I came here to save her.
And now I’m watching her sleep, my chest tight with something I don’t have a name for.
Not just possession. Not just dominance. Not even the bond—though it hums between us, stronger than ever, a golden thread woven through our blood, our breath, our dreams.
It’s *fear*.
Because she knows.
She knows the truth about her mother. About the temple. About me.
And still, she didn’t run.
She didn’t draw a blade.
She didn’t scream.
She *cried*.
And then she kissed me.
Not because the bond demanded it.
Not because the fever burned through her.
But because she *wanted* to.
And that—that—is what terrifies me.
The sun hasn’t risen yet. The fortress is quiet, wrapped in the hush before dawn. Rain still slicks the shutters, the wind whispering through the cracks. Morgana lies in my bed, curled on her side, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, her face soft in sleep. The gray robe has slipped from one shoulder, revealing the mark—golden, intricate, claimed—pulsing faintly with every breath.
I should leave.
Should return to my patrols. Should check the northern ridge. Should ensure Seraphine hasn’t slipped back into the fortress, her lies dripping from her lips like poison.
But I don’t.
I stay.
I watch.
Because for the first time in ten years, I’m not guarding a secret.
I’m guarding *her*.
And I don’t know how to stop.
I press two fingers to the mating mark on my own chest—just over my heart, twin to hers. It burns, not with pain, but with need. The full moon is three nights away. The bond-heat will peak then. And if we haven’t consummated the bond by then—
We’ll die.
Not slowly. Not quietly.
But in agony. Our magic will turn on us. Our bodies will reject the bond. And we’ll burn from the inside out.
I know this.
She knows this.
And yet—
She still pulls away.
When I touch her. When I look at her. When I say her name.
She flinches like I’m the monster she came here to kill.
And maybe I am.
Maybe I always will be.
But I’m hers.
And I’m not letting go.
I rise from the chair, boots silent on the stone, and move to the hearth. I stoke the embers, add kindling, watch the flames catch. The firelight flickers across the room, painting shadows on the walls, on her skin, on the silver collar I placed on the nightstand—returned to her this morning, though she hasn’t touched it.
It’s not a gift.
It’s a reminder.
That she’s mine.
That she’s safe.
That she’s *wanted*.
She stirs, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her fingers curl into the sheets. I freeze, watching. Waiting.
Then her eyes open.
Gold meets gold.
And for a heartbeat, she doesn’t look away.
She just *sees* me.
Not the Wolf King.
Not the monster.
But *me*.
And it’s almost enough to break me.
“You’re still here,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
She sits up slowly, the robe slipping further, her skin pale in the firelight. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t hide. Just looks at me—eyes sharp, wary, but no longer filled with hate.
“You heard me,” she says.
“I heard everything.”
“And you still stayed.”
“I’ll always stay,” I say. “Even if you try to push me away.”
She looks down, fingers twisting in the sheets. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” She gestures between us. “You’re not the man I thought you were. And I don’t know if I can—”
“You don’t have to,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t have to love me. But you *do* have to survive. And if we don’t consummate the bond before the full moon—”
“I know,” she snaps. “I’ve read the texts. I know what happens.”
“Then stop fighting it,” I say, kneeling in front of her. “Stop pretending you don’t want me. Stop pretending you don’t feel it.”
“I feel it,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to.”
“Liar,” I say, reaching up, my thumb brushing the mark on her shoulder. “Your body knows the truth. It’s been mine since the moment we touched.”
She shivers.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, but her voice wavers.
“You say that,” I murmur, “but your breath hitches. Your pulse races. Your scent—” I inhale, slow, deliberate. “—is spiced with arousal. You’re wet for me, Morgana. Even now. Even here.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
“I don’t,” I say. “But your body does. And it’s screaming that you want me.”
She slaps me.
Hard.
The crack echoes in the room. My head snaps to the side. But I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just turn back to her, my jaw tight, my eyes burning.
“Hit me again,” I say. “Scream. Fight. Run. But you’ll still be mine. And you’ll still need me.”
“I’ll never need you,” she hisses.
“You already do,” I say, standing. “And if you keep denying this, you’ll die. And I’ll die with you. Is that what you want?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just glares at me, her chest rising and falling, her lips parted, her skin flushed.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Riven steps inside, his face grim. “Seraphine’s back,” he says. “She’s demanding an audience. Says she has proof the bond is false.”
Morgana stiffens.
I don’t.
Because I know what this is.
A test.
A trap.
And I’m done playing games.
“Tell her to wait,” I say.
“She says it’s urgent,” Riven says. “Says she’ll expose you in front of the Council.”
I turn to Morgana. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
“I’m not your puppet,” she says.
“No,” I say. “You’re my mate. And you’re going to prove it.”
She doesn’t move.
Just sits there, her eyes blazing, her body trembling.
And I know—
This is it.
The moment she chooses.
Between vengeance.
And me.
Between the past.
And the future.
Between hate.
And the unbearable, humiliating truth—
She doesn’t want to win this war.
She wants to *belong*.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, voice low.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Because if I don’t, she’ll destroy you. She’ll turn the pack against you. And I won’t let that happen.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she rises.
She pulls on the gray robes. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
But she follows.
And that’s enough.
The Council Chamber is packed—Alphas, Betas, envoys from the vampire and fae courts. The air is thick with tension, with the low hum of whispered alliances. Torches line the walls, their flames flickering with unnatural blue at the edges. The scent of iron and incense fills the space, mingling with something deeper—power.
Seraphine stands at the center of the dais, dressed in blood-red silk, her hair loose, her lips painted the same shade as her dress. She holds a vial in one hand—dark liquid swirling inside. Blood.
“Ah, the fated pair,” she says, smiling. “How… convenient that you arrive together.”
“Speak, Blood Queen,” I say, stepping forward. “Before I have you thrown from the fortress.”
She laughs. “So aggressive. So *predictable*. But tell me, Kael—” She lifts the vial. “—do you know what this is?”
“Vampire blood,” I say. “Stolen, no doubt.”
“Not just any blood,” she says. “This is the blood of the Northern Witch who tried to poison the treaty scroll. The one you spared. The one who confessed—under torture—that your bond with Morgana is a lie. That she’s not your fated mate. That she’s a *spy*.”
The crowd murmurs.
Morgana stiffens beside me.
“Lies,” I say. “All of it.”
“Are they?” Seraphine steps forward, her eyes locked on Morgana. “Because she’s not a Northern Witch, is she? She’s half-fae. Half-witch. The daughter of the High Priestess you executed.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“And you knew,” she says, turning to me. “You knew who she was. And you let her in. You let her near the treaty. You let her near *you*.”
“Because she’s mine,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “And I don’t answer to you.”
“Then prove it,” she says. “Prove the bond is real. Prove she’s your mate. Or admit the truth—that you’ve been deceived. That she’s here to destroy you.”
The High Elder steps forward, staff raised. “The Council demands verification. If the bond is false, both must be executed for treason.”
All eyes are on me.
On her.
And I know—
This is the moment.
Not just for the bond.
Not just for the treaty.
But for *us*.
I turn to Morgana.
Her face is pale. Her breath is shallow. But her eyes—gold, fierce, alive—don’t waver.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Because if I don’t, they’ll kill you. And I won’t let that happen.”
She stares at me for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she nods.
I step forward, my hand rising to the back of her neck. I pull her to me, my breath hot against her ear. “This will hurt,” I whisper. “But I’ll make it quick.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just lifts her chin, baring her neck.
And I—
I bite.
My fangs pierce her skin—just above the mating mark, deep enough to draw blood, to seal the bond in the oldest way. She gasps, her body arching into mine, her hands fisting in my coat. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And then—
She screams.
Not from pain.
From *release*.
The bond surges, stronger than ever, a flood of heat, of power, of *truth*. Her magic flares—golden light erupting from her palms, her fae blood singing in her veins. The crowd roars. The runes on the floor blaze. The High Elder raises his staff.
“The bond is confirmed!” he shouts. “The mate-mark is sealed!”
I pull back, her blood on my lips, her scent in my lungs. She sways, her eyes dazed, her breath ragged. I catch her, pull her into my chest, my arms locking around her.
“You’re mine,” I whisper. “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 know—
She still fights it.
Still hates me.
Still wants to win this war.
But she’s mine.
And I’ll make her see it.
Even if I have to break her first.
We return to my chambers 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.
I marked her.
In front of them all.
And she didn’t fight.
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.
But I’m not done.
Because the bond isn’t just marked.
It’s not just claimed.
It’s not even just *real*.
It’s *consummated*.
And I’m going to make sure she knows it.
I step inside, then turn and close the door behind us. The lock clicks.
She freezes.
“Kael—”
“No more running,” I say, stepping closer. “No more lies. No more denial.”
“I’m not denying anything,” she says, backing up. “You marked me. The bond is confirmed. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t consummate it before the full moon,” I say, “we’ll die. And I’m not letting that happen.”
“Then wait,” she says. “Three more nights. Let me—”
“No,” I say, grabbing her wrist, yanking her forward. “I’ve waited ten years. I’ve let you hate me. I’ve let you fight me. I’ve let you try to kill me. But I’m done.”
“You don’t get to decide this!” she snaps.
“I do,” I growl, pinning her against the wall, my body pressing into hers, my hardness digging into her hip. “Because you’re mine. And I’m going to claim you—right here, right now—whether you say yes or not.”
Her breath hitches.
Her eyes widen.
And then—
She knees me.
Hard.
Pain rips through me, but I don’t let go. Just grin, low, dark. “You think that’ll stop me?”
“I’ll kill you,” she hisses.
“You already tried,” I say, my hand sliding to her throat—not choking, just holding, feeling her pulse race. “And you failed.”
Her chest heaves. Her core clenches. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on her shoulder glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And then—
She bites me.
On the neck.
Hard.
Blood blooms on my skin. I growl—low, rough—and my control snaps.
I lift her, my hands under her thighs, and carry her to the bed. I lay her down gently, then strip off my gloves, my coat, my shirt. My chest is a battlefield—scars from claws, burns from magic, the deep, jagged line across my shoulder blade. The runes tattooed there twist like serpents down my skin.
I climb onto the bed, hovering over her. “This is your last chance,” I say. “Say no, and I’ll leave. Say yes—” I lean in, my breath hot against her ear. “—and I’ll make you forget your own name.”
She looks up at me—gold eyes, sharp jaw, fangs just visible in the torchlight. The man who killed her mother. The monster who burned their temple. The king who took a blade for her.
And I realize—
She doesn’t want to win this war.
“No,” she whispers.
I still.
“No?”
“No,” she says, louder. “I won’t let you take me like this. Not because the bond demands it. Not because you *own* me. But because I *want* you.”
My breath stops.
“Then say it,” I say, voice rough. “Say you want me.”
She lifts her chin. “I want you, Kael. But not like this. Not forced. Not because I have to. But because I *choose* to.”
And for the first time—
I let her choose.
I lean down.
And I kiss her.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Gentle.
My lips press against hers—soft, slow, claiming. My hands glide over her skin, pushing the robe aside, baring her to the heat, to the light, to me. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And for the first time, she doesn’t fight it.
Because part of her—small, broken, awake—doesn’t want to.
Because part of her—
Wants to belong.