The silence after he leaves is worse than the shouting, worse than the lies, worse than the kiss that still burns on my lips. It’s not peace. It’s the quiet before the storm. The breath before the scream. The stillness of a blade poised at the throat.
I don’t move. I stand in the center of the chamber, my back to the door, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my ribs aching with every shallow breath. The scent of him lingers—pine and iron, frost and fire—woven through the air like a curse. And beneath it, the faint, cloying perfume Mira wore. Lilac and deceit.
I hate that I noticed.
I hate that I *care*.
But I do. And that’s the worst part.
Kaelen said he wanted to see me fight for him. That Mira was a test. A distraction. That he *let* her wear his shirt just to watch me burn.
And I did. Gods, I did.
I slammed her into the wall. I threatened her. I let jealousy—raw, unfiltered, *feral*—rip through me like a wild thing. And he *liked* it. I saw it in his eyes. Not guilt. Not shame. *Satisfaction*.
He wanted proof I wanted him.
And I gave it to him.
On his terms. In his game. With his rules.
I press my fingers to my lips, still swollen from his kiss, and a shudder runs through me. Not from disgust. From memory. From the way his body pressed against mine, the way his thigh ground into the ache between my legs, the way his voice dropped to that rough, possessive growl: *You’re mine.*
I’m not.
I *can’t* be.
Not when his father signed the order that burned my mother alive.
Not when the Blood Codex is still locked away.
Not when every moment I spend with him is another thread binding me to this lie, this bond, this *prison*.
I turn to the balcony, needing air, needing space, needing to *think*. The sun is high, the sky a pale, cloudless blue, but the wind bites with the promise of snow. I press my palms to the cold stone, grounding myself, focusing on the sharp bite of reality instead of the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the dangerous truth that’s been clawing its way up my throat since last night:
I don’t hate him.
I *can’t* hate him.
Not after he saved me. Not after he let me drink his blood. Not after he carried me back through the fortress like I was something precious instead of a prisoner.
And not after he looked at me in that moment—after the kiss, after the fury—and said, *You’re the only one I trust.*
Liar. Manipulator. Monster.
And yet.
And yet.
I hear footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I know that stride. The quiet power. The controlled tension. The scent that wraps around me before he even speaks.
“You’re brooding,” he says, stopping just behind me. Close enough that I feel the heat of him. Close enough that the bond hums, low and insistent, like a second pulse.
“I’m thinking.”
“About how you almost kissed me back?”
My breath hitches. I whirl on him. “I didn’t—”
“You leaned in,” he says, stepping closer, his storm-silver eyes locked on mine. “Just an inch. But it was enough.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Liar.”
He always does this. Always calls me out. Always sees too much. Always *knows*.
“You used Mira,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “You let her humiliate me. You let her wear your scent. Just to see if I’d *care*.”
“I wanted to know if you’d fight for me.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Then I’d have known you were never going to survive this.”
“This?” I gesture between us. “This farce? This bond? This *marriage*?”
“No.” His hand lifts, brushes a strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingers on my cheek. “*Us*.”
My chest tightens. Not from the wound. From something deeper. Something I can’t name.
“There is no *us*,” I whisper.
“There is.” He steps closer, caging me against the railing. “Whether you admit it or not. Whether you like it or not. The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do you—not really. Not when it matters.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you hate lies. I know you want justice. I know you’d rather die than submit.” His voice drops. “And I know you’re afraid.”
“Of you?”
“Of *this*.” He touches my chest, right over my heart. “Of wanting me. Of needing me. Of *trusting* me.”
I don’t pull away. Can’t. His touch is fire. His words are truth. And the bond—gods, the bond—is screaming, a constant pull, a need so deep it aches.
“I’m not afraid,” I lie.
“Liar.”
He’s so close now. His breath warms my skin. His body blocks the wind. His scent wraps around me, thick and intoxicating. And I want to kiss him. I want to bite him. I want to *burn* him.
And then—
A horn sounds.
Deep. Resonant. Ancient.
The Ritual Call.
We both freeze.
“What is that?” I ask, my voice rough.
“The Moonfire Ceremony,” he says, stepping back, breaking the spell. “Held every full moon. A public display of unity. A test of the bond.”
“A *test*?”
“The bond reacts to moonlight,” he says, turning toward the door. “It amplifies. Reveals. And tonight, the entire court will be watching.”
My blood runs cold. “Reveals *what*?”
“Truth.” He looks at me, really looks, and I see it—concern. Not for the court. Not for the Council. For *me*. “Your runes. If they react… if they ignite…”
“They’ll know I’m Moonblood.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
And just like that, the fragile moment between us shatters. The heat. The hunger. The dangerous *almost*.
Now it’s back to survival.
“I’m not going,” I say.
“You don’t have a choice.” He moves to the wardrobe, pulls out a gown of black silk and silver thread—formal, ceremonial. “You’re my mate. You stand beside me. Or you’re branded a traitor.”
“And if my runes flare?”
“Then we handle it.”
“How? By saying it’s a trick of the light? That I’m just a witch with a flair for drama?”
“By saying you’re *mine*.” His voice is low, dangerous. “And that anyone who questions you answers to me.”
I stare at him. At the gown in his hands. At the man who just admitted he *trusts* me, who just said he’d burn the world down for me, who just used another woman to test my loyalty.
And I don’t know whether to hate him… or believe him.
“Fine,” I say, stepping forward. “But this isn’t unity. It’s a performance.”
“Everything in this court is a performance,” he says, holding out the gown. “The only question is, who’s playing who.”
I take it from him. Our fingers brush. The bond flares—a jolt of heat, a pulse of magic—and I snatch my hand back like I’ve been burned.
He doesn’t react. Just turns. “I’ll wait outside.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there, the gown heavy in my hands, the wind biting at my skin, the bond humming beneath my ribs. I don’t want to wear it. I don’t want to stand beside him. I don’t want to play his game.
But I don’t have a choice.
Not if I want the truth.
Not if I want to survive.
I strip off my leathers, wincing as my ribs protest, and pull on the gown. It’s tight, high-collared, the sleeves long and fitted, the fabric cool against my skin. The silver thread catches the light, shimmering like starlight. I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t need to. I know what I’ll see—Brielle Moonblood, heir to a dead line, bound to the son of her mother’s killer, playing the role of devoted wife.
I open the door.
He’s waiting, dressed in black leather, his hair pulled back, his storm-silver eyes scanning me from head to toe. Not with desire. With assessment. With *concern*.
“You look… dangerous,” he says.
“Good.” I step past him. “That’s the point.”
The Moonlit Hall is already packed when we arrive—werewolves in their ceremonial furs, vampires in blood-red silks, fae in gossamer veils that shift with their glamour. The air hums with magic, with tension, with the sharp, metallic scent of anticipation. Torches line the walls, their flames dyed silver, casting long, flickering shadows across the black stone.
We walk the length of the hall together, side by side, hands clasped, the bond pulsing between us like a living thing. Whispers rise in our wake—*Moonblood, fated, traitor, Alpha, liar, mate*—but I don’t flinch. I keep my spine straight, my chin high, my expression cold.
And then I feel it.
A prickle at the base of my skull. A warmth beneath my collar. A *thrum*.
The runes.
They’re reacting.
I glance at Kaelen. He feels it too. His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. His eyes flicker gold.
“Stay calm,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
Too late.
The moon rises above the archway, its silver light spilling into the hall like liquid fire. And the moment it touches me, the runes *ignite*.
Not a flicker. Not a glow.
Fire.
White-hot, roaring, *uncontrollable*. It erupts from my spine, spiraling up through my veins, bursting through the fabric of the gown, painting the hall in pulses of silver flame. I cry out—half pain, half pleasure—as my body arches, my head thrown back, my magic surging, *unleashed*.
“Moonfire!” someone shouts.
“She’s Moonblood!” another gasps.
The hall erupts into chaos—shouts, screams, the scrape of steel, the flare of defensive magic. I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. The magic is too much, too raw, too *alive*. It burns through me, feeding on the bond, on the moonlight, on the heat of Kaelen’s hand still locked in mine.
And then—
He’s there.
His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him, grounding me, *anchoring* me. His other hand presses to the small of my back, right over the runes, and the moment his skin touches mine, the fire *shifts*.
Not less. Not gone.
Controlled.
Guided.
Like he’s channeling it. Like he’s *sharing* it.
“Breathe,” he growls in my ear. “With me. Now.”
I gasp. He inhales. I exhale. He releases.
Again.
And again.
The fire doesn’t die. But it bends. It listens. It *obeys*.
And slowly, slowly, the chaos in my blood stills.
The runes dim. The flames recede. The hall falls silent.
I’m still in his arms. Still pressed against him. Still trembling.
And the entire court is staring.
“What *are* you?” Kaelen murmurs, his voice low, rough, his hand still on my back, his breath warm against my ear.
I pull back, breaking the contact, breaking the spell. My skin feels cold without him. My body aches. My magic hums, restless, *awake*.
“Not yours,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t demand. Just watches me, his storm-silver eyes searching, concerned, *knowing*.
And then the High Envoys step forward.
Veyra, Malrik, Garrik. The triad. The rulers. The liars.
“The bond is strong,” Veyra says, her voice cutting through the silence. “The Moonfire confirms it. They are truly fated.”
Malrik’s eyes—black as void—flicker over me, cold, calculating. “A rare gift. A dangerous one.”
Garrik grins, feral. “The Fang will respect it. As will the Claw.”
They don’t ask. Don’t accuse. Don’t challenge.
They *accept*.
Because the bond is law. Because the Moonfire is truth. Because in this world, magic doesn’t lie.
And for the first time, I see it—Kaelen’s relief. Not for the court. Not for the Council.
For *me*.
He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t know if I’d survive it. And he was *afraid*.
“We should go,” he says, stepping close, his hand finding mine again. “She needs rest.”
“Of course,” Veyra says. “The bonding is complete. The court recognizes your union.”
We leave together, side by side, the whispers rising behind us. But this time, they’re different.
No longer *liar, spy, Moonblood*.
Now it’s *mate, fated, Alpha’s wife*.
And as we walk through the fortress, his hand warm in mine, the bond humming between us, the runes still pulsing beneath my skin, one truth cuts through the fear, the fury, the lies:
I’m not just playing a role.
I’m becoming it.
And the most dangerous part?
I don’t know if I want to stop.
Back in the chamber, he closes the door, seals the wards, and turns to me. No words. No demands. Just that look—storm-silver, intense, *knowing*.
“Take off the gown,” he says.
“What?”
“The runes. They’re still active. The fabric’s irritating them.”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for the fastenings. The silk slips from my shoulders, pools at my feet. I stand before him in nothing but my shift, the runes glowing faintly beneath the thin fabric, the scars from last night’s wound still pink and tender.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t leer. Just steps forward, his hand lifting to my back, his fingers brushing the edge of the runes.
“They’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough.
My breath hitches. “They’re a death sentence.”
“Not anymore.” His thumb traces the curve of a sigil. “They’re power. *Your* power.”
“And if the Council decides it’s too much? Too dangerous?”
“Then they’ll have to go through me.”
I turn to him. “Why? Why protect me? After everything I’ve said? Everything I’ve done?”
He doesn’t answer. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of the truth in his eyes.
And when he leans in, when his lips brush mine—soft, slow, *real*—I don’t pull away.
I don’t push.
I don’t fight.
I just… let go.
And for the first time since I walked into this fortress, I let myself wonder:
What if the fire that was meant to burn me…
Could also be the one that saves me?
And what if the man I came to destroy…
Is the only one who can help me rise from the ashes?