The fortress is still burning.
Not with fire—though smoke curls from the scorched sigils on the main hall’s floor—but with tension, with whispers, with the raw aftermath of war. We stand at the edge of the Archives, the Blood Codex clutched to my chest, its weight both a victory and a burden. Around us, the Fang loyalists are in disarray—some still loyal to Malrik, some wavering, some watching us with something dangerously close to *hope*. Soren is already moving—silent, swift—gathering intelligence, securing exits, ensuring no one follows.
Kaelen stands beside me, his storm-silver eyes scanning the chaos, his body coiled, ready. Blood streaks his temple, his tunic is torn at the shoulder, and one of his claws is broken—but he’s alive. We’re alive. The Codex is real. The truth is ours.
And yet.
And yet.
Something is wrong.
I feel it before I see it. A dull throb behind my eyes. A tightness in my chest. My breath, once steady, now comes in shallow gasps, as if the air itself has turned to ash. The runes on my spine—still faintly glowing from the surge of magic in the Chamber of Echoes—begin to *pulse*, not with power, but with *pain*.
And then—
The bond *screams*.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With *absence*.
“Kaelen,” I whisper, staggering back a step. My knees buckle. I catch myself against the stone wall, my fingers digging into the cold surface. “Something’s—”
He’s at my side in an instant, his hand gripping my arm, his body caging me in. “Brielle? What is it?”
“I don’t—” I gasp, my vision blurring. “It’s the bond. It’s—*ripping*.”
His jaw clenches. “We’ve been apart too long. The Council’s rule—twenty-four hours. If we’re separated beyond that, the bond sickness starts.”
“But we haven’t been apart.” My voice trembles. “We’ve been together since the Archives. Since the tomb. Since—”
“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes dark with understanding. “We were separated. When Malrik took you. When I went after you. When Soren held off the enforcers while I broke you out. It’s been more than six hours. Maybe more.”
My breath hitches. The pain intensifies—a searing heat behind my ribs, a cold weight in my stomach, a pressure in my skull like my bones are cracking. I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe, trying to *think*, but the world is tilting, spinning, dissolving.
“Kaelen—” My voice is a plea. A curse. A prayer.
“I’ve got you.” He lifts me—effortless, unrelenting—and carries me through the fortress, his strides long and sure. The corridors blur around me—torchlight flickering, shadows shifting, voices murmuring—but I don’t care. I can’t care. All I know is the pain. The cold. The *emptiness*.
And then—
We’re in his chambers.
Not mine. Not the guest quarters. *His*. The Alpha’s chambers—massive, dark, dominated by a bed of black fur and iron, the walls lined with weapons, the air thick with the scent of pine, iron, frost, and *him*. He lays me on the bed, his hands gentle despite the urgency, his storm-silver eyes searching mine.
“Stay with me,” he growls. “Don’t close your eyes. Don’t sleep. Not yet.”
“I can’t—” I gasp, curling into myself. “It hurts. It’s like—like my blood is boiling. Like my bones are breaking. Like I’m—*dying*.”
“You’re not dying.” He strips off his tunic, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars of old battles, the faint silver lines of ritual magic. “You’re just feeling what I’ve been feeling since the moment you were taken.”
And then—
He strips off *my* gown.
Not roughly. Not carelessly. With a reverence that makes my breath catch. He peels the torn fabric from my body, baring my skin, my runes, my scars, my *truth*. And then he climbs onto the bed, pulling me into his arms, pressing my back to his chest, his heat flooding into me, his heartbeat a steady drum against my spine.
“This will help,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “The bond needs contact. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Life to life.”
And gods help me, it *does*.
The moment his body wraps around mine, the pain lessens—just slightly, just enough. The cold retreats. The pressure in my skull eases. My breath evens. But it’s not gone. Not yet.
“Is this what you felt?” I whisper, my voice raw. “When I was taken? When you thought I was dying?”
He doesn’t answer. Just tightens his hold, his arms locking around me like iron, his lips brushing my shoulder. But I feel it—his body trembling. Not from weakness. From *fear*.
“Kaelen—”
“Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t ask me to talk. Not now. Just let me *feel* you. Let me know you’re alive.”
And so I do.
I press back into him, arching into his heat, his strength, his *life*. I let my magic flare—just a pulse, just a whisper—and the runes on my spine ignite, silver fire spiraling up my back, painting the stone in light. He groans—low, rough, guttural—and his hands slide down my hips, pulling me closer, his cock hard and insistent against my ass.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp, my body arching into his. “Always.”
And just like that, the world narrows.
Not to the fortress. Not to the Council. Not to the war brewing beneath the surface.
Just to him.
His heat. His breath. His hands on my skin. The way his body molds to mine, *needing*, *wanting*, *trusting*.
And then—
The pain returns.
Sharper. Deeper. *Crueler*.
I cry out—low, guttural—and my body convulses, my magic surging in response. The runes blaze brighter, hotter, *alive*. Kaelen curses—raw, ragged—and his arms lock around me, holding me through it, his lips pressed to my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“Brielle—” His voice is a plea. A curse. A prayer.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my body still trembling. “I’m not leaving.”
“You can’t,” he growls. “The bond won’t let you. *I* won’t let you.”
And then—
He rolls me onto my back.
Not roughly. Not carelessly. With a reverence that makes my breath catch. He looms over me—his storm-silver eyes dark with something I can’t name, his body a wall, his heat a cage. And then he presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his hands cradling my face.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Don’t close your eyes. Don’t look away. Just *look* at me.”
I do.
And in his eyes—
Not fear.
Not rage.
*Love*.
And just like that, the pain lessens again.
Not gone. Not healed.
But *bearable*.
“You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my *heart*. My *soul*. My *weakness*. And if you die—”
“I won’t,” I whisper, lifting a hand to his face. “I can’t. Not when you’re still here.”
He doesn’t answer. 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 pain returns.
Not a throb.
A *spike*.
I cry out—sharp, ragged—and my body arches, my magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame. Kaelen curses—raw, guttural—and his hands fly to my hips, pressing me into the bed, holding me through it, his body shielding mine, his breath hot against my skin.
“Brielle—” His voice is a plea. A curse. A prayer.
“I’m here,” I gasp, my body still trembling. “I’m not leaving.”
“You can’t,” he growls. “The bond won’t let you. *I* won’t let you.”
And then—
He does something I don’t expect.
He *sings*.
Not in words. Not in language.
In *sound*.
A low, rumbling hum—deep, primal, *ancient*—that vibrates through his chest, into mine, through the bond, into my very bones. It’s not music. It’s not magic. It’s *him*. His voice. His soul. His *truth*.
And gods help me, it *works*.
The pain lessens—just slightly, just enough. The cold retreats. The pressure in my skull eases. My breath evens. And then—
I hear it.
Not just his voice.
His *memories*.
Not visions. Not images.
Feelings.
His mother’s whispered warnings. The night she vanished. The day he took the Alpha mark. The first time he saw me. The first time he touched me. The first time he let himself *feel*.
And beneath it all—
Fear.
Not of me.
Of *losing* me.
And just like that, the tears come.
Hot. Silent. *Unstoppable*.
They spill down my cheeks, soaking into the fur beneath me, 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 rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, laying me on his chest, his arms locking around me, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath my ear. The runes on my spine still pulse, the pain still lingers, but it’s *bearable*. Because I’m not alone.
Because he’s here.
Because he’s *mine*.
And then—
He sings again.
That same low, rumbling hum—deep, primal, *ancient*—vibrating through his chest, into mine, through the bond, into my very bones. And this time, I join him.
Not with sound.
With *magic*.
I let the moonfire rise—just a pulse, just a whisper—and the runes on my spine ignite, silver fire spiraling up my back, painting the stone in light. It flows into him—through the bond, through our skin, through our blood—and he gasps, his body arching, his arms tightening around me.
“Brielle—”
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m not leaving.”
And then—
We fall asleep.
Not deeply. Not peacefully.
But *together*.
And when I wake—hours later—the pain is gone.
Not vanished.
Just… *quiet*.
Kaelen is still beneath me, his arms still locked around me, his heartbeat still a steady drum beneath my ear. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow, his body relaxed. But I feel it—his awareness. His *presence*.
“You’re awake,” I murmur.
“Mmm.” He nuzzles my hair, his lips brushing my temple. “You’re alive.”
“You doubted?”
“Every second you were gone.” He opens his eyes, meeting mine. “I felt it. The bond. The sickness. The fear. I thought—” He stops. Swallows. “I thought I’d lost you.”
My chest tightens. Not from pain.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his arms tighten around me, from the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
“You didn’t,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
“And you’re not leaving.”
“Not unless you do.”
He smiles. Small. Real. “Then I’ll never leave.”
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 *he* accepts *me*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just survival.
Maybe it’s *love*.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Insistent.
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*.
“Who is it?” he growls.
“Soren,” comes the voice from the other side. “We have a problem.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. Just opens the door.
Soren steps inside, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on us—on my bare skin, 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 calling a Council emergency session at dawn. Claims the Blood Codex is forged. That you violated the bond by engaging in unsanctioned intimacy before the trial was complete.”
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 chambers together, side by side, Soren sealing the door 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 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.