I came here to save her.
And now I’m watching her across the banquet hall, my chest tight with something I can’t name.
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 the truth.
She knows 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 banquet hall is packed—Alphas, Betas, envoys from the vampire and fae courts. The long stone tables groan under the weight of roasted meat, bloodwine, and silver platters of enchanted fruit. Torches line the walls, their flames flickering with unnatural blue at the edges. The air is thick with the scent of iron, pine, and something darker—power.
Morgana sits at my right hand, dressed in a gown of midnight blue silk, the werewolf sigils embroidered in silver thread. The neckline plunges, the hem slit to the thigh. It’s the same dress she wore during the public claim—the one that tore, that exposed her to the pack, that made them roar her name like a prayer.
She doesn’t look at me.
Not since last night.
Since I claimed her. Since she whispered, *I love you*, and shattered every wall I’d built over ten years of silence, of guilt, of waiting.
She doesn’t need to look at me.
I can feel her—the heat of her thigh brushing mine beneath the table, the rhythm of her breath syncing with mine, the bond pulsing like a second heartbeat. Her scent—wild magic and moonflower—fills my lungs, intoxicating, maddening. I want to pull her into my lap, to press my fangs to her neck, to remind the entire hall who she belongs to.
But I don’t.
Because she’s not just mine.
She’s a weapon.
And someone is going to try to use her.
I scan the room—my pack, my enemies, my allies. Riven stands at the edge of the dais, arms crossed, his gaze sharp. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. But I know what he’s thinking: She’s vulnerable. And they’ll come for her.
And they will.
Seraphine is here—of course she is. She sits at the vampire table, draped in blood-red silk, her lips painted the same shade as her dress. Her eyes lock onto Morgana, cold, calculating. She’s not just watching. She’s waiting.
Thorne is beside her, his black eyes gleaming, his fingers wrapped around a goblet of bloodwine. He doesn’t drink. Just watches me. Watches her. And I know—
He wants her blood.
Not just a taste.
Not just a drop.
He wants it all.
And he’ll do anything to get it.
The High Elder rises, his staff raised. “The Blood Moon Treaty nears completion,” he announces. “The final signing will take place at dawn. Until then, let there be peace. Let there be unity. Let there be—”
“Celebration,” I interrupt, standing. My voice cuts through the hall like a blade. “Let there be wine. Let there be meat. Let there be joy.”
The crowd murmurs—approval, unease, anticipation.
I turn to Morgana. “Drink with me,” I say, lifting a goblet of bloodwine.
She looks at me—gold eyes sharp, wary, but no longer filled with hate. “I don’t trust the wine,” she says, voice low.
“Then trust me,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then lifts her own goblet—deep red, swirling with magic. “To peace,” she says, voice steady.
“To us,” I say.
We drink.
The wine is rich, thick, laced with ancient magic. It burns down my throat, settles in my veins. I watch her—her lips part, her throat move, the pulse at her neck fluttering. My fangs ache. My wolf growls. The bond flares—golden light flickering beneath her skin, the runes on her shoulder glowing faintly.
And then—
She coughs.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
I freeze.
Her hand flies to her throat. Her face pales. Her breath hitches.
“Morgana?” I say, my voice low, dangerous.
She doesn’t answer.
Just clutches the edge of the table, her knuckles white, her body trembling.
And then—
She collapses.
Into my arms.
“Morgana!”
The hall erupts—shouts, snarls, the scrape of steel. I roar, the sound ripping through the room, shattering glass, silencing the crowd. My arms lock around her, my body shielding her, my scent flooding the air—mine, mine, mine.
Her skin is hot. Too hot. Her breath is shallow. Her pulse—faint, erratic.
“Poison,” I snarl, lifting my head. “Who did this?”
No one answers.
But I know.
I smell it—the faint tang of nightshade, the bitter aftertaste of betrayal. Not in my wine.
In hers.
I rise, cradling her against my chest, my boots silent on the stone. The crowd parts for me, their eyes wide, their breaths held. Riven steps forward, his face grim. “Let me take her—”
“No,” I growl. “She’s mine.”
I carry her through the corridors, my strides long, my presence a storm. The bond screams between us—pain, fear, need. Her magic flickers, weak, fading. I press my palm to her chest, feeling the mating mark pulse—faint, desperate.
“Hold on,” I whisper. “Just hold on.”
We reach my chambers. I kick the door open, stride to the bed, and lay her down gently. Her face is pale, her lips tinged with blue. Her breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I press two fingers to her throat—her pulse is fading.
“No,” I say, my voice raw. “You don’t get to die. Not like this.”
I 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 will hurt,” I say. “But it’s the only way.”
Then I bite.
My fangs pierce her neck—just above the mating mark, deep enough to draw blood, to open the bond fully. She gasps, her body arching, her hands fisting in the sheets. I don’t stop. Just press my lips to the wound, and drink.
Her blood floods my mouth—iron, fire, wild magic. It burns through me, searing my veins, igniting my wolf. I feel the poison—dark, writhing, foreign—coiling through her magic, her blood, her soul.
And I pull.
I draw it into me, let it flood my body, let it burn through my flesh. My vision blurs. My muscles spasm. Pain rips through me—hot, sharp, unbearable. I growl, low and rough, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Because if I do, she dies.
And I won’t let that happen.
Not again.
Not ever.
Her breath steadies. Her skin cools. Her pulse strengthens.
And then—
She opens her eyes.
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 alive,” I say, my voice rough.
“You’re poisoned,” she whispers.
“I’ll live,” I say.
“No,” she says, pushing up on her elbows. “You’ll die. The poison—”
“Is in me now,” I say. “And I’ll burn it out.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not just nightshade. It’s fae venom. It kills werewolves in hours. You don’t have time.”
I don’t answer.
Just reach for the dagger on the nightstand.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice rising.
“Saving us both,” I say.
I press the blade to my palm, slice deep. Blood wells—dark, thick, laced with poison. I press my hand to her mouth. “Drink,” I say.
“No—”
“Drink,” I growl. “Or I’ll die for nothing.”
She hesitates.
Then opens her lips.
And takes my blood.
Her tongue brushes my palm, warm, soft, needing. I shudder. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic. Her magic surges—golden light erupting from her palms, her fae blood singing in her veins. The poison in her body burns away, purified by my blood, by the bond, by us.
When she pulls back, her lips are stained with my blood, her eyes wild, her breath ragged. “Why?” she whispers. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “And I’m yours. And no one—no one—takes what’s ours.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just wraps her arms around me, pulling me down, burying her face in my neck. I hold her—tight, desperate, real—as the poison burns through my veins, as my body fights to survive.
And then—
There’s a knock.
Not at the door.
At the window.
We freeze.
Another knock—soft, deliberate.
I rise slowly, pulling the sheet over her, my body shielding her. I move to the shutters, pull them open.
Seraphine.
She floats outside, suspended in the air, her coat billowing like wings. Moonlight cuts across her face, turning her pale skin to silver. Her black eyes lock onto mine.
“I knew you’d save her,” she says. “But I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to take the poison yourself.”
“You did this,” I say, voice low, dangerous.
“I didn’t,” she says, smiling. “But I know who did. And if you want to live—” She leans in, her breath cold against my skin. “—you’ll come to the lower tunnels at midnight. Alone.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I want you alive,” she says. “And because I know what’s coming. War. Blood. Fire. And if you die tonight—” She glances at Morgana. “—she’ll be alone. Again.”
She turns, begins to float away.
“Wait,” I say.
She stops.
“Why are you doing this?”
She looks at me—really looks—and for a heartbeat, I see something in her eyes. Not hate. Not greed.
Pain.
“Because I was once like her,” she says. “And you let me die.”
Then she’s gone.
I close the shutters, turn back to the room. Morgana is sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest, her eyes sharp. “You’re going,” she says.
“I have to,” I say. “If there’s a cure—”
“There isn’t,” she says. “The poison is fatal. You know that.”
“Then I’ll make one.”
“You’ll die,” she says, her voice breaking. “And I can’t—” She stops, presses her palms to her eyes. “I can’t lose you. Not after everything.”
I cross the room, drop to one knee in front of her. “You won’t lose me,” I say. “Because I’m not letting go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of us.”
She looks at me—gold eyes burning, fierce, alive. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she says, standing. “You don’t get to decide this. Not anymore.”
I open my mouth to argue.
And then—
There’s a knock at the door.
Not soft.
Not delicate.
Violent.
I rise, move to the door, yank it open.
Thorne.
He stands there, shirt unbuttoned, his chest pale, his eyes gleaming. “I heard,” he says. “The poison. The blood. The bond.”
“Get out,” I growl.
“Or what?” he says, stepping inside. “You’ll kill me? You’re dying, Kael. And I’m the only one who can save you.”
“You’re the one who poisoned her,” I snarl.
“I didn’t,” he says. “But I know who did. And I can tell you—” He looks at Morgana. “—for a price.”
“Name it,” she says, stepping forward.
Thorne smiles. “Your blood. All of it. A full exchange. A binding vow.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Morgana says. “Do it.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I say.
“I do,” she says. “And I don’t care. If it saves you—” She looks at Thorne. “—then take it.”
Thorne reaches out, his fingers brushing her wrist. Cold. Deliberate. “One taste,” he says. “That’s all I ask. Let me drink from you. Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”
My wolf roars.
I grab him, slam him against the wall, my fangs at his throat. “Touch her,” I snarl, “and I’ll rip your heart out.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “You’re dying, Kael. And she knows it. So do I. And if you don’t let me help you—” He glances at Morgana. “—she’ll be alone. Again.”
I freeze.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what kills me.
I release him, step back.
“Do it,” I say, voice raw. “But if you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” Thorne says. “Because I want her alive. I want her strong.”
He turns to Morgana. “Bare your neck.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
Just lifts her chin, baring her throat.
And Thorne—
He bites.
Not deep. Not cruel. Just enough to draw blood. He drinks—slow, deliberate, reverent. I watch, my body tense, my wolf snarling, my hands fisted at my sides. Her breath hitches. Her eyes close. Her body sways.
And then—
He pulls back.
Wipes his mouth. Smiles.
“The poison is fae venom,” he says. “From the High Court. They want her dead. They want you weak. And if you go to the tunnels tonight—” He looks at me. “—you’ll walk into a trap.”
“Then what do I do?” I ask.
“You don’t go,” he says. “You stay here. You fight. You survive. And you protect what’s yours.”
He turns to Morgana. “And you—” He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from her face. “—you’re not just a queen. You’re a storm. And I’ll be waiting when you rise.”
Then he’s gone.
I turn to Morgana. “You’re bleeding.”
She touches her neck—two small punctures, blood welling. “It’s nothing,” she says. “But you—” She steps closer, her hands rising to my chest. “—you’re burning up.”
I am.
The poison is spreading.
My vision blurs. My muscles spasm. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.
“I’ll live,” I say.
“No,” she says, pressing her palm to my chest. “You won’t. Not like this.”
Then she does something I don’t expect.
She kisses me.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
Violent.Her mouth crashes into mine, her fangs scraping my lips, her tongue claiming me like she owns me. And I—
I kiss her back.
My hands fist in her hair, pulling her closer, my body arching into hers, my core aching, needing. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic.
When she pulls back, her breath is ragged, her eyes wild, her lips swollen. “You’re not dying tonight,” she says, voice trembling. “Because I won’t let you.”
And then—
She cuts her palm.
Presses it to my mouth.
“Drink,” she says. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”
I don’t hesitate.
I take her blood.
Iron. Fire. Her.
It floods my veins, burns through the poison, ignites my magic. The runes on my chest glow—golden, fierce, alive. My body responds—muscles healing, vision clearing, breath steadying.
And then—
I pull her into my chest.
Hold her.
And I know—
She saved me.
Not just from the poison.
Not just from death.
But from myself.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “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 let myself believe—
Maybe I don’t have to win this war.
Maybe I don’t have to destroy them.
Maybe—
Maybe I can just belong.
I came here to save her.
And now—
I think she saved me.
And worse—
I don’t want to be anyone else.