The first thing I feel when I wake is the ache in my ribs—a deep, bruising throb that flares with every breath. The second is the cold weight of the loyalty charm around my wrist, its magic pulsing like a second heartbeat, tethering me to *him*. The third is the scent.
Pine and iron. Frost and fire. Kaelen.
He’s not in the room, but he’s *here*. His presence lingers in the air, in the rumpled sheets beside me, in the faint warmth still radiating from the pillow where his head should’ve been. I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the taste of his blood—copper and something darker, sweeter, like burnt sugar and old violence. The memory sends a jolt through me, not of revulsion, but of *hunger*. Not for blood. For *him*.
I hate that.
I sit up slowly, wincing as my ribs protest, and peel back the bandages. The wound on my shoulder is nearly healed—pink, tight, already scarring. His blood did that. Not just neutralized the poison, but *fused* with mine, accelerated the healing. The bond is changing us. Merging us. And I don’t know if that terrifies me more than the thought of breaking it.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, testing my balance. The dizziness is gone. The pain is manageable. The bond hums low in my gut, a constant reminder that he’s close, that I’m not free, that I never really was.
The outer chamber is empty. No Kaelen. No Soren. Just the crackle of the hearth, the hum of the wards, the soft rustle of parchment on the table where I left it—the *Access Protocols* scroll, now tucked beneath a dagger, its secrets still burning in my mind. *Fated Bond Protocol – Activation requires dual blood signature. If bond is forged under duress, subject may experience accelerated magical degradation. Recommend immediate dissolution.*
They want us to break. They want the bond to fail. And if it does, I’ll be exiled. Hunted. Killed.
But so will he.
I press my fingers to the charm. It’s not just a leash. It’s a weapon. One he thinks he controls. But if the bond is degrading, if it’s feeding on our lies, our secrets, our hatred—then every time he punishes me, every time he binds me tighter, he’s only accelerating the decay.
Let him.
I don’t need his protection. I don’t need his blood. I don’t need *him*.
I just need the truth.
I dress quickly—fresh leathers, clean boots, my hair bound tight—then step to the balcony. The sun is high, the sky a pale, cloudless blue. Below, the fortress stirs—werewolves training in the courtyard, vampires moving like shadows through the corridors, fae envoys gliding through the gardens with their usual, disdainful grace. Normal. Routine. As if last night didn’t happen. As if I didn’t break into the Archives. As if I didn’t nearly die.
As if I’m not married.
I turn from the view and stride toward the door. If I’m going to play the devoted mate, I’ll do it on my terms. I’ll smile. I’ll touch. I’ll whisper in his ear like I *want* him. And while I do, I’ll watch. I’ll listen. I’ll *learn*.
And I’ll find a way to break that damn charm.
The door opens before I reach it.
Kaelen steps in, dressed in black leather, his storm-silver eyes locking onto mine the second he sees me. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just studies me—my stance, my breath, the way I hold my ribs.
“You’re up,” he says.
“Surprised?”
“Impressed.” He steps forward, close enough that I can smell him—clean now, but still *him*. “The wound’s healing fast.”
“Your blood’s good for something, then.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, a predator assessing prey. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
“And miss our first morning as husband and wife?” I step past him, into the hall. “Wouldn’t want the Council to think we’re not… *united*.”
He follows, his presence a wall at my back. “You’re pushing.”
“You’re *expecting* me to break.”
“I’m expecting you to survive.”
I stop, turn to him. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll carry you through it.”
“Like you carried me last night?”
His jaw tightens. “Like I’d carry you into hell if I had to.”
And just like that, the air shifts. Not with threat. Not with anger. But with something deeper. Something dangerous.
I don’t answer. Just keep walking.
The fortress is alive with whispers. Eyes follow us—werewolves, vampires, fae—some curious, some hostile, some hungry. The fated bond is rare. Mythical. And now it’s real. And it’s *ours*. The rumors will be flying: Did we consummate? Did he mark her? Is she truly Moonblood? Is he weak? Is she a spy?
Let them wonder.
We reach the dining hall—a vast chamber of black stone and silver flame, the long table already set with blood wine, roasted game, and dark bread. But we’re not alone.
She’s there.
Sitting at the head of the table, where *I* should be, dressed in nothing but Kaelen’s shirt—black silk, open at the collar, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, the hem barely covering her thighs. Her hair is tousled, her lips swollen, her skin flushed. She looks like she’s been *used*.
And she’s *smiling*.
Mira Nocturne.
Fae. Seductress. Spy.
And right now, she looks like she just crawled out of his bed.
My blood turns to ice.
“Kaelen,” she purrs, rising slowly, the shirt slipping off one shoulder. “I was just waiting for you. And—” Her eyes flick to me, sharp with mockery. “Your *wife*.”
I don’t look at him. Don’t react. Just walk forward, my boots clicking against stone, my spine straight, my face a mask.
“You’re in my seat,” I say.
She laughs—light, musical, *fake*. “Your seat? Darling, he let me wear this. Said I’d *earned* it.”
The shirt. His shirt. On *her*.
My vision narrows. The bond *screams*—not with pain, not with sickness, but with *jealousy*. Raw. Blinding. *Feral*.
I don’t think. I *move*.
One step. Two. And then my hand is around her throat, slamming her back into the stone wall so hard the silver flame in the sconces flickers.
“You lying little *whore*,” I hiss, my voice low, deadly. “You think you can wear his scent and pretend you’ve claimed him? You think you can walk into *my* home and *mock* me?”
She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t flinch. Just smiles up at me, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “He let me in, didn’t he? He let me wear this. He let me *touch* him. And you? You’re just his *prisoner*.”
“Brielle.”
Kaelen’s voice cuts through the red haze. Calm. Controlled. But I hear it—the tension beneath. The *warning*.
I don’t let go.
“Did he, Mira?” I lean in, my lips at her ear. “Did he let you in? Or did you sneak in like the thief you are? Did he *touch* you? Or did you just crawl into his bed and hope he’d notice?”
She laughs again. “Ask him.”
I turn.
Kaelen stands just behind me, his expression unreadable, his storm-silver eyes locked on mine. Not angry. Not guilty. Just… *watching*.
“Let her go,” he says.
“Did you sleep with her?” The words tear out of me, raw, ragged.
He doesn’t answer.
And that’s worse than a lie.
I shove her away, hard, and she stumbles, catching herself against the table, her smile widening.
“You’re jealous,” she taunts. “The great Brielle Moonblood, brought low by a little competition.”
“I’m not jealous,” I say, voice ice. “I’m *disgusted*.”
“Liar,” she whispers.
And then Kaelen speaks.
His voice is low, rough, a growl that vibrates through the chamber. “You touch her again, Mira, and I’ll have your tongue.”
Her smile falters.
“And you,” he says, turning to me, “are *mine*.”
My breath catches.
Not from fear.
From the way he says it. Not as a threat. Not as a claim. But as a *truth*.
“You wear my ring,” he continues, stepping closer, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You sleep in my bed. You drink my blood. And you think *she*”—he doesn’t even look at Mira—“could ever be more than a shadow?”
My pulse hammers.
Not from anger.
From the heat in his voice. The fire in his eyes. The way his body *towers* over mine, caging me in, *claiming* me.
“You jealous, *mate*?” he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can feel his breath.
And just like that, the red haze returns. Hotter. Deeper. *Darker*.
“No,” I lie.
He smiles. Slow. Cold. The predator again. “Liar.”
Mira laughs—a sharp, brittle sound. “Oh, this is rich. The fated bond, and she still doesn’t believe he’s hers.”
Kaelen doesn’t look at her. Just keeps his eyes on me. “You want proof?”
My breath stills.
“Then come with me.”
He grabs my wrist—firm, unrelenting—and pulls me toward the inner chambers. I don’t resist. Can’t. The bond *screams* with every step, a mix of fury, need, *hunger*.
Behind us, Mira calls out, voice dripping with venom. “Enjoy your *wife*, Alpha. I’ll be waiting when you’re done with her.”
The door slams shut behind us.
And then he’s on me.
Not with violence. Not with punishment.
With *kisses*.
Hard. Brutal. *Claiming*. His mouth crashes down on mine, teeth and tongue and fire, his hands in my hair, tilting my head back so he can take more. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, his body pressing me into the wall, his thigh sliding between my legs, grinding against the ache that’s been there since last night.
“You’re mine,” he growls between kisses. “Not hers. Not anyone else’s. *Mine*.”
I claw at his chest—pushing, pulling, *needing*—my body arching into him, traitorous and eager.
“Say it,” he demands, his mouth at my throat, his fangs scraping my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“Liar.” He bites—just hard enough to sting, not to mark. “Say it.”
“I—”
He kisses me again, deeper, harder, until I’m gasping, trembling, *breaking*.
And then he stops.
Just like that. Pulls back. Leaves me panting, lips swollen, body on fire.
“You felt that,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
He steps back. “You want proof? You have it. She’s nothing. A distraction. A test. And you? You’re the only one who matters.”
“Then why let her wear your shirt?”
“Because I wanted to see your face when you saw her.”
My breath hitches.
“I wanted to see you *fight* for me.”
And just like that, the world tilts.
He *wanted* this. He *let* her in. He *let* her wear his scent. All to see if I’d *care*.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“No.” He steps close again, his hand cupping my face. “I’m your mate. And I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone take you from me.”
My chest aches. Not from the wound. From something deeper. Something I can’t name.
“Go,” I say, voice breaking. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”
He doesn’t move. “Like what?”
“Like believing you.”
He stares at me. For a heartbeat, I think—*maybe*. Maybe he’ll break. Maybe he’ll say something real.
Then he turns. Walks to the door.
“She’s not alone,” he says, hand on the latch. “Soren found her scent in my chambers before. She’s spying for the Crimson Conclave. And someone inside the Fang is helping her.”
My breath stills.
“But you?” He glances back, silver eyes glinting. “You’re the only one I trust.”
And then he’s gone.
I’m alone.
But not free.
I press my fingers to my lips. They’re still warm. Still tingling.
And for the first time, I’m not sure whether I want to kill him… or kiss him back.
But one thing is certain.
Mira’s not just a rival.
She’s a weapon.
And someone sent her.
Someone who knows my secret.
Someone who wants us both dead.
And Kaelen?
He’s not just my jailer.
He’s not just my mate.
He’s the only one who might keep me alive.
But trusting him?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I press my palm to the balcony railing, the cold stone grounding me. The runes on my spine still burn. The bond still hums beneath my skin.
And somewhere, deep in the vaults beneath the Fang Citadel, the Blood Codex waits.
With the truth.
And my mother’s name.
I will have it.
No matter what it takes.
Even if I have to break him first.
Even if I have to love him.