The moment I step into the Archives and see her—dagger in hand, moonfire in her veins, defiance in every line of her body—I want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her back to my chambers. Not to punish. Not to chain. But to *keep*. To lock the door, silence the wards, and spend the next seventy days learning the taste of her skin, the sound of her gasp, the way her body arches when I touch her just right.
But I can’t.
Because she’s not mine. Not yet. And if I lose control now—if I let the bond, the heat, the hunger take over—I’ll lose her forever.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I push.
I punish.
I prove I’m stronger.
The loyalty charm clicks shut around her wrist, and the surge of magic that follows is almost my undoing. Her breath hitches. Her back arches. Her eyes—winter-sky, cold and sharp—go wide with shock, then flutter shut as pleasure rips through her. She trembles. Sways. Would’ve fallen if I hadn’t caught her.
And gods, she feels good in my arms.
Soft. Warm. *Mine*.
But I let her go.
Because if I don’t, I won’t stop at one kiss. One touch. One claim.
I’ll take everything.
And then what?
She’ll hate me. Truly. Irrevocably. And I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
So I leave.
Walk away while my blood screams at me to turn back. While the bond throbs like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, reminding me she’s out there—alone, wounded, furious—while I retreat to the safety of my bed, my silence, my control.
But I don’t sleep.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, boots still on, hands braced on my knees, listening. Waiting.
And when I hear it—faint, muffled, but unmistakable—a sharp cry from the courtyard below, followed by the thud of a body hitting stone—I’m on my feet before the sound fully registers.
She’s hurt.
I don’t think. I move.
The balcony doors burst open under my palm, the wards flaring crimson as I break protocol and leap into the night. The drop is twenty feet. I land in a roll, come up running, following the scent of her blood—copper and moonlight and something deeper, sweeter—through the maze of supply crates, past the sleeping stables, toward the west wall.
And there she is.
Curled on her side in the shadow of the Archives tower, one hand clutching her ribs, the other wrapped around the stolen scroll. Her leathers are torn at the shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat and blood. Moonfire still flickers beneath her collar, the runes on her spine pulsing weakly, like a dying star.
“Brielle,” I growl, dropping to my knees beside her.
She flinches. Tries to push herself up. Fails.
“Don’t—” she gasps. “Don’t touch me.”
“Too late for that.” I slide an arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lift. She’s lighter than I expected. Fragile. *Hurt*. And the moment her body presses against mine, the bond *roars*—not with heat, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something primal.
Protection.
She stiffens. “Put me down.”
“No.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely breathe.”
She tries to twist away, but a sharp inhale betrays her. Broken rib. Maybe two. And the wound on her shoulder—deep, jagged—is still bleeding.
“You set a trap,” she hisses. “That ward wasn’t just a warning. It *attacked* me.”
“It wasn’t me.” My voice is rough. “The Archives are protected by ancient fae magic. It reacts to unauthorized entry. To *Moonblood* entry.”
“Convenient.”
“Not for you.”
She doesn’t answer. Just grits her teeth as I carry her through the fortress, past startled guards who don’t dare question me, up the winding stairs to my chambers. The wards flare as we cross the threshold, but I don’t care. Let them report it. Let the Council know I broke protocol. Let them try to take her from me now.
I lay her on the bed—*our* bed—and step back, forcing myself to breathe, to think, to *not* touch her again.
But she’s shivering.
Not from pain. From cold. From the bond. From the distance between us.
“Take it off,” she whispers, eyes closed. “The charm. It’s making it worse.”
I hesitate. The loyalty charm is meant to bind, to punish, to *control*. But it’s also linked to me—if she’s in pain, I feel it. If she lies, I know. And right now, she’s in agony.
“It won’t help,” I say. “The bond is already screaming. Removing the charm won’t stop it.”
“Just do it.”
I step forward, reach for the chain. My fingers brush her wrist, and the moment they do, the bond flares—heat, magic, *need*—coursing through me like wildfire. Her breath hitches. Mine does too.
And then I see it.
The blood on her shoulder isn’t just from the wound.
It’s mixed with something else. Silver. Glowing faintly.
Fae poison.
“You’ve been tainted,” I say, voice sharp. “The ward didn’t just cut you. It *infected* you.”
Her eyes snap open. “Then heal me.”
“I’m not a witch.”
“You’re my *mate*.”
“That doesn’t give me healing magic.”
“It gives you *something*.” She grabs my wrist, her grip weak but desperate. “The bond—your blood—it can slow the poison. Just… just let me drink from you.”
I freeze.
Blood-sharing. Intimacy. For vampires, it’s sacred. Forbidden outside of mating bonds. And even then, only in moments of true need.
But I’m not full vampire. I’m half-werewolf. The Fang don’t do blood oaths. They don’t drink from their mates.
But the bond doesn’t care about tradition.
It only cares about survival.
And right now, she’s dying.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I say, voice low.
“I know I’ll die if you don’t.”
She’s right.
The silver in her veins is spreading—slow, but relentless. Moonbloods are vulnerable to fae poison. It corrupts their magic, turns their moonfire inward, burns them from the inside out.
If I don’t act now, she won’t last the night.
I pull a dagger from my belt, slice open my palm, and press it to her mouth.
“Drink,” I order.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Her lips close around my wound, soft and warm, and the moment her tongue touches my blood, the bond *explodes*.
Not pain.
Not pleasure.
*Connection*.
It’s like every nerve in my body is linked to hers. I feel the poison—cold, sharp, invasive—slithering through her veins. I feel her fear. Her pain. Her *trust*.
And then—heat.
It starts in my palm, spreads up my arm, floods my chest. My vision blurs. My knees weaken. My fangs extend. I growl—low, involuntary—and my free hand flies to her hair, holding her closer, *needing* her closer.
She drinks deeply, greedily, and with every swallow, the silver in her veins recedes. The wound on her shoulder stops bleeding. The tremors ease.
But the bond doesn’t quiet.
If anything, it’s louder. Stronger. *Hungrier*.
And when she finally pulls back, her lips stained red, her eyes dazed, her breath coming in soft pants, I know I’m in trouble.
Because she’s *beautiful*.
Not in the cold, sharp way she usually is. Not with armor and defiance. But soft. Open. *Mine*.
And I want to kiss her.
I want to strip off her clothes and taste every inch of her. I want to press her into the mattress and make her scream my name.
But I don’t.
I step back. Wipe my palm on my thigh. Turn away.
“The poison is neutralized,” I say, voice rough. “But you’ll need rest. And more blood by dawn, if the wound reopens.”
She doesn’t answer.
I hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the bed. Then her voice—quiet, unsteady.
“Why save me?”
I don’t turn. Don’t look. Just stare at the fire, willing my body to calm, my fangs to retract, my pulse to slow.
“Because if you die,” I say, “I die with you. The bond won’t let me survive.”
“That’s not why.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You could’ve let me bleed out. You could’ve handed me over to the Council. Called me a traitor. Said I broke the wards.”
“And broken the bond? Lost my rank? Started a war?”
“You’re lying.” Her voice is softer now. Closer. “You *care*.”
I turn.
She’s sitting up, the blankets pooled around her waist, her leathers still torn at the shoulder, her skin pale but no longer clammy. Her eyes—those winter-sky eyes—are locked on mine, searching.
And I can’t lie.
Not to her. Not now.
So I don’t answer.
Just stare.
At her lips—still red from my blood.
At her throat—where her pulse flutters, fast and bright.
At her mouth—where I want to kiss her so badly it *hurts*.
And then, without thinking, I step forward.
Not to touch. Not to claim.
Just to *see*.
I kneel beside the bed, close enough that my breath brushes her skin. My hand reaches out—slow, deliberate—and brushes the edge of the wound. Her breath hitches. Her body tenses. But she doesn’t pull away.
“It’s healing,” I say, voice low. “Faster than it should.”
“Your blood,” she whispers.
“No.” I tilt my head, studying the skin. “*Ours*.”
She stills. “What?”
“The bond. It’s not just magic. It’s *merging* us. Your moonfire. My werewolf strength. My vampire blood. It’s all becoming something new.”
Her eyes widen. “Is that… dangerous?”
“For everyone else?” I meet her gaze. “Yes. For us?” A slow, dangerous smile. “It’s power.”
She swallows. “And if we break the bond?”
“Then we break ourselves.”
She looks away. “Seventy days.”
“And then?”
“Freedom.”
“Is that what you want?”
She doesn’t answer.
And I don’t press.
Instead, I reach for the medical kit on the nightstand—linen, salve, thread. I don’t speak as I clean the wound, apply the ointment, stitch the skin with careful, precise movements. My fingers are steady. My breath even. But inside, I’m *burning*.
Every touch sends a jolt through the bond. Every brush of her skin makes my fangs ache. Every soft inhale when I press too hard makes my cock twitch.
And when I’m done, when the wound is closed and bandaged, when her leathers are pulled back into place, I don’t move.
Just kneel there, close enough to feel her heat, to smell her scent—storm and magic and *mine*—and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to survive seventy days of this.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“You’re wounded.”
“And you’re not my healer.”
“No.” I lift my hand, brush a strand of hair from her face. “I’m your mate.”
Her breath catches.
Not from pain.
From *awareness*.
From the way my thumb lingers on her cheek. The way my eyes drop to her lips. The way the bond hums between us, low and insistent, *needing*.
And then—
She leans forward.
Just an inch.
But it’s enough.
Our breaths mingle. Our lips are a whisper apart. The fire crackles. The wards hum. The moon climbs higher.
And for the first time, I let myself hope.
That maybe—just maybe—she wants this too.
That maybe, she’ll choose me.
Not for the bond.
Not for the mission.
But for *me*.
I don’t close the distance.
I let her decide.
And for one heartbeat, one breath, one *eternity*—
She almost does.
Then she pulls back.
“I need to sleep,” she whispers.
“You can’t stay here,” I say, standing. “The Council—”
“I’m not leaving.” She lies down, pulls the blankets over her. “You want me to play the devoted mate? Then let me *look* like one. Let them see me in your bed.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not safe.”
“Neither is the Archives. But I went anyway.”
She’s right.
And she’s stubborn.
And gods help me, I *admire* her.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you try to leave again—”
“You’ll punish me.” She smirks. “I know. You’ve made that clear.”
I turn to the door. “Sleep. I’ll be in the sitting room.”
“Kaelen.”
I pause.
“Thank you.”
I don’t answer.
Just close the door behind me.
And in the silence of the outer chamber, I press my forehead to the cold stone, breathing through the ache in my chest, the fire in my blood, the truth I can no longer deny.
I’m not just her jailer.
I’m not just her mate.
I’m *falling* for her.
And if she ever finds out?
She’ll use it to destroy me.
But as I sit by the dying fire, listening to her breath even out in sleep, one thought cuts through the fear, the duty, the legacy.
Let her try.
Because I’ll burn with her before I let her go.