The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in the inner chamber, but I don’t move. I stand there, back against the wood, fists clenched at my sides, breath coming in slow, measured pulls. The scent of her—moonlight and storm, wild magic and defiance—clings to my skin, my clothes, the inside of my throat. I can still feel the shape of her mouth under mine, the way she gasped when I took her, the way her body arched into me like it was made to fit.
And it was. By the gods, it was.
The bond isn’t just real. It’s *right*. A perfect lock. A missing piece sliding home. I felt it in the dais, that electric snap, the fire in my blood, the roar in my skull. But I didn’t let it show. Couldn’t. Not with the Council watching. Not with *her* watching.
Brielle Moonblood.
Not Lyra Vale. Not some neutral witch envoy. The last heir of the exiled Moonblood line—the very bloodline my father’s tribunal condemned for “corrupting” fae purity. The daughter of the woman Malrik executed in a public burning while I stood silent in the front row, wearing the uniform of the Fang, swearing loyalty to the law.
And now she’s here. In my fortress. In my chambers. *Mine*, by bond and blood and law.
I should have had her arrested the second I sensed the lie in her scent. The second I caught the flicker of moonfire beneath her collar. But I didn’t. I let the contract go forward. I let our hands touch. I let the bond ignite.
And I don’t regret it.
That’s what terrifies me.
I push off the door and stride to the washbasin, splashing cold water on my face. It does nothing. The heat is deeper than skin. The bond hums low in my gut, a constant reminder of her presence just beyond the wall. I can hear her—her breathing, the soft rustle of her dress as she moves, the faint, restless pacing near the balcony. She thinks I can’t hear her. She thinks I don’t know every shift in her pulse, every spike of anger, every flicker of fear.
She’s wrong.
I dry my face with a rough cloth and turn to the mirror. My reflection is all sharp angles and controlled fury. Silver eyes. Hard jaw. A scar cutting through my left eyebrow—earned in a fight I barely remember. I look like him. Everyone says it. The same dark hair, the same cold stare, the same aura of barely leashed violence.
But I’m not him.
I *can’t* be.
Not if I’m going to survive this.
I pull off my tunic, toss it aside, and reach for the clean one laid out on the chest. The fabric is soft black wool, edged in silver thread—the formal wear for the bonding ceremony. My fingers pause on the hem. The ritual is simple: stand beneath the moonlit arch, exchange vows written in blood, press palms together over the ceremonial flame. By dawn, we’ll be bound in the eyes of the Council. By the end of seventy days, we’ll either be exiled—or free to walk away.
Seventy days.
Three months of forced unity. Public appearances. Ritual intimacy. The Council will be watching. Every glance. Every touch. Every lie we feed them.
And she thinks she can outplay me.
A low knock at the door.
“Enter,” I say, voice rough.
Soren steps in, silent as shadow, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me. My lieutenant. My only friend. The only one who’s seen me break.
“They’re ready,” he says. “The Council’s envoys. They want to confirm the terms.”
I nod, pulling on the tunic. “Let them wait.”
“Kaelen.” His voice is quiet. Serious. “You know what they’re going to say.”
“I know.”
“They’ll demand proof of unity. Public displays. Shared quarters. Ritual compliance.”
“And if we refuse?”
“Exile. Or execution, if they decide she’s a threat.”
I turn to him. “Is she?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “She came here to destroy the Council. She wants the Blood Codex. She blames your father for her mother’s death.”
“And?”
“And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at her when the bond flared.”
I go still. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he cuts in. “I’ve fought beside you for ten years. I’ve seen you bleed, rage, kill. But I’ve never seen you *want* like that. Not even close.”
I look away. “It’s the bond.”
“Is it?” He steps closer. “Or is it her? The way she defied you. The way she didn’t flinch. The way she called you out in front of the entire court.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“So are you.”
I glare at him. “You’re testing me.”
“Someone has to.” He crosses his arms. “Because if you’re not careful, Kaelen, you’re going to choose her over the pack. Over the Council. Over everything.”
“I serve the law.”
“Do you?” His voice drops. “Or are you just repeating what he taught you?”
I turn back to the mirror, gripping the edge of the washbasin. The water trembles. “I don’t know what he did.”
“You don’t *want* to know.”
“There’s no proof.”
“She says there is. In the Codex.”
I close my eyes. My mother’s face flashes in my mind—pale, broken, the night she died. She tried to tell me something. A name. A warning. But Malrik silenced her before she could speak.
And I did nothing.
“If the Codex clears her mother,” I say, “it implicates him.”
“Then let it.”
My eyes snap open. “You’d have me betray my own father?”
“I’d have you serve justice. Not fear.”
We stare at each other. The silence stretches, thick with everything we don’t say.
Finally, I straighten. “Get the envoys. I’ll meet them in the hall.”
He hesitates. “And her?”
“She stays here. For now.”
He nods and leaves.
I take one last look in the mirror. Adjust the silver clasp at my throat. Then I open the door.
She’s standing at the balcony, back to me, her silhouette sharp against the twilight. The wind catches her hair, lifting it like dark flame. She doesn’t turn.
“I’m going to the council chamber,” I say. “You’ll stay here. The wards will alert me if you try to leave.”
She turns. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes are like winter sky—cold, clear, unyielding.
“And if I don’t want to stay?”
“Then you’ll find out what happens when you break a bond.”
Her lips curl. “You’d let me suffer?”
“I’d let you learn.”
“Learn what? That you’re just like him? That you’d rather see me in pain than admit the truth?”
“I don’t know the truth.”
“You’re afraid to.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Liar.”
I step forward, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back down. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares up at me, daring me.
“You want the Codex,” I say. “Fine. But you’ll get it *my* way. Not by tearing everything down. By surviving this. By playing the game.”
“And what if I don’t want to play?”
“Then you die.” I lean in, my voice a whisper. “But if you stay? If you work with me? You might just live long enough to clear your mother’s name.”
Her breath hitches. Just once. A crack in the ice.
“And what do you get out of it?” she asks.
“Peace. Order. The Council intact.”
“And?”
I hold her gaze. “The bond. It’s not just magic. It’s power. Together, we could be stronger than the Tribunal. Stronger than the Fang. Stronger than *him*.”
She studies me, searching for the lie. But there isn’t one. Not this time.
“You’d really go against your father?”
“I’d do what’s right.”
“Even if it destroys you?”
“Even then.”
For the first time, I see it—doubt. Not in me. In *herself*. The flicker of hope she’s been denying.
Then it’s gone.
“Prove it,” she says.
“Seventy days,” I tell her. “Survive them. Stay by my side. Play the devoted mate. And I’ll take you to the Codex.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll make sure you never see it.”
She steps back. “You’re not my savior, Kaelen. You’re my prison.”
“And you’re mine,” I say. “Whether you like it or not.”
I turn and walk to the door.
“You’ll call me husband,” I say, hand on the latch. “Even if it’s a lie. Even if it burns your tongue. You’ll say it with a smile. Or I’ll make you regret it.”
She doesn’t answer.
But I hear her whisper as the door closes behind me.
“You first.”
The council chamber is a cavern of black stone and silver flame, the air thick with magic and tension. The three envoys sit in their thrones—Veyra of the Moonspire, Lord Malrik of the Blood Tribunal, and Garrik of the Southern Claw. My father’s presence is a weight on my skin, a cold hand at the base of my skull.
He doesn’t look at me. Not at first. He’s studying the scorched remains of the contract scroll, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. Vampire stillness. Ancient, calculating. Dangerous.
“So,” he says, voice like silk over steel, “the fated bond returns. After centuries of silence. How… *convenient*.”
“It’s real,” I say, stepping forward. “The Mark of Twin Flames. The bond is active.”
“And the girl?” Veyra asks, her fae gaze sharp. “She’s Moonblood?”
“Her runes flared. There’s no doubt.”
Garrik leans forward, his werewolf eyes gleaming. “This could be a blessing. A union between Fang and Moonblood could stabilize the Council. End the old feuds.”
“Or,” Malrik says, “it could be a trap. A half-breed witch using forbidden magic to bind the Alpha of the Fang. To infiltrate. To destroy.”
I keep my voice level. “She’s under my control.”
“Are you?” He finally looks at me. His eyes are black as void, depthless. “Or is the bond controlling *you*?”
“I serve the Council.”
“Do you?” A slow smile. “Or do you serve your cock now?”
The insult hits like a blade. But I don’t react. I’ve learned that from him. Control. Silence. Power in stillness.
“The bond demands compliance,” Veyra interrupts. “They must wed by moonrise, or be exiled as traitors.”
“Exile isn’t enough,” Malrik says. “If she’s a spy, she should be executed.”
“The bond protects her,” I say. “Kill her, and I die with her. The Fang would revolt. The Accord would collapse.”
He studies me. “You’d die for her?”
“I’d die for the law.”
“Liar.”
The word hangs in the air.
Then Veyra speaks. “The Council has decided. You will wed. But the bond is too volatile to leave unchecked. You will be monitored. For seventy days, you must appear as united mates—publicly, ritually, emotionally. You will attend events together. Share quarters. Perform the required intimacy rites. If at any point you fail to comply, you will both be exiled.”
“And after?” I ask.
“If you survive the trial,” Garrik says, “you may dissolve the bond. Walk away. Free.”
Seventy days.
A test. A leash. A slow, public suffocation.
Malrik rises. “I suggest you begin now, son. Prove your loyalty. Prove you’re not weak.”
He turns and walks away, his cloak whispering over stone.
I don’t watch him go.
“The ceremony is at moonrise,” Veyra says. “Be there. And Kaelen?”
I look at her.
“Don’t disappoint us.”
I leave the chamber, Soren falling into step beside me.
“Seventy days,” he says.
“A test,” I mutter.
“Or a trap.”
“Either way, I have to play it.”
“And her?”
“She’ll play it too. Or she’ll burn.”
We walk in silence for a while. Then he says, “You know he’ll use this. To turn the pack against you. To isolate you.”
“Let him.”
“And if he comes for her?”
I stop. Turn to him. “Then he’ll have to go through me.”
He nods, satisfied.
When I return to my chambers, she’s where I left her—by the balcony, staring into the dark. The moon is rising, a silver blade in the sky.
“We have a wedding to attend,” I say.
She turns. Her face is pale, her eyes bright. Not with fear. With fire.
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’ll be exiled. Hunted. Killed.”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then you survive. For now.”
She takes a step forward. “They’re giving us seventy days. To prove we’re united. To prove we’re *mates*.”
“Yes.”
“And after?”
“We walk away. If we want to.”
She smiles. Cold. Sharp. “You think I’ll ever want to?”
“I think,” I say, stepping into her space, “that you’ll do whatever it takes to get what you want. Even if it means pretending to love me.”
Her breath hitches. Just once.
“You first,” she whispers.
I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “Then I’ll show you how it’s done, *wife*.”
Her eyes flare. But she doesn’t pull away.
And for the first time, I let myself hope.
That maybe—just maybe—this won’t destroy us.
That maybe, it’ll save us instead.
The moon is high when we stand beneath the arch, hands clasped, blood mingling on the ceremonial flame. The words are spoken. The vows are sealed.
And as the fire burns blue, I look into her winter-sky eyes and whisper the lie that might just become truth.
“I do.”