The silence after the attack is worse than the battle.
Not the quiet of peace, but the stillness of aftermath—the breath held, the blood cooling, the echo of steel and magic fading into the stone. The fortress still hums with tension, with the low murmur of enforcers securing corridors, with the flicker of torchlight across scarred walls. But the immediate threat has passed. For now.
We stand in the Archives, the hidden chamber sealed behind us, the Blood Codex still untouched on its obsidian pedestal. I can feel it—pulsing, ancient, *alive*—like a heartbeat beneath the earth. The truth is so close I can taste it. And yet, I don’t move.
Because Kaelen is still pressed against me.
His body cages mine against the cold stone, his breath warm on my throat, his hands still gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. My gown is torn at the shoulder, my skin flushed, my lips swollen from his kiss—from *us*—and the scent of sex and moonfire clings to the air, thick and intoxicating.
We didn’t mean to. Not here. Not now.
And yet.
And yet.
It happened. The poison, the heat, the bond—everything we’ve been fighting, denying, resisting—finally *broke* us. And gods help me, I don’t regret it.
But I can’t let myself believe it was real.
“Brielle,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to mine. “Say something.”
I don’t. Can’t. My body still thrums with the aftermath of it—the way he filled me, claimed me, *owned* me—the way my magic surged in response, the way the runes on my spine flared like a crown of fire. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just heat. It was *surrender*.
And I don’t know if I can take it back.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his storm-silver eyes searching mine. Not with triumph. Not with possession. With *fear*.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t apologize. Don’t say it was a mistake. Not when it felt like the only truth I’ve known since I walked into this fortress.”
His breath hitches. “Then what was it?”
“Survival,” I say, stepping out from between him and the wall. “The bond. The heat. The poison. We were overwhelmed. It wasn’t—”
“Liar.”
He always does this. Always calls me out. Always sees too much.
“It wasn’t just the bond,” he says, stepping closer. “It wasn’t just the heat. It was *us*. It was *this*.” His hand lifts, brushes my cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. “And if you try to pretend it didn’t mean anything, you’re not just lying to me. You’re lying to yourself.”
My chest tightens. Not from the wound. From something deeper. Something dangerous.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Insistent.
The moment shatters.
Kaelen steps back, his body shifting to shield me as the hidden passage groans open. Soren slips inside, his dark eyes scanning the chamber before settling on us—on my torn gown, on his disheveled tunic, on the way we’re still breathing too fast, too close.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smirk. Just says, “Malrik’s retreating. For now. He’s calling a Council emergency session at dawn. Claims you violated the bond by engaging in unsanctioned intimacy before the Codex was recovered.”
I laugh—a short, brittle sound. “He’s *accusing* us of breaking the rules? After everything he’s done?”
“It’s not about rules,” Soren says. “It’s about perception. If the Council believes the bond is unstable—if they think you’re acting on heat, not duty—they’ll dissolve the marriage. Strip Kaelen of rank. Exile you.”
Kaelen’s jaw clenches. “Then we present the Codex.”
“And if it doesn’t clear her mother’s name?” Soren asks. “If it’s sealed? If it’s a trap?”
Silence.
Because he’s right. We don’t know what’s inside. We don’t know if it names Malrik as the traitor. We don’t know if it will save us—or destroy us.
“Then we burn it,” I say, stepping forward. “And take the ashes with us.”
Kaelen turns to me. “You’d destroy the only proof of your mother’s innocence?”
“If it’s been forged, yes. If it’s been altered, yes. If it’s been used to manipulate the Council for centuries—then I’d rather see it turned to dust than let it be used against us.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Proud.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“And you love it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just reaches for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, the bond humming between us—low, steady, *real*.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Before Malrik decides to finish what he started.”
We leave the chamber together, side by side, Soren sealing the passage behind us. The fortress is quieter now, the immediate chaos subdued, but the tension in the air is thicker than ever. Werewolves stand guard at every corridor, their eyes gold, their postures tense. Vampires move like shadows, their silence more menacing than any sound. Fae glide through the gardens, their glamours shifting, their whispers sharp with suspicion.
And then—
I smell her.
Lilac.
Deceit.
Mira.
She’s waiting for us in the Moonlit Hall—dressed in silver silk, her hair loose, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. She stands beside the dais, her posture perfect, her smile sharp, her eyes locked on Kaelen with a hunger that makes my stomach twist.
“Alpha,” she says, bowing. “Mate.” Her gaze flicks to me, cold, calculating. “I hear you’ve been… *occupied*.”
“Leave,” Kaelen says, voice flat.
“I come with a message,” she says, stepping forward. “From your father. He requests your presence at the emergency session. Alone.”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “With my mate.”
“He said *alone*.”
“Then he’ll have to wait.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “As you wish. But know this—” She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only we can hear. “The Council is already questioning your judgment. Your *control*. And if you continue to let your mate dictate your actions—”
“She doesn’t dictate,” Kaelen growls. “She *is* my judgment.”
Her smile falters. Just slightly. But she recovers fast—too fast. “Then perhaps the Council will see it that way. Or perhaps they’ll see a weak Alpha, bound by heat and blood, too far gone to lead.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
From *rage*.
“You don’t know him,” I say, stepping forward. “You don’t know what he’s done. What he’s sacrificed. What he’s *become* for this court.”
“Oh, I know him,” she says, her eyes flicking to Kaelen. “Better than you think.”
And then—
She does it.
Not a whisper. Not a glance.
A *claim*.
Her hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and she presses her palm to the center of her chest—just above her heart. “He promised me,” she says, voice soft, almost tender. “The night before your bonding ceremony. He said if I waited, if I proved my loyalty, he would name me his true mate. That he would give me the Alpha mark.”
The hall falls silent.
Not a gasp. Not a whisper. Just stillness. A breath held.
My blood runs cold.
Not from doubt.
From *betrayal*.
“He said he would claim me,” she continues, her eyes locked on Kaelen. “That he would bite me here—” She traces a line down her collarbone. “And mark me as his own. That he would—”
“Liar.”
The word tears from me, raw, ragged.
She turns to me, her smile sharp. “Prove it.”
I look at Kaelen. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled like a weapon. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t rage. Doesn’t roar.
And just like that, the fire inside me *explodes*.
“You said you didn’t mark her!” I scream, shoving him. “You said she was a test! That you never touched her! That you never—”
“I didn’t,” he says, voice low, rough.
“Then how do you explain *that*?” I gesture at Mira, my hand shaking. “How do you explain her standing here, claiming you promised her the Alpha mark? That you were going to *claim* her?”
“She’s lying,” he says, stepping forward. “I never said those things. I never made those promises.”
“And if I prove it?” Mira asks, lifting her chin. “If I show the Council the blood vow we made? The contract signed in blood?”
My breath stills.
Because blood vows are binding. Unbreakable. If she has one—if Kaelen truly swore himself to her—then the bond between us is null. The marriage is void. And I am nothing.
“You don’t have it,” Kaelen says, voice deadly calm. “Because I never signed it.”
“Then how do you explain this?” She pulls a small vial from her sleeve—dark liquid swirling inside. Blood.
His blood.
“I took it from you,” she says, her voice soft, almost sweet. “The night you saved me from the Southern Claw assassin. You were wounded. Bleeding. And I… *tended* to you.”
My stomach twists.
Because I remember that night. He came back with a gash on his arm, his tunic soaked in blood. He said it was nothing. A minor skirmish. But he didn’t let me see the wound. Didn’t let me heal it.
And now I know why.
“You used his blood,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “To forge a blood vow. To fake a contract. To *trap* him.”
“Or,” she says, smiling, “perhaps he *wanted* me to have it.”
The hall erupts.
Whispers. Gasps. The scrape of steel.
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just turns to me, his storm-silver eyes searching mine. “You believe me,” he says, not a question. A statement.
“Do I?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “How can I? How can I trust you when every time I start to—when every time I let myself *feel* something—you bring another woman into this?”
“I didn’t bring her,” he says, stepping closer. “She’s *here*. She’s *always* been here. And I let her stay because I needed to know who was helping her. Who was feeding her information. Who was trying to destroy us.”
“And now you know?”
“Varn,” he says. “One of my guards. He’s been meeting with her. Passing her secrets. But he doesn’t know I know.”
“And the blood?”
“She stole it. From a healing cloth. From a cup. From a wound. I don’t care. Because I never signed a vow. I never made a promise. And I will *never* claim anyone but you.”
My breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his hand lifts, cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
Mira laughs.
Sharp. Cold. *Triumphant*.
“You think she’ll believe you?” she asks, stepping forward. “You think she’ll trust you after everything? After the lies? After the games? After the way you’ve used her, tested her, *broken* her?”
Kaelen doesn’t answer. Just turns, his body caging me in, his storm-silver eyes locked on hers. “You’re done,” he says, voice quiet. Deadly. “No more meetings. No more whispers. No more lies. If I see you within ten feet of her again—”
“You’ll what?” she challenges. “Kill me? In front of the Council? In front of the fortress? You’d break the Accord. Start a war.”
“Try me.”
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 vial of blood 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 steps close, caging me in, his hands on either side of my head, braced against the wall. “You’re jealous,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
“I’m not jealous,” I lie.
“Liar.” He bites—just hard enough to sting, not to mark. “You’re *furious*. You’re *hurt*. You’re *mine*.”
“I’m not yours!”
“Then why do you keep fighting it?” He grips my hips, grinding against me, his cock hard and insistent against my belly. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep letting me touch you? Why do you keep *wanting* me?”
“I don’t—”
“Liar.” He kisses me—hard, brutal, claiming—his tongue sliding deep, tasting me like he’s starving. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his hands sliding up my back, pressing me closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no *anything* but him.
And then—
I push him away.
Hard.
He stumbles back, surprise flashing in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shaking. “Don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t *lie* to me.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his chest heaving, his fangs still extended, his eyes dark with something I can’t name.
“Then believe me,” he says, voice low. “Or leave. But don’t stand there and tell me you don’t want this. Don’t tell me you don’t want *me*.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“Liar.”
I turn. Walk to the balcony. Need air. Need space. Need to *think*.
Below, the fortress stirs—werewolves training, vampires moving like shadows, fae gliding through the gardens. Normal. Routine. As if nothing has changed.
As if I haven’t just heard the man I’m starting to love—*trust*—accused of promising another woman the Alpha mark.
“She’s not the only one spreading rumors,” Soren says behind me. “The blood vow story is already in the barracks. In the mess hall. In the gardens. And whispers—about the Codex. About your mother. About whether the bond is real.”
My breath stills.
“And Kaelen?” I ask, not turning. “What does he say?”
“He says you’re his mate. That the bond is real. That anyone who questions you answers to him.”
“And you believe him?”
“I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
I close my eyes. Soren’s words should comfort me. Should reassure me.
But they don’t.
Because love isn’t enough. Trust isn’t enough. Not in this world. Not with his father watching. Not with Mira playing her games. Not with the Council ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.
And then—
Kaelen steps up beside me. Close enough that our arms brush. His presence is a wall at my back, his scent a cage around me.
“You think I’d promise her the Alpha mark?” he asks, voice quiet. “You think I’d give anyone else that power over me? That *claim*?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I whisper.
“Then look at me.”
I turn.
He unbuttons his tunic. Slow. Deliberate. Pulls it open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars from old battles, the faint silver lines of old magic.
And then he turns.
His back is broad, powerful, marked with the sigils of the Fang—ritual tattoos earned in combat, in loyalty, in blood. But there, just above the left shoulder blade—
Nothing.
No bite. No mark. No sign of Mira.
“I don’t hide from you,” he says, turning back, buttoning his tunic. “I don’t lie to you. Not about this. Not about *us*.”
My breath hitches.
“Then why isn’t it *me*?” I scream, the words tearing out of me, raw, ragged. “If I’m yours, if the bond is real, if you *want* me—then why haven’t you marked me? Why haven’t you claimed me? Why am I standing here, watching another woman wear your mark like she’s something special, while I’m just… *waiting*?”
He stills.
And for the first time, I see it—doubt. Guilt. *Fear*.
“Because,” he says, voice low, rough, “if I mark you… I won’t be able to let you go. And if you’re not ready—if you still want to destroy me—I can’t do that to you. I can’t chain you to me when your mission isn’t finished. When your mother’s name isn’t cleared. When *justice* isn’t served.”
My chest tightens. Not from anger.
From the truth in his words.
He’s not holding back because he doesn’t want me.
He’s holding back because he *does*.
Because he knows that once he marks me—once he truly claims me—the line between vengeance and desire will blur beyond repair.
And I’ll have to choose.
“Then prove it,” I whisper.
“Prove what?”
“That I’m yours.”
He stares at me. And then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Dangerous.
“You want a mark?” he murmurs, stepping close, his hand lifting to my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse. “Then take it.”
And just like that, the fire returns.
Hot. Bright. *Unstoppable*.
Because he’s not just my jailer.
Not just my mate.
Not just the son of my mother’s killer.
He’s the only one who sees me.
And if I’m going to burn this world down…
I’ll do it with him at my side.
Or not at all.
Marked by Moonfire
The first time Brielle touches Kaelen Duskbane, the world burns.
It’s not metaphor. Flames erupt from the ceremonial contract scroll as their blood mingles—proof of a fated bond the Supernatural Council declared extinct centuries ago. She came to Shadowveil under the alias “Lyra Vale,” a neutral witch envoy, to infiltrate the tribunal, steal the Blood Codex that holds the truth about her mother’s execution, and vanish. But fate doesn’t care about plans. One touch, one drop of shared blood, and the ancient runes on her spine—hidden since childhood—ignite with moonfire, revealing her true heritage: last heir of the exiled Fae Moonblood line.
Kaelen, Alpha of the Northern Fang Pack and enforcer of the Council’s will, should arrest her on sight. Instead, the bond roars through him, primal and unrelenting. To avoid civil war, the Council mandates a binding contract marriage—70 days of cohabitation, ritual intimacy, and public unity—before either can walk away.
Now, she’s trapped in his fortress, wearing his ring, sleeping in the room next to his, every breath laced with his scent. She’s determined to hate him. He’s determined to break her will. But when a rival seductress appears in his chambers wearing his mark, and a secret ritual forces them to share body heat through a freezing night, the line between vengeance and desire begins to blur.
And someone knows her secret. Someone is watching. Someone wants them both dead before the contract ends.
Because the truth? The Blood Codex doesn’t just clear her mother’s name. It names the real traitor. And his name is Kaelen’s father.