The fortress is quiet now—too quiet.
Not the hush of peace. Not the calm after a storm. This is the silence of waiting. Of coiled tension. Of something far worse than war brewing beneath the surface.
We stand in the war room—Kaelen, Soren, and I—surrounded by maps etched into black stone, sigils glowing faintly under torchlight, the air thick with the scent of old blood and older magic. The Blood Codex rests on the central pedestal, its crimson leather cover pulsing like a heartbeat, its silver sigils whispering secrets only I can hear. I haven’t opened it again since the Council Chamber. Not fully. Just enough to confirm—Malrik’s signature is there. The lies are real. The theft of Moonfire magic, the forged oaths, the blood pacts with the Southern Claw—all documented in ink that shifts like living shadow.
And yet.
I won’t read it aloud.
Won’t let Kaelen see.
Because it’s not just about his father.
It’s about him. About the way Malrik raised him. About the way he made Kaelen believe he had to be a monster to be strong. About the promises whispered in the dark, the lessons taught in pain, the legacy forged in blood.
And I don’t know how to tell him.
Not yet.
Not when he’s still bleeding from the fight in the east corridor. Not when the wound on my side still burns, still weeps, still pulses with every beat of my heart. Not when the bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, real—no longer tainted by Malrik’s tracking spell, but raw with something deeper, something I can’t name.
Kaelen paces—his bare feet silent on the stone, his body wrapped in a dark robe, his hair loose, his claws retracted but his fangs still visible when he speaks. He hasn’t slept. Not since the Moonwell. Not since I took a blade for him. Not since he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
Soren stands by the door, his arms crossed, his dark eyes scanning the corridor beyond. He hasn’t spoken since we entered. Just watches. Waits. Listens.
And I—
I watch him.
The way his jaw clenches when he passes too close to me. The way his breath hitches when our arms brush. The way his storm-silver eyes darken, just slightly, when the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
He’s not afraid of me.
But he’s afraid of this.
Of us.
Of what we’re becoming.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to fix it.
“They’ll come for us at dawn,” Soren says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, rough, the kind of tone he only uses when the danger is real. “The full Council. Malrik’s calling an emergency session. He’ll try to dissolve the bond. Strip Kaelen of rank. Exile you.”
Kaelen stops pacing. Turns. “Let him try.”
“And if they believe him?” Soren asks. “If they see the blood on your clothes, the wounds on your bodies, the way you look at each other—like you’d burn the world for her—and decide it’s not duty, but heat? That the bond is unstable?”
My breath stills.
Because he’s right.
The bond isn’t just political anymore.
It’s alive.
And it’s screaming.
Kaelen doesn’t answer. Just walks to the pedestal, his hand hovering over the Codex. “We expose him first.”
“And if it’s not enough?” I ask, stepping forward. “If they demand proof beyond the Codex? If they want blood? A trial by combat?”
“Then I’ll give it to them,” he says, turning to me. “I’ll fight. I’ll kill. I’ll burn the Council Hall to the ground if I have to.”
“And if they kill me instead?”
He stills.
And for the first time, I see it—fear. Not for himself. For me.
“They won’t,” he growls, stepping into my space, caging me in. “I won’t let them.”
“You can’t protect me from everything,” I whisper, my hand lifting to his chest. “Not from the Council. Not from Malrik. Not from the truth in that book.”
His breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the truth in my voice. From the way my fingers press against his heart, from the way my body leans into his, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
Soren clears his throat.
We both turn.
He’s not smirking. Not judging. Just watching. Waiting.
“You need to rest,” he says. “Both of you. The bond sickness is gone, but your bodies aren’t healed. And if you walk into that Council session weak, they’ll smell it. They’ll use it.”
Kaelen opens his mouth to argue.
“He’s right,” I say, stepping back. “We’re no good to each other dead.”
He glares at me. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Then come with me.” I hold out my hand. “But not here. Not in this room. Not with the Codex watching us like a ghost.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he takes my hand.
Our fingers intertwine—warm, calloused, unrelenting. The bond flares—low, steady, real—a current of heat and light that runs through my veins, grounding me, anchoring me, reminding me that I’m not alone.
We leave the war room—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. The fortress is quieter than usual—no training drills, no council debates, no late-night revelry. Just the low hum of magic, the flicker of torchlight, the occasional whisper from a guard who looks away when we pass.
They’re afraid.
Of Malrik.
Of the Council.
Of us.
And they should be.
We descend through the west wing—past the armory, past the barracks, past the gardens where the black roses bloom under moonlight. The air is thick with the scent of pine, iron, frost, and him. His presence is a wall at my back, his heat a cage around me.
And then—
We reach 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 old battles, old blood, old pain.
He doesn’t light the torches. Just closes the door behind us, the lock clicking into place like a vow.
And then—
He turns to me.
Not with anger. Not with frustration.
With something deeper.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low. “You can rest in your own chambers. I’ll stand guard.”
“And let you bleed alone?” I step forward, my hands lifting to his robe. “No. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
He doesn’t stop me as I unfasten the ties, as the fabric falls to the floor, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars of old battles, the fresh wounds from the trap. Blood still seeps from the gash on his shoulder, from the slash across his ribs, from the cut on his arm.
My breath hitches.
“Let me heal you,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “It’s not deep. It’ll close on its own.”
“Not if you keep moving like a caged animal.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heart. “Let me do this. Please.”
He stills.
And then—
He nods.
I don’t hesitate. Just press my lips to his chest, right over his heart. A kiss. Soft. Slow. Real. And then—
I let the moonfire rise.
Not a surge. Not a flare.
A pulse.
Just a whisper of silver fire, spiraling up my arm, into my palm, into his skin. It flows through him—through the bond, through our blood, through our magic—and he gasps, his body arching, his hands flying to my hips, pulling me closer.
“Brielle—”
“Shh,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to his chest. “Just feel it.”
The magic works—slow, deliberate, healing the torn flesh, sealing the wounds, knitting the muscle back together. I can feel it—the way his body relaxes, the way his breath evens, the way his heart slows, steady, strong.
And then—
I move to his shoulder.
Kiss the wound.
Let the moonfire rise.
He groans—low, rough, guttural—and his arms lock around me, pressing me to his chest, his breath hot against my ear.
“You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs. “You’re my healer.”
My chest tightens. Not from exhaustion.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
I move to his side.
Kiss the slash across his ribs.
Let the moonfire rise.
He shudders. His hands tighten on my hips. His breath hitches.
“Brielle—”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Almost done.”
And then—
I move to his arm.
Kiss the cut.
Let the moonfire rise.
And when it’s done—when his body is whole, when his wounds are sealed, when his breath is steady—I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heart.
“There,” I whisper. “All better.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my life.”
My breath hitches.
Not from the magic.
From the truth in his words. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Deep.
His mouth opens over mine, his tongue sliding against mine, 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. The bond flares—warm, insistent, needing—and the moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light.
And then—
He lifts me.
Effortless. Unrelenting.
And carries me to the bed.
He lays me down—gently, reverently—and climbs on top of me, his body caging mine, his heat flooding into me, his scent a cage around me. His storm-silver eyes lock onto mine, dark with something I can’t name—fear, yes, but deeper than that. Trust.
“This isn’t politics,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “This isn’t duty. This isn’t revenge.”
“Then what is it?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just unfastens my robe.
Slow. Deliberate.
Revealing my skin, my runes, my scars, my truth. And then he leans down, his lips brushing the sigil on my collarbone, my shoulder, my hip.
Each kiss a vow.
Each touch a promise.
And then—
He presses his forehead to mine.
“This is mine,” he says, voice low, rough. “You’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
I reach up.
Cup his face.
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 spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
Because I believe him.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just survival.
Maybe it’s love.
And then—
He moves.
Slow. Deep. Real.
And I take him—into my body, into my soul, into my heart—and the bond screams, not with pain, not with heat, but with truth.
We don’t speak.
Don’t move.
Just breathe.
And then—
He begins to move.
Slow at first. Then deeper. Harder. Real.
And I meet him—every thrust, every pulse, every heartbeat—until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no anything but him.
The moonfire surges—silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light, flooding into him, through the bond, through our skin, through our blood.
And then—
He groans.
Low. Gutural. Pained.
His body tenses. His arms lock around me. His breath hitches.
“Brielle—”
“I’m here,” I whisper, my hands flying to his face. “I’m not leaving.”
And then—
We fall.
Not apart.
Together.
Into the fire.
Into the light.
Into the truth.
And when it’s over—when our bodies are spent, when our breaths are ragged, when our hearts beat in time—I press my forehead to his, my hands cradling his face.
“I didn’t plan this,” I whisper.
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.
“Neither did I,” he murmurs. “But I don’t regret it.”
My breath hitches.
Not from exhaustion.
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.
And then—
I whisper, “I love you.”
He stills.
And for the first time, I see it—hope. Grief. Love.
And then—
He pulls me close, his arms locking around me, his breath warm against my ear.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
So I do.
“I love you.”
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the Council is coming.
Not because Malrik is waiting.
Because he believes 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. “They’re here. The Council. They’ve breached the gates.”
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, “They’re in the main hall. Waiting. Malrik’s already speaking.”
I don’t move. Just press my forehead to Kaelen’s. “Then we’ll be there.”
“Together,” he murmurs.
“Always.”