The door to the Frozen Sanctum groans open, spilling a thin blade of torchlight into the chamber. The eclipse has passed. The ritual is complete. And yet, neither of us moves.
We’re still pressed together—my back against the ice wall, his body caging mine, my hands splayed across the hard planes of his back, his breath warm against my throat. The runes on my spine have dimmed to a faint silver pulse, but the fire inside me hasn’t died. It’s changed. Shifted. No longer a wild, uncontrollable surge, but a slow, deep burn—steady, relentless, *alive*.
And so am I.
For the first time since I walked into Shadowveil, I don’t feel like a prisoner. I don’t feel like a spy. I don’t feel like a weapon.
I feel… seen.
Kaelen’s hand is still on my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip, his storm-silver eyes searching mine like he’s trying to memorize every shadow, every flicker of emotion. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds me, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
And gods help me, I want him to.
Not to let go.
To *keep* me.
“We should go,” he murmurs, voice rough, like he’s forcing the words out.
“Yes,” I whisper, but I don’t move.
He doesn’t either.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the corridor. Not from the guards.
From *him*.
A low, involuntary growl—deep in his chest, vibrating through me—like his body is rebelling against the command to release me. Like the bond is screaming, *Mine. Stay. Claim.*
His eyes flicker gold. Just for a second. Then back to silver.
And just like that, the spell breaks.
He steps back. Slow. Deliberate. Like every inch of distance is a battle.
I sway, suddenly cold, suddenly empty, the loss of his heat like a physical wound. I press a hand to my chest, as if I can hold the fire in, as if I can stop the ache that’s spreading through me—deeper than bone, deeper than blood.
He sees it. Of course he does.
“Here,” he says, stripping off his fur-lined cloak and draping it around my shoulders. The fabric is heavy, warm, soaked with his scent—pine and iron, frost and fire. I pull it tight, burying my nose in the collar, breathing him in like an addiction.
He doesn’t comment. Just turns, retrieves our clothes from the supply chest, and hands me my gown. His movements are efficient. Controlled. But I see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers linger on the fabric before he lets go, the way his eyes flicker to my lips when I take it.
We dress in silence. No words. No touches. Just the rustle of fabric, the creak of leather, the hum of the bond between us—low, insistent, *hungry*.
And then we walk.
Side by side, back through the frozen corridors, the guards bowing as we pass, their eyes down, their silence heavier than any accusation. The fortress is quiet. Too quiet. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting to see what we’ll do next.
What *I’ll* do next.
Because I know what just happened in that sanctum wasn’t just survival. It wasn’t just ritual. It was a turning point. A crack in the armor. A surrender.
And I don’t know if I can take it back.
We reach our chambers. The wards flare as we cross the threshold, sealing us in. Alone. Again.
Kaelen stops just inside the door, turning to me. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Controlled. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—are storm-churned silver, dark with something I can’t name.
“You should rest,” he says. “The moonfire took a lot from you.”
“So did you,” I say, stepping past him, my voice steadier than I feel. “You didn’t have to hold me like that. You could’ve just let me freeze.”
“And let the bond break?” He follows, closing the distance between us. “You think I’d risk that?”
“You risked it the moment you let Mira wear your shirt.”
He stills. “That was a test.”
“Of my loyalty?” I turn, facing him. “Or my jealousy?”
“Of your *truth*.” His voice drops. “I needed to know if you cared. If you’d fight for me. If you’d *want* me.”
“And now you know.”
“Do I?” He steps closer. “Or are you just saying that because the bond’s screaming? Because your body remembers what it’s like to be pressed against mine?”
My breath hitches. “You think that’s all this is? Heat? Hunger? Magic?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” The word tears out of me, raw, ragged. “It’s *more*. It’s—”
I stop. Can’t say it.
Can’t name it.
Can’t admit that in that frozen chamber, with the ice at my back and his body against mine, I didn’t just feel desire.
I felt *home*.
He sees it. The hesitation. The fear. The truth.
And for the first time, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Soft.
Real.
“Then say it,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Say you want me. Say you need me. Say you’re *mine*.”
My chest aches. Not from the wound. From something deeper. Something dangerous.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Insistent.
The moment shatters.
Kaelen steps back. “Enter.”
Soren slips in, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me. “There’s a problem,” he says, voice low. “Mira Nocturne. She’s… circulating something.”
“What?” I ask, stepping forward.
He hesitates. Then pulls a small, enchanted mirror from his coat—a scrying device used for message relays. He activates it with a whisper, and the surface ripples, revealing an image:
Kaelen.
His face. His neck.
And on his shoulder—just above the collar—two small, crescent-shaped marks.
Bite marks.
Fresh. Red. *His*.
But not from me.
The caption beneath it reads: *The Alpha’s true mate. Last night. His chambers. She bore his mark with pride.*
My breath stops.
Not from shock.
From *betrayal*.
Because I know that bite. I’ve studied them—how werewolves mark. How Alphas claim. Those marks aren’t from feeding. They’re from *claiming*. From dominance. From *possession*.
And they’re not mine.
“It’s fake,” Kaelen says, voice flat. “I didn’t mark her.”
“Then how—”
“Magic,” Soren says. “A glamour. A blood charm. She could’ve taken a drop of his blood—stolen from a cup, a wound, a shared drink—and used it to forge the image.”
“And the bite?” I whisper.
“Could’ve been self-inflicted,” Kaelen says. “Or from a blade. The mark itself is easy to mimic. The *timing* is what matters. If the Council believes I marked her *after* our bonding ceremony…”
“Then you broke the bond,” I finish. “You betrayed your mate. And the Council has grounds to dissolve the marriage. To exile me. To strip you of your rank.”
He doesn’t deny it.
And just like that, the warmth in my chest turns to ice.
“You said she was a test,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “That you let her wear your shirt to see if I’d care. But you never said you’d *let her bite you*.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how do you explain *that*?” I point at the mirror, my hand shaking. “How do you explain her wearing your scent, your shirt, your *mark*—all while I was locked in a frozen tomb with you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, stepping forward. “But I swear to you, Brielle, I didn’t mark her. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t—”
“Liar!” The word explodes out of me, raw, ragged. “You used me! You tested my jealousy, my loyalty, my *love*—and all the while, you were letting her wear your mark like a trophy!”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” I shove him, hard, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, his storm-silver eyes locked on mine, his jaw clenched, his body tense with restraint.
“You think I’m stupid?” I scream, tears burning in my eyes. “You think I don’t see what this is? A game? A power play? You want me to believe you, to trust you, to *love* you—so you can break me when it’s convenient? So you can throw me away when your father demands it?”
“No.” His voice is low, rough, a growl that vibrates through the chamber. “I want you to *live*. I want you to *win*. I want you to have the truth. But I can’t do that if you’re dead. If the Council brands you a traitor. If they exile you before you can clear your mother’s name.”
“And what about *her*?” I gesture at the mirror. “What about Mira? Is she part of your plan too? Another pawn? Another *test*?”
“She’s a spy,” he says. “For the Crimson Conclave. And someone inside the Fang is helping her. I told you that.”
“Then why is she still *here*?”
“Because I need to know who’s helping her. Who’s feeding her information. Who’s trying to destroy us.”
“Us?” I laugh, a sharp, brittle sound. “There is no *us*. There’s just you. And your games. And your lies.”
He steps forward, closing the distance between us, his body caging mine, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me against him.
“You feel that?” he growls, his mouth at my ear. “That heat? That pulse? That *need*? That’s not a game. That’s not a lie. That’s the bond. That’s *us*. And no glamour, no fake mark, no fucking *image* can change that.”
My breath hitches. My body arches toward him, traitorous and eager.
“You think this changes anything?” I whisper.
“I think,” he says, his lips brushing my throat, his fangs scraping my skin, “that you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” I lie.
“Liar.” He bites—just hard enough to sting, not to mark. “You’re *furious*. You’re *hurt*. You’re *mine*.”
“I’m not yours!”
“Then why do you keep fighting it?” He grips my hips tighter, grinding against me, his cock hard and insistent against my belly. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep letting me touch you? Why do you keep *wanting* me?”
“I don’t—”
“Liar.” He kisses me—hard, brutal, claiming—his tongue sliding deep, tasting me like he’s starving. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his hands sliding up my back, pressing me closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no *anything* but him.
And then—
I push him away.
Hard.
He stumbles back, surprise flashing in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shaking. “Don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t *lie* to me.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his chest heaving, his fangs still extended, his eyes dark with something I can’t name.
“Then believe me,” he says, voice low. “Or leave. But don’t stand there and tell me you don’t want this. Don’t tell me you don’t want *me*.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“Liar.”
I turn. Walk to the balcony. Need air. Need space. Need to *think*.
Below, the fortress stirs—werewolves training, vampires moving like shadows, fae gliding through the gardens. Normal. Routine. As if nothing has changed.
As if I haven’t just seen the man I’m starting to care for—*love*—branded by another woman.
“She’s not the only one spreading rumors,” Soren says behind me. “The image is everywhere. In the barracks. The mess hall. The gardens. And whispers—about you. About the Moonfire. About the bond. Some say you’re too dangerous to keep. Some say you’re a spy. Some say you should be executed.”
My breath stills.
“And Kaelen?” I ask, not turning. “What does he say?”
“He says you’re his mate. That the bond is real. That anyone who questions you answers to him.”
“And you believe him?”
“I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
I close my eyes. Soren’s words should comfort me. Should reassure me.
But they don’t.
Because love isn’t enough. Trust isn’t enough. Not in this world. Not with his father watching. Not with Mira playing her games. Not with the Council ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.
And then—
Kaelen steps up beside me. Close enough that our arms brush. His presence is a wall at my back, his scent a cage around me.
“You think I’d let her mark me?” he asks, voice quiet. “You think I’d let anyone else have that power over me? That *claim*?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I whisper.
“Then look at me.”
I turn.
He unbuttons his tunic. Slow. Deliberate. Pulls it open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars from old battles, the faint silver lines of old magic.
And then he turns.
His back is broad, powerful, marked with the sigils of the Fang—ritual tattoos earned in combat, in loyalty, in blood. But there, just above the left shoulder blade—
Nothing.
No bite. No mark. No sign of Mira.
“I don’t hide from you,” he says, turning back, buttoning his tunic. “I don’t lie to you. Not about this. Not about *us*.”
My breath hitches.
“Then why isn’t it *me*?” I scream, the words tearing out of me, raw, ragged. “If I’m yours, if the bond is real, if you *want* me—then why haven’t you marked me? Why haven’t you claimed me? Why am I standing here, watching another woman wear your mark like she’s something special, while I’m just… *waiting*?”
He stills.
And for the first time, I see it—doubt. Guilt. *Fear*.
“Because,” he says, voice low, rough, “if I mark you… I won’t be able to let you go. And if you’re not ready—if you still want to destroy me—I can’t do that to you. I can’t chain you to me when your mission isn’t finished. When your mother’s name isn’t cleared. When *justice* isn’t served.”
My chest tightens. Not from anger.
From the truth in his words.
He’s not holding back because he doesn’t want me.
He’s holding back because he *does*.
Because he knows that once he marks me—once he truly claims me—the line between vengeance and desire will blur beyond repair.
And I’ll have to choose.
“Then prove it,” I whisper.
“Prove what?”
“That I’m yours.”
He stares at me. And then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Dangerous.
“You want a mark?” he murmurs, stepping close, his hand lifting to my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse. “Then take it.”
And just like that, the fire returns.
Hot. Bright. *Unstoppable*.
Because he’s not just my jailer.
Not just my mate.
Not just the son of my mother’s killer.
He’s the only one who sees me.
The only one who *knows* me.
And if I’m going to burn this world down…
I’ll do it with him at my side.
Or not at all.
And when he leans in, when his lips brush mine, I don’t pull away.
I don’t fight.
I just… let go.
Because some fires aren’t meant to be controlled.
They’re meant to consume.
And I’m done running from mine.