The moment her lips meet mine, something inside me *breaks*.
Not the control I’ve spent a lifetime building. Not the walls I’ve reinforced with duty, with silence, with the cold weight of my father’s legacy. No. It’s something deeper. Something I didn’t even know was there—some final, stubborn resistance to *her*, to *this*, to the truth I’ve been denying since the first spark of the bond flared between us.
And now it’s gone.
She doesn’t kiss like she’s surrendering. She kisses like she’s *claiming*. Her hands fly to my chest—claws out, fabric tearing—as she pulls me closer, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that matches my own. I groan, low and rough, and my arms lock around her, lifting her off the ground, pressing her back against the wall as I take more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the heat of it.
And then—
A horn sounds.
Not the deep, resonant call of the Moonfire Ceremony. This is sharper. Colder. Ancient.
The Frost Call.
I freeze. Pull back. My breath comes in ragged pulls, my fangs still extended, my body taut with need. Brielle stares up at me, her lips swollen, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. The runes on her spine still glow faintly beneath the thin fabric of her shift, pulsing with the aftermath of moonfire, of magic, of *us*.
“What is that?” she whispers.
“The Frozen Sanctum,” I say, setting her down, stepping back before I lose myself again. “A sacred ritual. Held during the lunar eclipse. A test of endurance. Of unity.”
Her eyes narrow. “Another test?”
“One we can’t refuse.” I turn to the wardrobe, pulling out a heavy fur-lined cloak. “If we don’t attend, we’re branded weak. Unworthy. The bond will be questioned.”
She doesn’t move. Just watches me, her expression unreadable. “And if we do attend?”
“Then we survive it. Together.”
“Or die together.”
I stop. Turn to her. “You think I’d let you die?”
“I think,” she says, stepping forward, her voice low, “that you’d let me suffer to prove a point.”
“Not to you.” I hold her gaze. “Never to you.”
She studies me. Then, slowly, she reaches for her gown, pulling it back on without a word. I don’t watch. Don’t offer to help. Just hand her the cloak I’ve laid out—black fur, silver clasps, warm enough to withstand the Sanctum’s ice. She takes it, fastens it around her shoulders, and when she looks up, her winter-sky eyes are sharp, clear, *ready*.
“Then let’s go,” she says. “Before you decide to test me again.”
The walk to the Frozen Sanctum is silent. We move through the fortress’s lower levels—stone corridors lit by flickering sconces, the air growing colder with every step, the scent of frost and old magic thick in my lungs. The Sanctum is deep beneath the fortress, carved into the mountain’s heart, a place of trial and purification. Only bonded pairs may enter. Only those bound by blood, by magic, by fate.
And only if they’re willing to face the cold.
The door is massive—black iron, etched with runes that pulse with pale blue light. Two Fang guards stand on either side, their breath fogging in the air. They bow as we approach, then step aside. No words. No warnings. Just the slow, grinding creak of the door opening, revealing the chamber beyond.
Ice.
Everywhere. Walls of it. Floor of it. A dome of it, high above, where the last light of the eclipse filters through in fractured beams. The air is so cold it burns the lungs, so still it feels like death. In the center of the chamber stands a single pedestal—ancient, carved from black stone, holding a ceremonial dagger and two silver chalices.
“What now?” Brielle asks, her voice tight.
“We bleed,” I say, stepping forward. “Into the chalices. The ritual requires a dual blood offering. If the bond is true, the blood will merge. If not…”
“We freeze to death.”
“Eventually.” I pull the dagger from the pedestal, the metal biting cold in my grip. “But the real danger isn’t the cold. It’s the isolation. The bond will scream for contact. For warmth. And if we don’t give it…”
“We’ll go mad.”
I meet her gaze. “Or die.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just holds out her hand, palm up. “Then let’s get this over with.”
I slice her palm first—quick, precise—and she doesn’t even wince as the blood wells, dark and rich, dripping into the silver chalice. Then I do the same to myself, my blood mingling with hers, the moment the two liquids touch, they *fuse*—not just mixing, but *merging*, swirling together in a slow, pulsing spiral of red and silver.
The runes on the walls flare. The ice hums. The air shifts.
And then the door slams shut.
Behind us. Sealed. No handle. No lock. Just solid ice, thick and unbreakable.
“Guess we’re in,” Brielle says, her breath fogging in the air.
“For six hours,” I say. “Until the eclipse passes. Until the blood is accepted.”
She looks around, her eyes scanning the chamber. “And if we don’t survive?”
“Then the bond was never real.”
“And if it is?”
“Then we walk out stronger.”
She turns to me. “And if I don’t *want* to be stronger with you?”
“Too late.” I step closer, my voice low. “The bond doesn’t care what you want. It only cares about survival. And right now, the only way to survive is to *touch* me.”
Her breath hitches. Not from the cold. From the truth in my words.
“I’d rather freeze.”
“Then freeze.” I turn away, stripping off my outer layers—leather, tunic, boots—until I’m down to my underclothes. The cold bites at my skin, but I don’t flinch. Werewolf blood runs hot. I can endure this. But she? A half-witch, half-fae? She won’t last an hour without warmth.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice sharp.
“Preparing.” I toss her a spare set of dry furs from the supply chest near the wall. “Take off the wet layers. You’ll lose heat faster.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she begins to undress—gown, cloak, boots—until she’s in nothing but her shift and underclothes. The runes on her spine glow faintly, reacting to the cold, to the magic, to *me*. She wraps the furs around her, shivering, her breath coming in short, visible puffs.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” I ask.
“Easy?” She laughs, a brittle sound. “You locked us in a frozen tomb to bleed into a cup. Since when has *anything* about this been easy?”
I don’t answer. Just move to the center of the chamber, where the temperature is lowest, and begin to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping the blood moving. Keeping the heat in.
She watches me. Then, after a moment, she does the same—small, tight circles, her arms wrapped around herself, her teeth chattering.
Minutes pass. Then an hour.
The cold deepens. The ice groans. The bond begins to *pull*—not with heat, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something primal. The need for contact. For warmth. For *survival*.
And she’s weakening.
I see it in the way her steps slow. In the way her breath hitches. In the way her body sways, just slightly, like she’s fighting to stay upright.
“Brielle,” I say, stopping. “You need to come here.”
“No.”
“You’re hypothermic. Another hour, and you’ll lose consciousness.”
“Then I’ll sleep.”
“And die.”
“Better than giving you the satisfaction.”
I growl—low, involuntary—and close the distance between us in three strides. She tries to step back, but I’m faster. I grab her wrist, pull her against me, and wrap my arms around her, pressing her back to my chest, my heat flooding into her.
She gasps. “Let go—”
“No.” I tighten my hold. “You wanted a fight? Here it is. You want to prove you’re stronger than the bond? Then fight me. Fight *this*. But you’re not dying in my arms because you’re too damn proud to admit you need me.”
She struggles—weakly, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged pulls—but I don’t let go. I just hold her, my chin resting on her shoulder, my breath warming the shell of her ear.
And slowly, slowly, she stills.
Her head tilts back, just slightly, until it rests against my shoulder. Her hands unclench, falling to her sides. Her breath evens, just a little.
“You’re so warm,” she whispers.
“And you’re freezing.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate *you*.”
“Liar.”
She doesn’t argue. Just closes her eyes, her body melting into mine, her heat slowly returning.
We stand like that for hours. Silent. Still. Connected. The bond hums between us, not with fire, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something quiet. Something *real*.
And then—
The runes on her spine flare.
Not a flicker. Not a glow.
Fire.
White-hot, roaring, *uncontrollable*. It erupts through the fabric of her shift, spiraling up her back, feeding on the cold, on the magic, on the heat of my body against hers. She cries out—half pain, half pleasure—as her body arches, her head thrown back against my shoulder, her magic surging, *unleashed*.
“Brielle—”
“I can’t—” Her voice is ragged. “It’s too much—”
I don’t think. I *act*.
I spin her in my arms, pressing her back against the ice wall, my hands sliding under her shift, gripping her hips, pulling her against me as the fire spreads. Her breath hitches. Her body trembles. And then—
She *grinds* against me.
Not subtle. Not hesitant.
Hard. Desperate. *Needing*.
“Kaelen—” Her voice is a plea. A curse. A prayer.
“I’ve got you,” I growl, my mouth at her throat, my fangs scraping her skin. “Let it burn. Let it *go*.”
She moans—low, guttural—and her hands fly to my shoulders, claws out, digging into my flesh as the magic rips through her. I hold her, pressing her into the wall, my body caging hers, my heat flooding into her, *anchoring* her as the fire consumes her.
And then—
It shifts.
Not less. Not gone.
Controlled.
Guided.
Like she’s channeling it. Like she’s *sharing* it.
And I feel it—through the bond, through our skin, through the heat between us—a pulse. A rhythm. A *connection*.
“Breathe,” I murmur, my lips at her ear. “With me. Now.”
She gasps. I inhale. She exhales. I release.
Again.
And again.
The fire doesn’t die. But it bends. It listens. It *obeys*.
And slowly, slowly, the chaos in her blood stills.
The runes dim. The flames recede. Her body sags against mine, weak, trembling, *alive*.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice rough.
She doesn’t answer. Just turns in my arms, pressing her face into my chest, her breath warm against my skin. Her hands slide up my back, under my clothes, her claws retracting, her fingers splaying over the scars there—old wounds, old battles, old pain.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not hard. Not brutal.
Soft. Slow. *Real*.
Her lips brush mine, tentative, searching, and I don’t move. Don’t take. Just let her. Let her explore. Let her *claim*.
And when she pulls back, her winter-sky eyes are wide, her breath unsteady, her body still pressed against mine.
“Why do you keep stopping?” she whispers.
My breath catches.
Not from desire.
From the truth in her voice. From the vulnerability. From the *trust*.
Because I *have* stopped. Every time. Every kiss. Every touch. Every moment I could’ve taken her, claimed her, made her mine in every way.
And I don’t know if I can do it again.
“Because,” I say, my voice low, rough, “if I don’t stop… I won’t *want* to.”
She stills. “And that’s bad?”
“For you? Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you came here to destroy me. To destroy my father. To burn the Council down. And if I take you—if I make you *mine* in every way—you’ll never be able to do it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to anymore.”
My chest tightens. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“Then it’s a lie.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re Brielle Moonblood. You’re fire and fury and justice. And if I let you forget that, if I let you lose yourself in me… I’d be no better than the men who killed your mother.”
She stares at me. And then, slowly, she smiles. Not cold. Not sharp. But soft. Sad.
“You’re not like him,” she whispers.
“No.” I press my forehead to hers. “I’m yours.”
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of the woman in my arms.
The woman who came to destroy me.
And instead, she’s the one who’s saving me.
And then—
The door creaks open.
Just a crack. A sliver of light. Warmth.
The eclipse is over.
The ritual is complete.
We survived.
But as I look down at her—her lips still warm from mine, her body still pressed against mine, her eyes still wide with something I can’t name—I know one truth:
We didn’t just survive the Sanctum.
We crossed a line.
And there’s no going back.
Not from this.
Not from *us*.
And when she leans in, when her lips brush mine one last time, I don’t stop her.
Because some fires aren’t meant to be extinguished.
They’re meant to burn.
And I’m done trying to put hers out.