *Feral*.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Desperate.
Hard. Deep. *Feral*. Her hands fly to my hair, pulling me closer, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that matches my own. I groan—low, rough, guttural—and my arms lock around her, lifting her off the ground, pressing her back against the stone wall as I take more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the heat of it.
And then—
The poison takes hold.
Not the wine. Not the trap.
> *This*.The bond. The heat. The *need*.
It roars through me—hot, blinding, *unstoppable*—and I know, with a clarity that cuts through the fire, that I can’t stop this. Not now. Not ever.
“Brielle—” My voice is ragged. “We can’t—”
“Yes, we can.” She bites my lip, hard enough to sting. “No more waiting. No more fighting. No more lies. Just *this*.”
And then she’s on me.
Not with magic. Not with words.
With *hunger*.
Her hands tear at my tunic, ripping the fabric, exposing my chest. Her mouth follows—lips, teeth, tongue—trailing fire down my neck, my collarbone, the hard planes of my chest. I growl—low, involuntary—and my hands fly to her gown, tearing it open, baring her skin, her runes glowing faintly beneath the fabric.
“You’re mine,” I growl, lifting her, pressing her back against the wall. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, her legs wrapping around my waist, her body arching into mine. “Always.”
And then—
I take her.
Not gently. Not slowly.
Hard. Fast. *Claiming*.
My cock surges into her—hot, thick, *needing*—and she cries out, her head thrown back, her body tightening around me, *welcoming* me. I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Just thrust deeper, harder, *faster*, until we’re both gasping, trembling, lost in the fire.
“Kaelen—” Her voice is a plea. A curse. A prayer.
“Look at me,” I growl, my hands gripping her hips, holding her in place as I take more. “Look at me when I claim you.”
She does.
Her winter-sky eyes are wide, her lips swollen, her breath ragged. And in them—
Not fear.
Not regret.
*Love*.
And just like that, the world shatters.
I come—hard, deep, *unstoppable*—and she follows, her body convulsing around me, her cry echoing through the chamber, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
Stillness.
We’re pressed together—her back against the wall, my body caging hers, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding. Her legs are still wrapped around me, her arms around my neck, her face buried in my shoulder. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just hold her, breathing her in, feeling the bond hum between us, not with heat, not with hunger, but with *peace*.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the chamber.
From *outside*.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
The door creaks open.
Just a crack. A sliver of light. Warmth.
The eclipse is over.
The ritual is complete.
We survived.
But as I look down at her—her lips still warm from mine, her body still pressed against mine, her eyes still wide with something I can’t name—I know one truth:
We didn’t just survive the Sanctum.
We crossed a line.
And there’s no going back.
Not from this.
Not from *us*.
And when she leans in, when her lips brush mine one last time, I don’t stop her.
Because some fires aren’t meant to be extinguished.
They’re meant to burn.
And I’m done trying to put hers out.