The fire in the hearth had burned low, embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, when the vision came again.
I was dreaming—no, *remembering*—and it wasn’t mine.
Kaelen, chained in a stone cell, his body broken, his silver eyes wide with horror. The imposter stands over him, wearing his face, his scent, his voice. “They’ll believe me,” the imposter says, running a hand through Kaelen’s hair like a lover’s touch. “They’ll believe I’m you. And when I kill the Ashen heir, they’ll thank me.”
Kaelen screams, helpless, as the imposter walks away, laughter echoing through the stone.
I woke with a gasp, my body drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, not with its usual warning ache, but with a deep, insistent thrum—like it was trying to tell me something. Like it was *feeding* me the truth in pieces, one shattered memory at a time.
Kaelen stirred beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. “Morgana?” His voice was rough with sleep, but alert. “Another dream?”
I didn’t answer. Just sat up, wrapping the furs around my shoulders, my breath still unsteady. The chamber was cold, the air thick with the scent of pine and old magic. Moonlight spilled through the high window, painting silver streaks across the stone floor. It had been three days since the Moon Ceremony. Three days since I’d let him touch me. Since I’d let him *inside* me. Since I’d whispered, *“I don’t hate you anymore.”*
And yet, I still didn’t know what I wanted.
Revenge? Redemption? Or just… *him*?
“It was the same one,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You in the cell. Him—wearing your face. Laughing.”
Kaelen sat up too, the furs falling away, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars that mapped his past. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just reached for me, his hand warm against my bare shoulder. “It happened. That night. After the hunt. I was ambushed. Drugged. Chained. He took my blood, my scent, my voice—used a mimicry spell to wear me like a skin.”
My breath caught. “And no one knew?”
“No one. The pack believed him. Thought *I* had killed Cael. Thought *I* had executed an innocent man.” His jaw tightened. “And you—”
“I believed it too.”
He turned, his eyes searching mine. “And now?”
“Now I know the truth.” I looked down at my hands, the runes on my arms glowing faintly. “But knowing isn’t enough. I need to *see* it. The moment Cael died. The imposter’s face. I need to know who we’re fighting.”
“You already tried the blood sigil.”
“And it showed me fragments. Not the full memory. Not his face.” I met his gaze. “I need to go deeper. Into the blood memory. Into *his* final moments.”
He stilled. “It’s dangerous. Blood magic at that level—it can tear your mind apart. It can trap you in the memory. You might not come back.”
“Then I’ll burn with him.” My voice was steady. “Because if I don’t see it—if I don’t *know*—I’ll always wonder. I’ll always doubt. And the bond—” I pressed a hand to my chest, where the mark still glowed. “It deserves the truth. *We* deserve it.”
He didn’t argue. Just exhaled, slow and controlled, then stood, pulling on his coat. “Then we do it together.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” He turned, his eyes sharp. “If you’re going into that memory, I’m going with you. If you’re going to face his death, I’m going to face it too. And if the magic tries to take you—” He stepped close, his hand cradling the back of my neck. “I’ll pull you out. I’ll *drag* you back. No matter what it costs me.”
The bond flared—a surge of heat, of fire, of *truth*. My breath hitched, my body arching into his, my magic responding to his touch, to his voice, to the way his pulse hammered against my palm where it rested on his chest.
“You don’t get to die for me,” I whispered.
“You don’t get to die alone,” he said. “Now get dressed. We do this tonight.”
—
The ritual chamber was beneath the Alpha Den, a hidden room carved from black stone, its walls etched with ancient runes that pulsed with lunar energy. I’d found it weeks ago, during my first night in the fortress, but I hadn’t dared use it. Not until now.
Kaelen lit the black candles, their flames burning cold and blue, casting long shadows across the floor. I drew the sigils in careful, precise lines—blood magic, old and deep, woven with the power of the first Ashen witches. The air thickened, the scent of iron and salt rising like a tide. My hands trembled as I cut my palm with the ceremonial dagger, letting the blood drip into the silver bowl at the center of the circle.
“You’re sure about this?” Kaelen asked, his voice low.
“No.” I looked up at him. “But I have to know.”
He nodded, then sliced his own palm, letting his blood mingle with mine. The moment our blood touched, the magic *roared* to life—golden threads spiraling up from the bowl, wrapping around our wrists, binding us not just by oath, but by shared sacrifice.
“By this blood,” I intoned, my voice echoing through the chamber, “by this bond, by the will of the dead, I call forth the memory of Cael Ashen. I seek the truth. I seek the face of the killer. I seek the *light* in the darkness.”
The runes flared—gold, then red, then black. The air grew cold. The candles flickered. And then—
Pain.
Sharp. Blinding. Like a blade through my skull. I gasped, my body convulsing, my magic unraveling. The vision slammed into me—
The pyre. Flames roaring. Cael chained to a post, his body broken, his eyes wide with betrayal. The imposter standing over him, wearing Kaelen’s face, his silver fangs bared, his voice cutting through the wind. “Traitor,” he says. “Execution. Justice.”
Cael looks at me. His lips move. “Forgive me.”
The blade falls.
The scream.
The blood.
And then—me. On my knees. Crying. Begging. The mark on my collarbone burning, glowing gold, as the bond drags me forward, toward the pyre, toward *him*.
“You’re mine,” the imposter whispers, his hands on my face. “And I will break you before I lose you.”
“No,” I sob. “You killed him. You killed Cael.”
“Did I?” His grip tightens. “Or did someone else wear my face? My scent? My voice?”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The bond doesn’t lie, Morgana. But *people* do.”
And then the dream shifts—flames engulfing us, the mark on my collarbone blazing, my magic surging, reaching for *his*, merging—
I screamed.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
From *recognition*.
Because in that final moment, as the imposter turned his head, as the firelight caught the edge of his profile, I saw it—the scar. A thin, jagged line running from his temple to his jaw. Not Kaelen’s. Not the Alpha’s.
But I’d seen it before.
Not on a wolf.
On a *vampire*.
Lord Virell.
Crimson Court. Blood mimic. Master of deception. The one who’d been hunting hybrid blood for years. The one who’d tried to enslave the Southern packs. The one who’d whispered lies into the ears of kings and queens.
And now—he was here.
Wearing Kaelen’s face.
Killing my brother.
Framing us both.
“Morgana!” Kaelen’s voice cut through the vision, sharp, desperate. “Come back! *Now*!”
I gasped, my body convulsing, my magic snapping back into place. I was on the floor, drenched in sweat, my chest heaving. Kaelen was beside me, his arms locked around me, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re here.”
I couldn’t speak. Just nodded, my hands fisting in his coat, my body trembling. The memory was seared into my mind—the scar, the voice, the way he’d *smiled* as he killed Cael.
“Who was it?” Kaelen asked, his voice low. “Who killed him?”
I looked up at him, my breath still unsteady. “Virell.”
His blood ran cold. “The vampire?”
“He used blood mimicry. Wore your face. Your scent. Your voice. He killed Cael. Framed you. And now—” I swallowed, my throat tight. “Now he’s still out there. Watching. Waiting.”
Kaelen didn’t move. Just stared at me, his jaw tight, his pulse hammering in his throat. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Then we end him.”
“How?” I whispered. “He’s Crimson Court. He has an army. Blood pacts. Spies.”
“Then we use what he doesn’t have.” He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “We use the bond. We use *us*.”
The bond flared—a wave of heat, of fire, of *truth*. My breath hitched, my body arching into his, my magic responding, *needing*. He felt it too—his breath roughened, his grip tightening, his eyes blazing.
“You’re shaking,” he said, his voice rough.
“So are you,” I whispered.
And we were. Not from fear. Not from cold.
From *need*.
He didn’t hesitate.
He pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful—just *mine*. Teeth and fire and desperation. I moaned, arching into him, my hands fisting in his hair, my body soft, pliant, *needing*. The bond screamed, a golden wave of energy so intense it lit the chamber, wrapping around us, binding us, *marking* us.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he growled against my lips. “Not to him. Not to the past. Not to *anything*.”
“Then don’t let go,” I whispered.
And he didn’t.
He carried me back to the chambers, his boots echoing on the stone, his body a live wire of need. The door slammed shut behind us. The fire roared to life. And then—
He threw me onto the bed, the furs catching my fall. I didn’t protest. Just stared up at him, my chest rising and falling fast, my lips parted, my eyes dark with hunger. The bond pulsed between us, golden and bright, a living thing.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.
“Don’t talk,” I said. “Just touch me.”
He didn’t argue.
He climbed onto the bed, caging me in, his body half over mine. His hand slid up my thigh, beneath the fabric of my gown, his fingers brushing the edge of my smalls. I gasped, my hips lifting, my breath coming faster.
“You’re wet,” he growled, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric, finding me—hot, slick, *ready*. “You’ve been ready since the ritual.”
“Since the first time I saw you,” I whispered.
His breath caught.
And then—I couldn’t wait anymore.
He kissed me, deep, consuming, his tongue sliding against mine, his hand working me, slow then fast, making me arch, making me *burn*. I moaned, my hands flying to his hair, holding him there, needing more, needing *everything*. His other hand went to the laces of his trousers, pulling, untying, freeing himself. He was hard, aching, *needing*.
And then—
He pulled my smalls aside, his tip pressing against my entrance. I gasped, my body tensing, my breath catching. He looked down at me, his voice low, rough. “Last chance to stop.”
I didn’t answer.
Just lifted my hips, taking him in an inch.
And that was it.
He thrust forward, burying himself in my heat, my tightness, my *fire*. I cried out, my body arching, my nails digging into his back. He stilled, his breath ragged, his body trembling. I was so *tight*, so *hot*, so *right*. He’d never felt anything like it. Never wanted anything so much.
“Kaelen,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“Look at me,” he growled.
I did.
And in that moment, with my body wrapped around his, my eyes locked on his, the bond screaming between us, I knew—*I knew*—that I’d never be free.
And I didn’t care.
He started to move, slow at first, then faster, deeper, making me gasp, making me *burn*. My hands slid down his back, my nails leaving trails of fire. My hips rose to meet his, my body moving with his, *needing*.
“You feel it,” he growled, his mouth on my neck, his teeth scraping my pulse. “You feel how right this is.”
“I do,” I gasped. “I still want to hate you. But I *do*.”
“I know.” He kissed me again, deep, consuming, his thrusts relentless, driving me toward the edge. “I still want to hate you too.”
And then—
I came.
My body clenched around him, my back arching, my cry tearing from my throat. He didn’t stop. Just kept moving, driving me through it, making me *burn*. And then—
He was close.
Too close.
He pulled out at the last second, spilling over my stomach, his body shaking, his breath ragged. The bond flared—a wave of energy so intense it made the room tremble. He collapsed beside me, his chest heaving, his body spent.
I didn’t speak.
Just turned, my hand brushing his cheek, my eyes searching mine.
And in that moment, I saw it—the flicker of fear. Not of me. Not of the bond.
Of *feeling*.
“Say it,” I said, my voice rough. “Say what you’re really afraid of.”
He hesitated. Then, softly: “I’m afraid that if I let myself love you… I’ll lose myself.”
My chest tightened.
“You won’t,” I said, pulling him into my arms, his head resting on my chest. “You’ll find yourself. With me.”
He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes, his breath slowing, his body relaxing.
And for the first time in years—I let myself imagine what it would be like to wake up with him in my arms.
Not as my enemy.
Not as my prisoner.
But as my *equal*.
—
Later, when the bond had calmed, when the fire had burned low, when the fortress was silent, I whispered the truth I’d been running from:
“I don’t want to destroy you.”
He stilled.
“I want to *save* you,” I said, my voice low. “From him. From the past. From *me*.”
He turned, his eyes meeting mine in the dark. “Then tell me why you’re really here.”
And I knew—*I knew*—that if I told him, if I let him see the truth, he might still walk away.
But I also knew—
I had to try.
“Because I’m afraid,” I said, my voice breaking. “Afraid of losing you. Afraid of feeling. Afraid of being *weak*.”
He didn’t flinch.
Just reached up, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then stop fighting it.”
And for the first time—I didn’t.
I let myself fall.
And I prayed—*gods, I prayed*—that he’d catch me.