The first time I tell Kael the whole truth—about my mother, the betrayal, the vision—I thought it would break us.
Instead, it remade us.
But the world doesn’t care about remaking. It doesn’t pause for love, for healing, for the quiet moments when two broken people finally stop fighting and start breathing. It moves. It attacks. And now, with a child growing inside me and the Dominion’s borders still smoking from the Ironfang incursion, I know—
We’re not done bleeding.
—
The morning after the battle, the keep hums with quiet energy. The wolves move in silence, their golden eyes sharp, their tails low. The torches burn higher, the scent of pine and healing salve thick in the air. Dain has sent patrols to the eastern border. The rescued witch—her name is Lyra—sleeps in the healing wing, her magic slowly returning, her storm-gray eyes no longer wide with fear, but with something quieter. Hope.
I stand at the window of Kael’s study, my hand resting on my belly, the crown heavy on my head. The bone dagger is strapped to my thigh, not as a weapon, but as a reminder. A vow. My mother’s bones. My legacy. My power.
Kael steps behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. One hand settles over mine on my belly. The other slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing the swell of my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.
I shiver.
Not from cold.
From the way he touches me—like I’m something precious, something sacred, something his.
And maybe I am.
But not because the bond demands it.
Not because magic compels it.
Because I want to be.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“So are you.”
“I felt you thinking.”
“And?”
“And I know what you’re going to say.” He turns me in his arms, golden eyes blazing down at me. “You’re going to say we need to find out who sent the Ironfangs. That this wasn’t just a raid. That it was a message.”
I don’t answer.
Just look at him—storm-gray meeting gold.
And he smiles.
“Then let’s do it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Because I’m not just your Alpha. I’m not just your mate. I’m not just your king.”
“Then what are you?”
“The man who’s choosing you.”
And just like that, the world stops.
Because if he means it—
Then maybe I’m not the only one who’s been drowning.
Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been broken.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
I don’t have to burn him down.
Maybe I can rebuild him instead.
But as I hold him, his breath on my skin, the bond humming beneath my skin—warm, alive, hopeful—
I know.
He’s not mine.
And I’m not his.
We’re ours.
And that—
That changes everything.
—
The war room—now the strategy chamber—is quiet when we enter. No blood oaths carved into the stone. No grudges etched into the walls. Just a long table of black wood, maps spread across it, candles flickering low. Dain is already there, his gray eyes sharp, his blades sheathed but ready.
“The Ironfangs didn’t act alone,” he says without preamble. “Their kind don’t cross borders without orders. And they don’t target witches unless someone’s paying them.”
Kael nods, already moving to the maps. “Who benefits from destabilizing the Dominion?”
“The vampire lords,” I say, stepping forward. “They’ve always wanted access to witch magic. Blood rituals. Power transfers. They’d sell their own mothers for a Stormblood’s veins.”
Dain’s jaw tightens. “And we know one who already has.”
We all know who he means.
Malrik.
My uncle. The vampire senator who killed my mother. The man who wants me—and the child growing inside me—for his own.
Kael turns to me, golden eyes blazing. “He’s still out there.”
“And he’s not alone,” I say. “He’s got allies. Fae. Rogues. Maybe even someone inside the Council.”
“Then we find them.” Kael’s voice is low, rough. “We burn them out. One by one.”
“And if it leads to war?” Dain asks.
“Then we fight,” I say. “But not for vengeance. Not for power. For truth.”
Kael reaches for me, his hand covering mine on the table. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I never was.”
—
We don’t wait.
By nightfall, we’re in the archives—deep beneath the keep, where the oldest records are kept, where the walls hum with old magic and the air smells of dust and blood. I run my fingers over the spines of ancient tomes, my magic flaring at the touch. Kael is beside me, his presence a steady heat against my side.
“Look for anything on Malrik’s alliances,” I say. “Fae contracts. Blood pacts. Rogue pack deals.”
He nods, already pulling down a heavy volume bound in black leather. I take another, its pages brittle, its ink faded. The words are in Old Tongue, the language of the first witches, but I can read it now—my magic humming, my mind sharp.
And then—
I find it.
A ledger. Not official. Not sanctioned. Hidden between the pages of a treaty on cross-species trade. The ink is fresh. The entries recent.
Ironfang Clan — 500 gold, delivered. Objective: test Blackthorn defenses. Target: unclaimed witch.
Faelen Noble Lysara Veyne — 1,000 gold, delivered. Objective: spread dissent. Target: Alpha’s mate.
Vampire Senator Malrik — 2,000 gold, received. Objective: destabilize Dominion. Target: Stormblood heir.
My breath catches.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
Lysara. She’s not just a rival. Not just a manipulator. She’s a paid agent. And Malrik—he’s not just after me. He’s funding the attacks. Using others to weaken us before he strikes.
“Kael,” I say, my voice low.
He turns, his golden eyes blazing in the candlelight. I hand him the ledger. He reads it once. Then again. Then slams it shut, his jaw clenched, his fangs bared.
“She’s still alive,” he growls. “After everything, she’s still alive.”
“And she’s still dangerous,” I say. “But not because of Malrik. Because of what she knows.”
“Then we find her.”
“And when we do,” I say, “we make her talk.”
—
We don’t go alone.
Dain leads a small team—three of the most trusted betas, silent, deadly, loyal. We ride through the night, the wind howling, the moon high. The scent of storm is in the air, thick and electric. My magic hums beneath my skin, restless, alive. The child stirs—faint, but real—a whisper of power, a pulse of life.
Kael rides beside me, his coat flaring in the wind, his eyes sharp. He doesn’t speak. Just reaches for my hand, his fingers lacing with mine. A silent vow. A quiet promise.
We find Lysara in a hidden glade deep in the Faelen borderlands—a place of twisted trees and glowing moss, where the air hums with glamour and deceit. She’s not alone. Two fae guards stand at her side, their eyes cold, their blades drawn.
And she’s waiting.
“I knew you’d come,” she says, stepping forward, her gown shimmering like starlight, her smile sharp. “Did you miss me?”
“I missed the chance to rip your throat out,” I say, dismounting, the bone dagger in my hand.
She laughs. “Still so angry. Still so human.”
“I’m not human,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m a Stormblood. And I’m done playing your games.”
Her smile fades. “You think you’ve won? You think love makes you strong? It makes you weak.”
“No,” Kael says, stepping beside me. “It makes us free.”
She looks at him—really looks—and for the first time, I see it.
Not hatred.
Not jealousy.
Loss.
“You could have chosen me,” she whispers.
“I did choose you,” he says. “Years ago. And you used it. You sold it. You turned it into a weapon.”
Her eyes flash. “And you turned yours into a pet.”
I don’t hesitate.
I raise my hand.
And the storm answers.
Lightning splits the sky, striking the earth at my feet, carving a sigil into the stone—a spiral, a storm, a truth. The wind howls. The earth trembles. The fae guards stumble back, their glamour cracking, their blades falling.
Lysara doesn’t move.
Just stands there, her gown torn, her eyes wide, her breath ragged.
“Tell me,” I say, stepping forward. “Who else is working with Malrik? Who’s inside the Council?”
She laughs—broken, desperate. “You think I’ll tell you? You think I fear you?”
“No,” I say. “But you fear him.”
And then—
I press my palm to her chest.
Not with force.
Not with fire.
With truth.
My magic surges—wild, uncontrolled, crackling at my fingertips. I don’t hurt her. I don’t burn her. I just see.
And I do.
I see the deals. The blood pacts. The names—vampire, fae, even a werewolf beta, corrupted by gold and greed. I see Malrik’s plan: to take the child. To drain its magic. To use it to seize the Crimson Senate.
And I see something else.
Something deeper.
Lysara didn’t just betray us.
She was used.
By Malrik. By the system. By her own hunger for power.
And now—
Now, she’s just another pawn.
I pull back, my breath ragged, my magic spent.
“She’s not the enemy,” I say, turning to Kael. “She’s a warning.”
He studies her—cold, sharp, unyielding. “Then let her go.”
“What?” Dain steps forward. “After everything?”
“Let her go,” Kael repeats. “Let her run. Let her tell Malrik what she saw. Let him know—
We’re not afraid.
We’re not broken.
We’re coming.”
Lysara stares at us—eyes wide, breath shaky. Then, without a word, she turns and vanishes into the mist.
—
Back at the keep, the truth settles like a storm before the calm.
We gather in the strategy chamber—Kael, Dain, Lyra, and me. The maps are marked with new targets. The names of the traitors. The locations of Malrik’s hidden compounds.
“We move at dawn,” Kael says. “No more waiting. No more defending. We take the fight to them.”
“And the child?” Dain asks, glancing at me.
“She stays,” Kael says. “She’s not a weapon. She’s not a prize. She’s ours.”
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the faint pulse of life. “And I’m not hiding.”
“You’re not fighting,” he says, turning to me. “Not like this.”
“Then how?”
He steps into me, his hands framing my face, his golden eyes blazing. “You lead. You command. You rule. But you don’t bleed for me. Not again.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I choose to?”
“Then I’ll stand beside you,” he says. “And we’ll bleed together.”
And just like that, the world stops.
Because if he means it—
Then maybe I’m not the only one who’s been drowning.
Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been broken.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
I don’t have to burn him down.
Maybe I can rebuild him instead.
But as I hold him, his breath on my skin, the bond humming beneath my skin—warm, alive, hopeful—
I know.
He’s not mine.
And I’m not his.
We’re ours.
And that—
That changes everything.