I came here to kill the Wolf King.
The thought is a blade against my ribs as I step across the threshold of the Iron Court, my boots silent on the black stone. The fortress rises around me like a jagged spine from the earth, all brutal angles and shadowed arches, its towers clawing at the bruised sky of the Scottish Highlands. Wind howls through the canyon below, carrying the scent of pine and iron and something darker—blood, old and buried. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching for the dagger hidden beneath my cloak, its hilt carved with runes only a witch of the Northern Circle would recognize. A lie. Like the name I wear. Like the scent I’ve masked beneath layers of salt and ash.
They don’t know who I am.
They don’t know I was ten years old when I watched him stand over my mother’s body, her silver circlet crushed beneath his boot, her throat slit with the same ceremonial blade now hanging at his hip. They don’t know I crawled from the burning temple on hands and knees, my fae blood singing with rage, my witch blood whispering spells before I could speak. They don’t know I’ve spent seventeen years learning how to kill him.
And now, I’m inside.
The great hall looms ahead, a cavern of obsidian and torchlight. Werewolves fill the space—Alphas in fur-trimmed cloaks, Betas with watchful eyes, soldiers standing like statues along the walls. Their scents crash over me: musk, dominance, aggression. I keep my breathing slow, my posture neutral. The Northern Witches are supposed to be impartial, detached. I wear their gray robes like armor, my hood drawn low, my pulse steady. Beneath the fabric, my skin hums with contained magic. I’ve warded myself—false scent, veiled aura, a sigil carved into my collarbone that burns faintly with every breath. One slip, and they’ll smell the fae in me. One spark of uncontrolled power, and they’ll know I’m not just a witch.
I am both.
And I am here to burn him.
The Blood Moon Treaty is supposed to unite the supernaturals. A farce. A power grab. Werewolves have ruled through force for decades, and this ritual—the bond-rune exchange—is their final move to cement dominance. Two representatives, one from each major faction, will press palms together, their life force igniting a magical contract that binds their people to peace. Or so they say. I know the truth. The runes are designed to drain non-werewolf magic, to tether our kind to their will. And Kael—the Alpha of Alphas, the Wolf King—will emerge stronger, his claim over the Council absolute.
Unless I stop him.
My plan is simple: during the ritual, when our hands touch, I’ll release a death-spell woven into my blood. It’ll surge through the connection, burning his heart from the inside. Quick. Silent. Final.
And then I’ll vanish before the howls begin.
I take my place among the envoys, my spine straight, my hands folded. The Council elders sit in a semicircle of carved stone, their faces ancient, their eyes sharp. Riven, Kael’s Beta, stands at the edge of the dais—tall, quiet, observant. He scans the crowd, and for a heartbeat, his gaze lingers on me. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I am stone. I am shadow.
Then the doors at the far end of the hall groan open.
And he walks in.
Kael.
My breath catches—just once—before I lock it down.
He’s taller than I remember, broader, his presence like a storm rolling in. Black leather wraps his torso, silver clasps at his shoulders, his dark hair falling just past his jaw. His eyes—gold, predatory—sweep the room, dismissing everyone until they land on me.
And stop.
A beat. Two. The air between us thickens.
He doesn’t look surprised. He looks… amused.
Then he smirks.
My fingers curl into fists beneath my sleeves.
He moves to the center of the dais, where the ritual circle is etched into the stone—a spiral of ancient runes, glowing faintly blue. The High Elder raises his staff.
“Let the bond-rune exchange begin,” he intones. “May the Blood Moon witness our unity.”
I step forward.
Kael turns to me, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s even more dangerous. The heat of him radiates through the space between us. His scent—pine and fire and something wild—punches through my wards like a fist. My pulse stutters.
“Envoy of the Northern Witches,” he says, voice low, rough. “You’ve come far.”
“As have you, King,” I reply, my tone cool. “From the grave of my people.”
His lips twitch. Not a smile. A predator’s acknowledgment.
“Place your hands upon the circle,” the Elder commands.
We kneel. Our palms hover above the runes.
“On the count of three,” the Elder says. “One… two…”
I brace myself. The death-spell coils in my veins, ready to strike.
“Three.”
Our hands meet.
And the world explodes.
Fire. Gold. A searing light that erupts from the runes, from our palms, from our chests. I cry out as pain—no, not pain, *need*—rips through me. My back arches. My magic surges, not toward him, but *into* him, binding, merging. A mark flares across my sternum—a spiral of golden light, intricate, alive. I feel it form on him too, mirroring mine.
The crowd roars.
“Fated!” the Elder shouts. “The bond is sealed! The Blood Moon has chosen!”
No.
No, no, *no*—
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t possible. I’m not a werewolf. I’m not even pureblood. This bond only ignites between true mates, between fated pairs. It doesn’t happen by accident. It doesn’t happen to assassins.
But it’s real.
I can feel it—the connection, the pull, the *hunger*. It’s in my blood, in my bones, in the base of my skull where a low thrum has started, building. My breath comes fast. My skin is too tight. My nipples tighten beneath my robes. A wet heat pools between my thighs.
And Kael—Kael is smiling.
He rises, pulling me with him, his grip iron on my wrist. His eyes burn into mine.
“You feel it,” he murmurs. “Don’t you, little witch?”
I yank my hand back. “This is a mistake. I’m not your mate.”
“The magic doesn’t lie,” he says, stepping closer. “And neither does your body.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “I can smell your arousal. Sweet. Desperate. You want me.”
“I want you *dead*,” I hiss.
He laughs—low, dark. “You’ll get there. But first, you’ll get *mine*.”
The crowd is still cheering. The Council is declaring the treaty binding. No one sees the way his fingers trail down my arm, possessive, claiming. No one sees the way my breath hitches when he touches me.
No one but Riven.
He’s watching, his expression unreadable.
Kael doesn’t care. He grips my elbow and steers me toward the side chamber, away from the celebration.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
“Oh, we have *everything*,” he growls.
He shoves me into the alcove, the door slamming shut behind us. The room is small, lit by a single torch, the walls lined with weapons. Before I can react, he pins me against the obsidian, one hand on my throat—not choking, just holding, feeling the pulse race beneath his fingers.
“You came here to kill me,” he says. It’s not a question.
My blood turns to ice. “Prove it.”
“You reek of vengeance,” he murmurs. “And lies. You’re not a Northern Witch. Your magic is too sharp. Too old. And your scent—” He inhales, slow, deep, against my neck. “—there’s fae in you. Fae and something else. Something I’ve never smelled before.”
I stay still. Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.
“But it doesn’t matter,” he continues. “Because now, you’re *mine*. The bond doesn’t care about your mission. It doesn’t care about your lies. It only knows the truth.”
His fangs graze my pulse.
“You’ve been mine since the night I killed your mother.”
Something in me snaps.
I drive my knee up—aiming for his groin. He twists, blocking me with his thigh, but I use the momentum to shove him back. He stumbles, just once, and I lunge for the dagger at my belt.
He’s faster.
He catches my wrist, twists it until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he slams me back against the wall, both hands caging me now, his body pressed to mine.
“Fight me,” he says, voice rough with something darker than anger. “I like it when you fight.”
His hips grind against mine, and I feel him—hard, thick, *wanting*. My breath catches. My traitorous body responds, heat flooding me, my core clenching.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whisper.
“Oh, I do.” His lips brush my ear. “And you’ll beg for it before the moon is full.”
Then he’s gone, stepping back, adjusting his coat like nothing happened.
“You’ll stay in my chambers tonight,” he says. “The bond is new. It’ll be… intense. You’ll need supervision.”
“I’ll sleep in my own room.”
“No,” he says, turning to the door. “You’ll sleep where I say. Or would you prefer the cells?”
I glare at him. “This isn’t over.”
He looks back, gold eyes gleaming.
“It’s only just begun.”
I don’t remember walking to his chambers.
I don’t remember undressing.
I don’t remember how I ended up in his bed.
But I wake to sunlight slicing through the stone shutters, my head pounding, my mouth dry, my body… *alive*.
I’m naked beneath black silk sheets.
And on my left shoulder, just above my collarbone, is a mark.
Golden. Glowing faintly.
A bite.
His bite.
My breath stops.
I touch it. It burns—hot, deep, *claimed*.
And beneath the pain, a whisper of pleasure coils through me, low and insistent.
No memory. No warning.
But the bond hums between us, stronger now, *hungrier*.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I bear his mark.
Worse—I want to feel his teeth there again.