I came here to save her.
The thought claws through me as I pace the war room, my boots silent on the black stone, my pulse a steady drum beneath my ribs. The fortress hums with tension—guards shifting, envoys whispering, the air thick with the scent of iron and old blood. Outside, the storm breaks, rain lashing the shutters, thunder rolling through the peaks. But I don’t hear it. I don’t feel it.
I feel her.
Morgana.
She’s been gone for three hours.
Three hours since she stormed out of the warding chamber, her eyes blazing, her breath ragged, her scent spiced with fury and something darker—need. She didn’t say a word. Just turned on her heel and walked out, her back straight, her spine rigid, like a blade drawn from its sheath.
And I let her go.
I should’ve stopped her. Should’ve dragged her back, pinned her against the wall, made her face what we both know is true. But I didn’t. I watched her go. Let her think she had a choice.
She doesn’t.
The bond knows. I know. And soon—she’ll know.
But not like this.
Not running into the forest like a wounded animal, her scent unraveling with pain, her magic flaring in panic. Not alone. Not vulnerable.
She’s mine.
And I don’t lose what’s mine.
“She’s at the northern ridge,” Riven says, stepping into the room, his voice low. “I tracked her scent. She’s moving fast. Heading for the border.”
I stop pacing. “She won’t make it.”
“No,” he says. “Because Seraphine’s men are waiting.”
My blood turns to ice.
Seraphine.
The Blood Queen. A vampire noble who once tried to bind me through political alliance. She wears a forged mating mark, claims I spent the night in her chambers, that I promised her the throne. Lies. All of it. But the pack doesn’t know that. And now, she’s using Morgana—my fated mate, my weakness—to destabilize the treaty.
And she’s sent assassins.
“How many?” I ask, already moving toward the door.
“Six. Werewolves. Exiled for treason. They’ll kill her on sight.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
By the time I reach the stables, my wolf is already clawing at my skin, begging to be free. I don’t fight it. I let it rise—the heat, the power, the raw, unfiltered rage. My bones crack. My muscles twist. My clothes tear as the shift takes me, fur bursting from my skin, fangs elongating, claws slicing into stone.
In seconds, I’m no longer a man.
I’m a predator.
A king.
And I’m coming for what’s mine.
I burst from the fortress, a black storm against the night, my paws tearing through mud and stone, my senses locked onto her scent—witch and fae and something uniquely her, spiced with fear, with fury, with the low, insistent throb of the bond. She’s close. Too close to the border. Too close to death.
The forest swallows me—ancient pines, twisted roots, shadows that move. Rain soaks my fur, but I don’t slow. I can feel her heartbeat, faint but steady, syncing with mine. The bond hums between us, a live wire stretched taut, screaming with every step.
Then—
Her scream.
It rips through the night, sharp, desperate, terrified.
And I move.
I tear through the trees, faster than wind, faster than thought. The scent of blood hits me—hers. Warm. Fresh. My vision goes red.
And then I see them.
Six werewolves, circled around her, their fangs bared, their claws dripping with rain and blood. She’s on her knees, her back to a tree, her robes torn, her face streaked with dirt and blood. A gash runs down her arm, dark fluid soaking her sleeve. Her magic flares—golden light erupting from her palms—but they’re too fast, too many. One grabs her hair, yanks her head back, exposing her throat.
“No one claims the Wolf King’s mate but him,” the leader snarls. “And you’re not even a wolf.”
She spits in his face. “I’ll kill you all.”
He laughs. “You’re already dead.”
He raises his claw—
And I strike.
I launch from the shadows, a black blur of fang and fury, my jaws closing around the leader’s throat. He doesn’t even have time to scream before I rip it out, blood spraying hot against the rain. The others whirl, snarling, but I’m already moving—claws slashing, fangs tearing, my body a weapon, my rage a storm.
One goes down with his spine broken.
Another with his throat torn out.
A third tries to run—I catch him mid-leap, slam him into a tree, crush his skull with one bite.
The last two turn on me, fangs bared, claws raised.
And I laugh.
Not a human sound. Not a wolf’s growl.
A king’s roar.
It rips through the forest, shaking the trees, silencing the rain. They freeze. Their eyes widen. They know what I am. They know what I’ll do.
And they’re right.
I take them both at once—one with my claws, the other with my fangs. Blood sprays. Bones crack. And then—silence.
Just the rain.
And her breath.
I turn.
She’s still on her knees, her chest rising and falling, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Blood streaks her face. Her robes are torn. Her magic flickers, weak, fading. But she’s alive.
And she’s mine.
I step toward her, my paws silent on the wet earth. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me—gold eyes locked onto gold eyes.
Then, slowly, I shift.
The change is agony—bones breaking, muscles tearing, fur retracting. But I don’t cry out. I never do. I drop to one knee in front of her, naked, rain-soaked, my body marked with blood and claw scars. My chest heaves. My fangs still elongated. My eyes still burning.
“You ran,” I say, voice rough.
She lifts her chin. “I’m not yours to keep.”
“You are,” I say, reaching for her. “And you always will be.”
She flinches back. “Don’t touch me.”
“Too late for that,” I growl, grabbing her wrist. “You’re bleeding. You’re weak. And you’re still mine.”
She tries to pull away, but her strength is gone. Her magic is fading. The bond hums between us, weak, frayed—she’s been too far from me for too long. Bond-sickness is setting in. Her breath hitches. Her vision blurs.
“Kael—” she whispers.
“I’m here,” I say, pulling her into my chest. “I’ve always been here.”
She doesn’t fight. Just collapses against me, her body trembling, her breath ragged. I wrap my arms around her, shielding her from the rain, from the cold, from the dead. Her blood soaks into my skin. Her scent fills my lungs. The bond flares—weak, but alive.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she says, voice muffled against my chest.
“I should’ve come sooner,” I say. “I should’ve kept you locked in my chambers. Should’ve chained you to my bed. Should’ve made you see what you are.”
“I know what I am,” she says. “I’m not your mate. I’m not your queen. I’m not—”
“You’re mine,” I say, gripping her tighter. “And I don’t lose what’s mine.”
She doesn’t answer.
And then—
A blade.
It comes from the shadows—fast, silent, deadly. I feel it before I see it, a flash of silver, a whisper of steel. I twist, shielding her with my body—
And the knife sinks into my chest.
Pain rips through me—sharp, white-hot, blinding. I roar, more from fury than agony, and spin, my hand closing around the assassin’s throat. Another exiled werewolf. Another traitor. His eyes widen as I lift him off the ground, my grip crushing his windpipe.
“You touch her,” I snarl, “you die.”
And I snap his neck.
He drops.
I stagger, blood pouring from the wound, my vision blurring. The blade missed my heart by inches. But it’s deep. Too deep. I can feel the magic weakening, the bond fraying.
And then—
Her hands.
Hot. Trembling. desperate.
She’s on her knees in front of me, her fingers pressing against the wound, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “Kael—” she whispers. “You’re bleeding. You’re—”
“I’m fine,” I growl.
“You’re not fine!” she snaps. “You’re dying!”
“Then let me die,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “But don’t you dare leave me.”
She stares at me, her eyes wild, her face streaked with blood and rain. And then—
She cuts her palm.
With a shard of glass from a broken vial, she slices her skin, blood welling dark and rich. My breath catches. I know what she’s about to do.
“No,” I say. “Don’t—”
But she’s already pressing her palm to the wound.
And the magic explodes.
Golden light erupts from her hand, from the cut, from the bond between us. It surges into me—heat, power, life—fusing with my blood, my magic, my soul. My body arches. My fangs elongate. My wolf howls inside me, not in pain, but in recognition.
And then—
I see it.
Not just the magic.
Not just the power.
Her blood.
It’s not just witch blood.
It’s not just fae.
It’s royal.
Pure.
Her mother’s blood.
“You’re not just a witch,” I gasp, my voice raw. “You’re Fae royalty.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps healing me, her magic flaring, her breath ragged. The wound closes. The blood stops. The bond surges—stronger, brighter, alive.
And then she collapses against me, weak, trembling, ruined.
I catch her, pull her into my chest, my arms locking around her. Rain soaks us. Blood stains us. But she’s alive. And she’s mine.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why save me?”
She lifts her head slowly, her eyes searching mine. Her lips part. And then—
“And you’re not just a monster,” she whispers. “You’re… mine.”
And she kisses me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Real.
Her lips press against mine—soft, slow, claiming. Her hands fist in my hair. Her body arches into mine. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let her take it.
Because this—this—is what I’ve been waiting for.
Not the bond.
Not the magic.
Her.
When she pulls back, her breath is ragged, her eyes wild, her lips swollen. “I came here to kill you,” she says, voice trembling.
“And yet,” I say, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face, “you saved me.”
“I don’t know why,” she whispers.
“Yes, you do,” I say, pulling her closer. “Because you’re mine. And I’m yours. And no one—no one—takes what’s ours.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just leans into me, her body trembling, her breath warm against my neck.
And I hold her.
Because I don’t lose what’s mine.
And she’s never leaving me again.
We return to the fortress in silence—her riding behind me on horseback, her arms locked around my waist, her body pressed to my back. The rain has stopped. The storm has passed. But the air is still thick with tension, with the scent of blood and magic and something deeper—truth.
The guards at the gate snap to attention as we pass. The envoys whisper. The pack watches.
They see it.
They all see it.
She saved me.
And I’d die for her.
We reach my chambers. I dismount, then lift her down, my hands lingering at her waist. She doesn’t pull away. Just looks up at me, her eyes searching mine.
“You’ll be my Queen,” I say, voice low. “Even if I have to chain you to my bed.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue.
Just steps closer.
And for the first time, I let myself believe—
Maybe she already is.