I didn’t come here to fall in love.
But I came close once.
Not with a queen. Not with a warrior. With a human girl in the borderlands—bright-eyed, fearless, the kind who lit fires in abandoned villages and called them hope. She looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I was something worth saving.
Then the Council found out.
They called it treason. A betrayal of the bloodline. They said a Beta couldn’t afford weakness. Couldn’t afford love.
So I buried it.
And I learned to watch. To stay silent. To serve.
Now, I watch *him*.
Kael, the Wolf King.
Alpha of Alphas. My king. My brother in all but blood.
And for the first time in twenty years, he’s not in control.
I see it in the way he moves—too slow, too deliberate, like he’s holding himself back. In the way his jaw clenches when she walks by. In the way his gold eyes burn when she defies him, when she lies, when she fights.
He’s not just claiming her.
He’s *breaking* for her.
And I don’t know if that makes her stronger—or him weaker.
I stand at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, watching the soldiers spar. The morning sun cuts through the mist, glinting off steel and sweat. The air smells of iron and damp earth. Normal. Controlled. Everything I need to hide in.
But nothing’s normal anymore.
Not since the Blood Moon.
Not since *she* arrived.
Morgana.
Half-fae, half-witch. Assassin. Liar. Kael’s fated mate.
I don’t trust her.
Not because she’s dangerous—though she is.
Not because she came here to kill him—though she did.
But because I’ve seen what fated bonds do. How they twist. How they lie. How they make even the strongest men forget who they are.
And Kael? He was never just strong.
He was untouchable.
Until her.
A shadow moves at the edge of the yard. I turn.
Seraphine.
The Blood Queen.
She glides toward me like smoke over water—pale skin, crimson dress, lips painted the color of fresh blood. Her scent hits me first: cold roses and iron. Vampire. Ancient. *Liar*.
“Riven,” she says, smiling. “Always watching. Never speaking.”
“I speak when it matters,” I say, voice flat.
She steps closer, her heels silent on the stone. “You know what they’re saying, don’t you? That she saved him. That he took a blade for her. That the bond is *confirmed*.”
“I was there,” I say. “I saw it.”
“Mm.” She tilts her head. “And yet… you don’t look convinced.”
“I don’t look anything,” I say. “That’s the point.”
She laughs—soft, musical. “You’re loyal. I’ll give you that. But even loyalty has limits. Especially when your king starts making mistakes.”
“He hasn’t made any.”
“Haven’t I?” She reaches up, her fingers brushing the base of her throat. Slowly, deliberately, she pulls aside the fabric of her dress.
And there it is.
The mark.
Dark gold, intricate, *familiar*.
A werewolf mating bite.
Right on the pulse.
My breath catches.
It’s *real*.
Or it looks real.
But I know Kael’s bite. I’ve seen it on enemies. On traitors. On the rare few he’s claimed in the past—political unions, strategic alliances. Cold. Clean. Precise.
This?
This is different.
It’s *messy*.
Too deep. Too jagged. The edges are blurred, like it was done in passion, not control. And the magic—faint, but there—doesn’t feel like Kael’s. It’s too smooth. Too *refined*. Like it was forged, not bitten.
“He gave this to me,” she whispers. “The night he promised me the throne. The night he said I’d be his queen.”
“He never said that.”
“Are you sure?” She smiles. “Or are you just afraid of what it means if he did?”
She steps back, letting the fabric fall. “He’s losing himself, Riven. And when a king falls, the pack follows. I’m offering you a way out. A place at *my* side. You don’t have to die with him.”
“I won’t,” I say. “Because he’s not falling.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Prove it. Prove he never touched me. Prove this mark is nothing but a lie.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll leave,” she says. “And you’ll never see me again.”
I don’t believe her.
But I need to know.
Because if Kael *did* bite her—
If he *lied* to Morgana—
Then the bond is a farce.
And everything is about to burn.
I wait until nightfall.
Until the fortress is quiet. Until the guards change shifts. Until Kael is in his chambers, alone with *her*.
Then I move.
The Blood Queen’s chambers are in the west wing—black stone, silver runes, the scent of roses and blood thick in the air. I don’t knock. Don’t announce myself. I pick the lock with a hairpin and slip inside.
The room is dark. Empty.
But not untouched.
I move to the vanity—polished obsidian, bottles of perfume, vials of blood. Her gloves lie discarded on the edge. I pick one up, turn it over.
And there it is.
A smear of ink.
Dark. Thick. *Magical*.
I know this ink.
It’s used in blood magic—vampire rituals that mimic life, that forge false bonds, that create illusions so real even werewolf senses can’t detect them. It’s rare. Forbidden. And it’s the only substance that can replicate a mating mark without the actual bite.
My jaw tightens.
She forged it.
But I need proof.
I search the room—under the bed, behind the mirror, inside the wardrobe. Nothing. Then I check the hearth. The ashes are cold, but something glints beneath—charred parchment, half-burned.
I crouch, sift through the remains.
And I find it.
A fragment of a spell.
“*…simulate the bond-mark of a pureblood werewolf Alpha… requires three drops of his blood… sustained by nightly renewal…*”
My pulse hammers.
She didn’t just forge the mark.
She’s *maintaining* it.
But how? Kael wouldn’t give her his blood. He wouldn’t even let her into the same room.
Unless—
Unless she stole it.
I think back to the Blood Binding ritual. The basin of blood. The way she lingered at the edge of the dais, her eyes on Kael, her fingers brushing the rim of the altar. Could she have taken a vial? A drop? Could she have used it to fuel this lie?
It’s possible.
But not provable.
Not without the full spell. Not without a confession.
I pocket the fragment and leave the way I came.
The next morning, I go to the archives.
Deep beneath the fortress, where the oldest records are kept—scrolls sealed in glass, books bound in bone, treaties written in blood. The archivist is a blind old wolf, his nose twitching as I enter.
“Riven,” he says. “You’re not here for history. You’re here for truth.”
“I need records of past mating marks,” I say. “Verified. Official.”
He nods, shuffles to a shelf, pulls down a heavy tome. “Only the High Council can request this.”
“I’m acting on the King’s orders,” I lie.
He doesn’t question me. Just opens the book.
Page after page of names, dates, locations. And beside each—
A sketch of the mating mark.
Real. Verified. *Authentic*.
I flip through, searching for Kael’s.
And there it is.
Three entries.
All political. All cold. All *identical*.
Each mark is clean—two punctures, precise, symmetrical, placed high on the neck, just below the ear. No variation. No passion. Just control.
I pull out the fragment from last night.
And I compare.
Seraphine’s mark is low on the throat. Jagged. Uneven. Nothing like Kael’s.
It’s a fake.
A lie.
And I have proof.
I return to my quarters, heart pounding. I could go to Kael. Show him. Let him deal with her.
But I don’t.
Because I know what he’ll do.
He’ll roar. He’ll threaten. He’ll banish her.
And she’ll come back.
She’s too clever for exile. Too dangerous. She’ll wait. She’ll strike when we’re weak. When the bond is strained. When Morgana is gone.
No.
This ends now.
I wait until midnight.
Until the fortress is silent. Until the moon is high.
Then I go to her chambers.
I don’t pick the lock this time.
I knock.
The door opens.
She stands there, dressed in a silk robe, her hair loose, her eyes gleaming. “Riven,” she says, smiling. “Come to beg for mercy?”
“No,” I say. “Come to end this.”
She laughs. “You? A Beta? You think you can stop me?”
“I don’t have to,” I say, stepping inside. “I just have to know the truth.”
I hold up the fragment. “You forged the mark. Vampire blood magic. I found the spell. I found the records. I know what you are.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “And what will you do? Tell Kael? He won’t believe you. He’ll think you’re jealous. That you want his power.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But Morgana will believe me.”
Her eyes flash. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
She steps closer, her voice dropping. “You think you’re protecting him? You think you’re protecting the pack? But you’re just a dog on a leash. You don’t see the bigger picture. The treaty is a lie. The Council is corrupt. And Kael?” She laughs. “He’s a relic. A brute. He doesn’t deserve to rule.”
“He’s my king,” I say. “And I’ll die for him if I have to.”
“Then die,” she says, smiling. “But know this—when he falls, she’ll fall with him. And you’ll be alone. Again.”
She turns, walks to the hearth. “Leave. Or stay. It doesn’t matter. I’ll still win.”
I don’t move.
“You’re not going to expose me,” she says, not looking back. “Because you know what it’ll do. You know the bond will fracture. You know Morgana will leave. And you know—” She glances at me. “—you’d rather live with a lie than watch your king break.”
She’s right.
And that’s what kills me.
Because she’s not wrong.
If I expose her, Morgana will think Kael lied. She’ll think the bond is a farce. She’ll leave. And Kael—
Kael will *break*.
And the pack will fall.
I can’t let that happen.
So I do the only thing I can.
I take the fragment.
I walk to the hearth.
And I burn it.
The fire licks at the parchment, turning it to ash. The spell dies. The proof dies. The truth dies.
“You’re weak,” she says, watching me. “Just like your king.”
“Maybe,” I say, turning to go. “But I’m loyal. And that’s more than you’ll ever be.”
I leave.
And I don’t look back.
The next day, I see them.
Kael and Morgana.
Standing on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. He says something. She laughs—soft, real, *alive*. Then she turns, and I see it.
The mark on her shoulder.
Golden. Glowing. *True*.
And I know—
It doesn’t matter what Seraphine says.
It doesn’t matter what she did.
Because the real bond isn’t in blood.
It’s in the way he looks at her.
Like she’s the only air in the room.
And I realize—
Maybe I don’t need to protect him.
Maybe she already is.
I came here to serve my king.
And I still am.
Just not the way I thought.