I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m locking myself in my chambers, trembling with need.
The fever started at dawn—low at first, a whisper beneath my skin, like embers stirring in cold ash. By midday, it had spread: a pulse between my thighs, a throb at the mark on my shoulder, a heat in my blood that made every breath feel like swallowing fire. Now, as the sun dips below the jagged peaks of the Highlands, the fever has become a storm. My skin is hypersensitive. The brush of the linen against my hip makes me shiver. The scent of pine and iron—him—lingers in the air, and my body responds like a starving animal to meat.
This is bond-heat.
The monthly surge of desire and pain that rips through unmated pairs, a supernatural demand for union. If denied, it grows stronger. If resisted too long, it breaks the mind. And if we’re separated for more than a few hours, we both die.
I’ve read about it. Studied it. Prepared for it.
But nothing could have prepared me for this.
I pace the room—Kael’s chambers, though I still think of them as his, not mine. The stone is cold beneath my bare feet, the torchlight flickering against the walls, casting long, shifting shadows. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled, the scent of him thick on the pillows. I avoid it. I avoid everything that reminds me of him. Of the forest. Of the blade in his chest. Of the kiss I gave him—soft, slow, real.
That kiss haunts me.
Not because it was forced.
Not because the bond demanded it.
But because I wanted it.
And I want it again.
I press two fingers to the mark on my shoulder. A jolt shoots through me, straight to my core. My back arches. A soft moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“Fuck.”
I stumble to the chest at the foot of the bed, yank it open. Inside are herbs—dried moonroot, crushed nightshade, powdered ash bark—bound in a leather pouch. My mentor taught me this: a tonic to dull the heat, to suppress the bond’s pull. It won’t stop it. Nothing can. But it might buy me a few hours. A few moments of clarity.
I grab a vial from the shelf, fill it with water from the basin, and begin to mix the herbs, my hands shaking. The scent of bitter root fills the air. I stir, my breath coming fast, my skin prickling with sweat. When it’s ready, I lift the vial to my lips—
And freeze.
The door.
It’s opening.
No knock. No warning. Just the slow, deliberate click of the latch, the creak of the hinges.
And then—
He’s there.
Kael.
Framed in the doorway, his silhouette carved from shadow and fire. His gold eyes lock onto mine, burning with something darker than dominance—hunger. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me—pale, trembling, the vial in my hand, my breath ragged.
“You’re trying to fight it,” he says, voice low, rough.
“I’m not fighting you,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“You are,” he says, stepping inside. “And it’s going to break you.”
He closes the door behind him, the sound echoing in the silence. He doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, his presence a wall of heat and power. The bond hums between us—stronger now, deeper, hungrier—a live wire stretched taut.
“I don’t need you,” I say, clutching the vial. “I don’t need your touch. Your mouth. Your fangs.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping closer. “You need me more than air. More than blood. And you know it.”
“I hate you.”
“You do,” he murmurs, now only a foot away. “But hate feels a lot like desire when the bond is involved.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the vial in my hand. “You think this will help? That a few crushed roots can stop what’s already alive in your blood?”
“It’s worth trying.”
“No,” he says, plucking the vial from my grip. “It’s not.”
He turns and pours it into the basin, the liquid hissing as it hits the stone. Then he sets the vial aside and turns back to me, his eyes burning.
“The heat will only get worse,” he says. “It’ll burn through your skin, twist your thoughts, make you see things that aren’t there. You’ll beg for me. You’ll scream my name. And if I’m not here—” He steps closer, his hand rising to the mark on my shoulder. “—you’ll die.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Then tell me—why are your nipples hard? Why is your core wet? Why does your body arch toward me even when you’re trying to pull away?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to be right.
He steps back, arms crossed. “You have two choices. Fight me, and let the heat break you. Or submit. Let me help you. Let me claim you.”
“I’ll never submit.”
“You already have,” he says. “Every time you shiver at my touch. Every time you moan when I say your name. Every time you look at me and don’t hate me back.”
My chest tightens.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your body,” he says. “And it knows me. It’s been mine since the moment we touched.”
He turns toward the hearth. “Sleep. The heat will be stronger by midnight. And I won’t be there to stop it.”
He walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there, trembling. Not from fear. From rage. From the unbearable, humiliating truth: I’m losing control. Not just of the mission. Not just of my body. Of me.
I lock the door.
I push the chest in front of it.
I douse the torches.
And I wait.
The fever climbs.
By midnight, it’s unbearable. My skin burns. My core aches, wet and desperate. The mark on my shoulder pulses like a second heartbeat, a golden throb that syncs with my pulse. I pace, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I press my palms to the stone wall, the cold a brief relief. But it doesn’t last. The heat returns, fiercer, deeper, hungrier.
I try to focus. To remember who I am. Who I came here to be.
A weapon.
A daughter.
A queen.
But the bond doesn’t care about titles. It only cares about him.
I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, my legs drawn to my chest. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe. But every inhale is a torture—his scent on the sheets, on my skin, in my hair. I can feel him nearby, in the chamber beyond the hearth, his presence a low thrum in my blood. He’s awake. Watching. Waiting.
And then—
A sound.
Wood splintering.
I lift my head.
The chest in front of the door is moving. Shifting. And then—
It’s gone.
Thrown aside like kindling.
The door bursts open.
Kael.
He steps inside, his boots silent on the stone, his eyes gold fire, his presence a storm. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just walks to the hearth, picks up the torch, and relights it. The flame flickers to life, casting long, sharp shadows across the room.
Then he turns.
“You think a lock could keep me out?” he says, voice low. “You think a chest could stop me?”
“I don’t want you here,” I whisper.
“Too late,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re mine. And I don’t abandon what’s mine.”
He drops to one knee in front of me, his hands rising to my face. I try to pull away, but I’m weak. My body trembles. My breath hitches.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do.
His eyes burn into mine. “You’re burning up. Your pulse is racing. Your scent—” He inhales, slow, deliberate. “—is spiced with arousal. You’re on the edge. And you know what happens when you fall.”
“I’ll die,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “You’ll live. But you’ll be broken. Mad. And I won’t let that happen.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my lips. “I’ll take the pain. I’ll take the heat. I’ll take you. But you have to say it. You have to say you want me.”
“I hate you,” I gasp.
“You do,” he says. “But you want me more.”
His hands slide down my neck, to my shoulders, to the edge of my robe. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you want me.”
“Never.”
He smiles—slow, dark. “Then I’ll make you.”
He grabs my wrists, pulls me to my feet, and spins me, pressing me against the wall. His body is a wall of heat, his chest against my back, his hardness pressing into my hip. My breath stops. My core clenches.
“You don’t get to hide,” he growls. “You don’t get to run. You’re mine. And I’m going to claim you—right here, right now—whether you say it or not.”
His hands move to my waist, pulling me back against him. His hips grind into mine, slow, deliberate. A moan escapes my lips. I try to fight. Try to shove him away. But my body betrays me—arching into him, grinding back, needing.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let it in. Let me in.”
His hands slide up my ribs, to my breasts, cupping them through the fabric. My nipples tighten. My breath hitches. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on my shoulder glowing, the air crackling with magic.
“Kael—” I gasp.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want me.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He laughs—low, rough. “Then scream it. But don’t you dare lie to me.”
His hand moves down, between my thighs, pressing against the heat, the wetness, the aching need. I cry out, my back arching, my legs trembling.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “You’re ready. And you know what? So am I.”
He grinds against me again, harder this time, his hardness a promise, a threat, a claim. My hands fist in the stone. My breath comes in sobs. The fever is unbearable. The need is unstoppable.
And then—
“Touch me,” I beg.
He stills.
“What?”
“Touch me,” I say, voice breaking. “Please.”
He turns me, his eyes searching mine. “You want me to touch you?”
“Yes.”
“And what else?”
“I want—” My breath hitches. “I want you.”
He smiles—slow, dark, utterly triumphant. “You don’t have to say it again. I already knew.”
He lifts me, his hands under my thighs, and carries me to the bed. He lays me down gently, then strips off his gloves, his coat, his shirt. His chest is a battlefield—scars from claws, burns from magic, the deep, jagged line across his shoulder blade. The runes tattooed there twist like serpents down his skin.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over me. “This is your last chance,” he says. “Say no, and I’ll leave. Say yes—” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “—and I’ll make you forget your own name.”
I look up at him—gold eyes, sharp jaw, fangs just visible in the torchlight. The man who killed my mother. The monster who burned our temple. The king who took a blade for me.
And I realize—
I don’t want to win this war.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at me—like I’ve given him the world.
Then he kisses me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Gentle.
His lips press against mine—soft, slow, claiming. His hands glide over my skin, pushing the robe aside, baring me to the heat, to the light, to him. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And for the first time, I don’t fight it.
Because part of me—small, broken, awake—doesn’t want to.
Because part of me—
Wants to belong.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I’m not sure I can.
Because I don’t know if I want to.
Because I don’t know if I want to be anyone else.