The locket rests against my chest now, warm and pulsing, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. The map it revealed is seared into my mind—tunnels winding beneath the Fang Citadel, chambers sealed with Moonblood magic, a vault hidden even from the Alpha’s eyes. But before we can reach it, before we can reclaim what was stolen, we have to survive what’s coming.
And it’s coming fast.
The fortress still hums with the aftermath of battle—stone cracked, sigils scorched, the air thick with the scent of blood and old magic. But the silence now isn’t the quiet of defeat. It’s the stillness before the storm. The kind that settles when the first wave has broken, and the second is gathering force on the horizon.
And I feel it in the bond.
A low, insistent thrum beneath my skin, not with desire, not with heat, but with warning. Kaelen feels it too. I see it in the way his jaw tightens when we walk through the corridors, in the way his storm-silver eyes flicker toward the shadows, in the way his hand never leaves the hilt of his war-knife.
“They’re gathering,” he says as we descend through the west wing, our steps echoing in the narrow passage. “The old guard. The ones who still believe Malrik’s lies. Who think I’ve been weakened by the bond. By you.”
“Let them,” I say, my voice steady. “They’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
He stops, turns to me, his body caging me in against the cold stone. His heat floods into me, his presence a wall, his scent a cage. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just about loyalty. It’s about *fear*. Fear of change. Fear of a woman who stands beside the Alpha not as a consort, but as an equal. Fear of a Moonblood heir who wields magic they can’t control.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
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.
“Then let them fear me,” I say, lifting my chin. “Let them see what happens when they challenge us.”
He doesn’t smile. 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. “You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs. “You’re my equal. My partner. My queen.”
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
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.
We reach the training grounds—vast, open, carved from black stone, its edges lined with weapons racks, its center dominated by a ring of fire pits, their flames dancing in the predawn light. The air is thick with the scent of pine, iron, frost, and sweat. And there—
The Fang.
Not all of them. Not the young recruits. Not the ones who fought beside us in the Council Chamber. But the old guard. The loyalists. The ones who still wear Malrik’s sigil etched into their armor, who still speak his name like a prayer.
And at their head—
Rhys.
Former Beta. Former mentor. Former friend.
He stands in the center of the ring, his war-axe in hand, his body coiled, his golden eyes locked onto Kaelen. He doesn’t bow. Doesn’t kneel. Just watches. Waits. Challenges.
“Alpha,” he says, voice loud, cutting through the silence. “You’ve returned. With your… *mate*.” He lingers on the word, mocking it. “I see the bond still holds. Despite the lies. Despite the corruption.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Just steps forward, his body caging me in. “The bond is pure. The truth is exposed. And Malrik is finished.”
“Is he?” Rhys asks, stepping forward. “Or has he simply retreated? Bided his time? And what of you, Alpha? Have you forgotten the ways of the Fang? The strength of the pack? Or have you let her—” He points at me. “—soften you?”
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.
And then—
I step forward.
Not around Kaelen.
With him.
I walk up to Rhys, my winter-sky eyes sharp, my voice low. “You want to know if he’s weak?” I ask. “Then ask yourself why Malrik never challenged him. Why he let his own son rise. Why he feared him more than any weapon.”
Rhys doesn’t answer. Just stares at the ground.
“And if you think I’ve softened him,” I continue, “then look at what we’ve done. We broke the tracking spell. We exposed the Codex. We stood before the Council and named the real traitor. And we’re still standing.”
He lifts his head. His golden eyes burn. “You’re not one of us. You never will be. A half-breed. A witch. A fae. You don’t belong here.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping closer, “I’m the one who saved his life. Who fought beside him. Who bled for him. Who loves him.”
“Love?” He laughs. Sharp. Cold. Triumphant. “Love is weakness. The Fang doesn’t need love. We need strength. Loyalty. Blood.”
“And what is loyalty,” I ask, “if it’s not to the Alpha? What is blood, if not to the pack? You say I don’t belong. But who stood with him when the walls were closing in? Who fought when the odds were against us? Who bled when the bond was breaking?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just tightens his grip on the axe.
And then—
Kaelen steps forward.
Not between us.
Beside me.
“You were my Beta,” he says, voice low, rough. “My brother. And I trusted you. But you’ve chosen a path that leads to war. To division. To the very thing Malrik wanted.”
“And what do you offer?” Rhys asks. “A woman who came here to destroy us all? A bond forged in lies? A future where the Fang kneels to a Moonblood heir?”
“I offer truth,” Kaelen says. “Unity. A pack that stands together, not divided by fear or pride. And if you can’t see that—” He draws his war-knife. “—then you’re not my brother. You’re my enemy.”
The silence that follows is heavier than any roar.
And then—
Rhys charges.
Not with honor. Not with skill.
With *numbers*.
From the shadows, the loyalists move—werewolves, half-shifted, fangs bared, claws extended. They come from all sides, their eyes gold, their breath hot, their weapons flashing in the torchlight.
And we’re ready.
Kaelen fights like a storm—brutal, precise, feral—his war-knife flashing, his claws tearing through flesh, his fangs sinking into throats. I fight with magic—moonfire flaring in pulses of silver flame, my dagger flashing, my voice sharp with command. We move as one—back to back, side by side, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose.
And then—
Rhys lunges.
Not at Kaelen.
At *me*.
His axe aimed at my head.
And I move.
Not thinking.
Not hesitating.
I *throw* myself into a roll, the blade slicing through the air where my neck had been. I come up fast, my dagger flashing, slicing across his thigh. He roars—low, guttural—and swings again, but I’m already inside his guard, my free hand pressing against his chest, moonfire surging through my palm.
He flies back, crashing into the stone wall, his body convulsing as the magic burns through him. He hits the ground hard, his axe clattering from his hand.
And then—
Kaelen is on him.
Not to kill.
To *claim*.
He pins Rhys to the ground, one knee in his chest, his war-knife at his throat. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—grief. Regret. Hope.
“You were my brother,” he says, voice rough. “And I loved you. But you chose a path that leads to destruction. And I won’t let you take the pack with you.”
Rhys doesn’t answer. Just stares at the sky, his breath ragged, his body trembling.
And then—
Kaelen stands.
Not in victory.
In *mercy*.
He sheathes his blade. “You’re not my enemy,” he says. “But you’re no longer my Beta. Leave. Take your men. And if you ever raise a hand against this pack again—” He doesn’t finish. Just turns.
And walks to me.
His hand finds mine. His body leans into mine. His breath is warm against my ear.
“You fought for me,” he murmurs.
I press my forehead to his. “I’d burn the world for you.”
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the battle is won.
Not because the loyalists are broken.
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.
The training grounds are silent 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.
But I don’t feel it.
Not with him at my side.
We leave the ring—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 were incredible,” he says, voice low. “Out there. With Rhys. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t fear him.”
“And you showed mercy,” I say, stepping forward. “When you could have killed him.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t show mercy. I showed strength. Killing him would have made me like Malrik. Letting him live? That takes more courage.”
My chest tightens. Not from exhaustion.
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—
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—
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.”