I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I bear his mark.
The thought claws through my skull as I lie in his bed—Kael’s bed—my fingers pressed to the bite on my shoulder. It pulses like a second heartbeat, warm and deep, sending waves of something that isn’t quite pain, isn’t quite pleasure, rippling through my body. My skin is hypersensitive. The brush of silk against my thigh makes me shiver. The scent of him—pine, fire, raw male—clings to the sheets, to my hair, to my skin. It should repulse me. It should make me vomit, scream, tear the mark from my flesh with my nails.
Instead, my body hums.
My core aches. My breath comes in shallow hitches. The bond—this cursed, fated, *impossible* bond—thrums between us, a live wire stretched taut across the fortress. I can feel him nearby. Not in the room. Not touching me. But *there*, like a shadow at the edge of my senses. Watching. Waiting.
I sit up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. Sunlight slants through the narrow stone shutters, cutting golden lines across the floor. The room is vast—walls of black stone, a hearth cold and empty, weapons mounted like trophies. A wolf pelt sprawls before the fireplace. His bed is massive, carved from dark wood, draped in furs and silk. It smells like him. Like dominance. Like *mine*.
I hate it.
I hate *him*.
And yet—
I press two fingers to the mark again. 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 throw the sheets aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet meet cold stone. I’m still naked. No sign of my robes. No dagger. No clothes. Just me, the mark, and the ghost of his touch.
I stand, swaying slightly. My head throbs. Last night—what happened? I remember the bond-rune exchange. The surge of magic. The golden light. His voice in my ear: *You’ve been mine since the night I killed your mother.* I remember fighting him. Kneeing him. Drawing my blade. Then—nothing.
Did he drug me?
Did he… *take* me?
I run my hands over my body—hips, stomach, thighs. No bruises. No blood. No signs of violence. But the bite on my shoulder is fresh. New. And I know how werewolf claiming works. A public bite is a legal claim. A private one—especially on the shoulder, so close to the mating mark—is intimate. Possessive. It means *you are mine*, not just in law, but in flesh.
I didn’t give him permission.
But the bond doesn’t care about permission.
I find a robe hanging from a hook near the hearth—black, heavy, clearly meant for him. I pull it on. It swallows me, the sleeves dragging past my fingertips, the hem brushing my calves. It smells like him. I should burn it. I should tear it off. Instead, I tie the belt tight around my waist and step toward the door.
It opens before I reach it.
Kael stands there, framed in the doorway, sunlight behind him turning his silhouette into something carved from shadow and fire. He’s dressed in black leather again, his hair slightly tousled, his expression unreadable. His gold eyes lock onto mine.
“Awake,” he says. Not a question.
“Where are my clothes?” My voice is steady. Cold. I won’t let him see me weak.
“Burned,” he says, stepping inside. “They were tainted with Northern sigils. Dangerous.”
“Liar.”
He smirks. “Maybe. But you’re not wearing them.”
He closes the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing in the silence. He doesn’t come closer. Just watches me. Studies me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“The bond is strong,” he says. “Stronger than I’ve ever seen. It’s already calling to you, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He takes a step forward. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent—” He inhales, slow, deliberate. “—is spiced with arousal. Even now, you want me.”
“I want you dead,” I say again, but my voice wavers.
“Same thing, in the end,” he murmurs. “Death and desire—they’re not so different when the bond is involved.”
He moves closer. I don’t back away. I won’t show fear. But my body betrays me—skin prickling, breath catching, the mark on my shoulder burning hotter.
“You think you can resist it,” he says, stopping just a foot away. “You think you can hold onto your mission, your vengeance, your lies. But the bond doesn’t lie. It knows the truth. And the truth is—” He reaches out, his fingers brushing the edge of the robe at my collarbone. “—you’re already mine.”
I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes darken. “You’ll learn.”
“I’ll kill you first.”
He laughs—low, rough. “Try. But know this: if you run, if you fight the bond too hard, it will burn you alive. Denial causes bond-sickness. Fever. Hallucinations. Eventually—madness. And if we’re separated for more than a few hours, we both die. Slowly. Painfully.”
My stomach drops.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps back, arms crossed. “Ask the Council. Ask Riven. Or wait and see what happens when I leave this room and don’t come back.”
I don’t believe him. I can’t.
But a cold dread coils in my gut.
He turns toward the hearth. “Get dressed. You’ll attend the scent trial today.”
“Scent trial?”
“All new envoys must prove their identity. Their scent is tested against their claimed lineage. If it doesn’t match—” He glances at me. “—they’re executed for deception.”
My blood runs cold.
My scent is masked. I’ve layered it with salt, ash, and a witch’s veil. But if they test me too deeply, if they push past the wards—
They’ll smell the fae.
They’ll know I’m not a Northern Witch.
They’ll know I’m Morgana, daughter of the High Priestess, the girl who escaped the burning temple.
And they’ll kill me.
Kael watches me, his expression unreadable. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not afraid of your games.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t play games. I test truth.”
He gestures to a chest at the foot of the bed. “Your new robes are there. Wear them.”
I cross the room and open the chest. Inside are robes of deep gray, embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of a spiral—werewolf sigils. Not Northern. Not neutral. These mark me as his. As claimed.
I want to burn them too.
But I have no choice.
I dress in silence, Kael watching me the entire time. When I’m finished, he nods.
“Better.”
“This doesn’t mean I belong to you.”
“It means the Council will believe you do,” he says. “And that’s enough—for now.”
He opens the door. “Come.”
I follow him through the fortress—down torch-lit corridors, past guards who bow their heads, past werewolves who stare at me with suspicion, with hunger. Whispers rise in our wake.
“Is that her?”
“The fated one?”
“She doesn’t look strong enough.”
“Wait until the bond-heat hits. She’ll be begging for him.”
I keep my head high. My spine straight. I am not prey. I am not his. I am a weapon.
The scent trial chamber is a circular room of white stone, the floor inscribed with runes. Three Council elders stand at the center, their eyes closed, their hands raised. Riven waits at the edge, silent, observant.
Kael leads me forward.
“Envoy Morgana of the Northern Witches,” he announces. “Here to undergo the scent trial.”
One of the elders opens his eyes—milky white, blind, but seeing more than sight. “Step forward, child.”
I do.
“Lay your hands upon the circle.”
I kneel. My palms press against the cold stone. The runes glow faintly beneath me.
The elders begin to chant—low, guttural words in the old tongue. A wind stirs in the room, though there are no windows. My wards hum against my skin, straining. The air thickens. I feel it—the pull, the pressure, the attempt to *unravel* me.
They’re peeling back the layers.
Salt. Ash. Veil.
One by one, the wards begin to crack.
I focus. Breathe. Hold the line. I’ve trained for this. I’ve spent years mastering control. My magic coils beneath my skin, ready to reinforce the mask if needed.
The chanting grows louder. The wind howls. The runes blaze white.
And then—
It stops.
The elders lower their hands. The wind dies. The runes fade.
“The scent is true,” the blind elder says. “She is of the Northern Circle. Her magic is witch-born. Her blood is pure.”
Relief floods me—so sharp, so sudden, I nearly sway.
Kael’s gaze burns into me. He knows. He *knows* it’s a lie. But he says nothing.
The trial is over. I’m cleared.
As we leave the chamber, Kael falls into step beside me. His voice is low, meant only for me.
“Impressive,” he murmurs. “You masked the fae well. But not well enough. I could smell it. Faint, like moonlight on water. But there.”
My blood turns to ice.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Because I also smelled something else. Something… forbidden. Something that makes me wonder what you really are.”
I don’t answer.
He smirks. “But I’ll find out. The bond will make sure of it.”
We turn a corner, and the corridor ahead collapses in a roar of stone and dust.
Debris rains down. I cry out as a chunk of masonry grazes my temple, blood blooming hot against my skin. I stumble, disoriented—
And then strong arms catch me.
Kael.
He pulls me against his chest, shielding me with his body as more stone crashes down. Dust fills the air. I cough, my vision blurring.
“Hold on,” he growls.
And then he’s moving—carrying me, his arms locked around me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. My cheek presses against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, powerful. His scent surrounds me. My body relaxes—just for a second—into the warmth, the strength, the *safety* of him.
And then I remember.
I shove against him. “Put me down.”
“Not yet,” he says, striding through the dust. “There could be more.”
He carries me to a clear corridor, then sets me down gently. His hands linger on my arms, his eyes scanning my face.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
He reaches up, his thumb brushing the cut on my temple. His touch is rough, but not unkind. A jolt runs through me—heat, need, the bond flaring in response.
My breath hitches.
His eyes darken. “You feel it, don’t you? The bond. It’s not just magic. It’s *alive*. And it’s getting stronger.”
I step back. “I don’t want it.”
“Too late,” he says. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll *know* it.”
He turns to go.
“Wait,” I say.
He glances back.
“Why didn’t you expose me in the trial?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Because I want to see what you’ll do when you’re cornered. When you have no choice but to fight—or surrender.”
And then he’s gone.
I press a hand to my temple, the sting of the cut grounding me. But beneath it, beneath the pain, the bond pulses—lower, deeper, *hungrier*.
And for the first time, I’m not sure I can win this war.
Because my body is already betraying me.
And the enemy knows it.