I came here to save her.
And now I’m standing at the edge of the prison level beneath the Iron Court, my body coiled like a storm, my fangs bared, my wolf howling beneath my skin. The air is thick with damp earth and old magic, the scent of iron and frost clinging to the stone like a curse. Torches flicker with unnatural blue at the edges, their light casting long, jagged shadows across the corridor. The runes on the walls pulse faintly—warded, silenced, warded again—designed to break magic, to break will, to break her.
But they won’t.
Because I’m not here to negotiate.
I’m not here to plead.
I’m here to burn.
The prison is carved from black stone, buried deep beneath the fortress, accessible only by blood-key and Alpha command. No one enters without my permission. No one leaves without my say. And yet—
They took her.
They dragged Morgana—my mate, my queen, the woman who saved me from poison, from lies, from myself—through these halls in iron cuffs etched with suppression runes. They locked her in a cell like a common criminal. And I—
I did nothing.
Not because I believed her guilty.
Not because I doubted her.
Because I had to.
The Council demanded it. The High Elder declared her a traitor. The law—cold, ancient, unyielding—required due process. And if I’d roared, if I’d torn the gates open with my claws, if I’d defied them all—
I’d have given them the excuse they wanted.
To call me weak.
To call me controlled.
To say I’d let love blind me to duty.
So I let them take her.
I let them believe they’d won.
And now—
I’m going to show them what happens when you cage a queen.
Riven stands beside me, silent, still, his presence a shadow. His gold eyes are sharp, his body tense, his claws retracted—but I can feel his wolf snarling beneath his skin. He knows what’s coming. He knows I won’t stop. He knows that if the Council tries to intervene, if the guards raise their blades, if the Elders dare to speak—
There will be blood.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low. “We can wait. We can gather more proof. We can—”
“No,” I growl. “She’s been in that cell for twelve hours. Twelve hours of suppression magic. Twelve hours of silence. Twelve hours of them telling her I’ve abandoned her.”
“And you haven’t,” Riven says.
“She doesn’t know that,” I snarl. “The bond’s suppressed. She can’t feel me. She can’t hear me. She can’t know.”
He studies me. “And if you break the law to free her?”
“Then I’ll burn the law with it,” I say. “Because she’s not just my mate. She’s my equal. My queen. And no cell, no lie, no coward with a title gets to decide her fate.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just nods.
I press my palm to the gate.
It’s sealed with werewolf sigils, enchanted to only open to my blood. The runes flare—golden, then black, then gone—as my magic surges through the stone. The lock clicks. The hinges groan. The gate swings open.
And I step inside.
The corridor is silent—no guards, no watchers, no sentinels. I ordered them cleared. Anyone who stood in my way would be torn apart. And they knew it.
Good.
Let them fear me.
Let them remember who I am.
The Wolf King.
Alpha of Alphas.
And the man who will destroy anyone who hurts what’s mine.
The cells line both sides, their bars thick with suppression magic, their doors sealed with ancient wards. Most are empty. A few hold political prisoners—Fae dissidents, rogue witches, vampire spies. But only one matters.
Only one burns in my blood.
I stop before it.
The door is iron, etched with runes that pulse with dark magic. The air hums with suppression, with silence, with the weight of betrayal. And inside—
She’s there.
Morgana.
She’s sitting on the slab, her back pressed to the wall, her wrists bound in cuffs that flare with every breath. Her dark hair hangs loose, her gold eyes closed, her face pale. She looks… fragile.
And that—that—is what breaks me.
Because she’s not fragile.
She’s fire.
She’s storm.
She’s the woman who stood before the Fae High Court and set the runes ablaze with her voice.
And they’ve tried to break her.
“Morgana,” I say, my voice rough.
Her eyes snap open.
Gold meets gold.
And for a heartbeat—just one—I see it.
Doubt.
Not of me.
Of herself.
“You came,” she whispers.
“Of course I came,” I growl, pressing my hand to the bars. “Did you think I’d leave you?”
“You didn’t stop them,” she says, her voice breaking. “You just… watched.”
“I let them believe they’d won,” I say. “So I could tear it all down when I took you back.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me—like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“The bond,” she says. “It’s suppressed. I can’t feel you.”
“I can feel you,” I say. “Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every time you dream of me.”
Her lips part. “You know that?”
“I know everything,” I say. “I know you’re not guilty. I know they framed you. I know the Fae envoy was already dead when they found him. I know the sigil carved into the stone was forged with vampire blood magic.”
“Then why—”
“Because I needed proof,” I say. “And now I have it.”
I pull a silver vial from my coat—etched with werewolf runes, filled with tracking magic. “Riven followed Seraphine. He found the original treaty scroll. He found the quill. He found the blood trace. And now—” I press the vial to the bars. “—we’re going to expose her. In front of everyone. With you at my side.”
She stills.
Her breath catches.
And then—
She presses her palm to the mating mark on her shoulder.
It pulses—faint, weak, alive.
“You’re really going to do this,” she says. “You’re going to defy the Council. Risk your throne. For me.”
“You’re not just ‘for you,’” I say. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no law, no lie, no traitor with a crown gets to take that from us.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just closes her eyes.
And when she opens them—
They’re burning.
Not with fear.
Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Then break the lock,” she says. “And let’s go burn them together.”
I smile—slow, dark, utterly triumphant.
Then I press my palm to the door.
Not with magic.
Not with command.
With rage.
My magic surges—dark, thick, laced with werewolf power. The runes flare, resist, then shatter. The iron groans. The hinges scream. And then—
The door explodes inward.
She doesn’t flinch.
Just stands, her back straight, her chin high, her gold eyes burning. The cuffs still bind her wrists, the suppression runes still flare, but she doesn’t look defeated.
She looks like a queen.
I step inside.
“Hold out your hands,” I say.
She does.
I press my palm to the cuffs.
Another surge—golden light erupting across the stone, the runes cracking, the magic screaming. And then—
They break.
She gasps—soft, sharp—as the suppression magic releases. Her magic—wild, raw, alive—surges back into her like a flood. The bond—
It roars.
Golden light erupts between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic. She stumbles forward, and I catch her, my arms locking around her, her body pressed to mine, her breath warm against my neck.
“You’re here,” she whispers.
“I’ll always be here,” I say. “No matter where you are. No matter what they do. I’ll find you. I’ll fight for you. I’ll burn for you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her forehead to mine, her breath hot against my lips. “I love you,” she says, voice breaking. “And I’m not afraid anymore.”
I don’t answer.
Just kiss her.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
Violent.My mouth crashes into hers, my fangs scraping her lips, my tongue claiming her like she owns me. And she—
She kisses me back.
Her hands fist in my coat, pulling me closer, her body arching into mine, her core aching, needing. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The walls tremble. The suppression runes on the floor ignite—golden light erupting across the corridor.
And then—
Footsteps.
Heavy. Fast. armed.
I break the kiss slowly, my breath ragged, my fangs bared. I don’t turn. Don’t release her. Just hold her tighter, my body a wall between her and the threat.
“Kael,” a voice calls. “Stand down. You’re in violation of Council law.”
High Elder Voss.
His voice echoes in the stone, cold, commanding. Behind him—Alphas, Betas, guards, their blades drawn, their eyes sharp. The Council has come.
Good.
Let them see.
“I am the law,” I say, turning slowly, Morgana still in my arms. “And I say she’s innocent.”
“The evidence says otherwise,” Voss says. “The Fae envoy was found dead. Her sigil was carved into the stone. The venom matches the poison used on you.”
“And I say it’s a forgery,” I growl. “Made with vampire blood magic. Planted by Seraphine. And I have proof.”
“You have no right to accuse the Blood Queen,” Voss says. “Not without—”
“Without what?” I snap. “Without permission? Without your blessing?” I step forward, Morgana at my side, her hand laced with mine. “You locked her in a cell. You suppressed her magic. You tried to break her. And for what? Because you’re afraid?”
“We’re protecting the pack,” Voss says.
“You’re protecting your power,” I say. “And if you think I’ll let you use her to do it—” I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. “—you’re wrong.”
“She’s a traitor,” one of the Alphas says.
“No,” Morgana says, stepping forward. “I’m not. And if you doubt me—” She raises her hand. The mating mark on her shoulder pulses—golden, fierce, alive. “—then let the bond speak.”
Silence.
The bond hums between us—golden, insistent, unbreakable. The runes on the floor ignite—golden light erupting across the corridor, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The guards stumble back.
“The bond is confirmed,” one of the Betas whispers. “The mate-mark is sealed.”
“And so is the truth,” Morgana says, stepping back to my side. “I am not your prisoner. I am your queen. And if you come for me—” She lifts her chin, gold eyes burning. “—you’ll burn with us.”
Voss doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches us—like he’s seeing the future.
And I know—
He’s afraid.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“No,” I say. “It’s just beginning.”
He turns. The guards follow.
And we’re alone.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Morgana says, her voice soft.
“Yes, I did,” I say. “Because I’m not just your king. I’m your mate. And I’ll never let them take you from me again.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.
And I know—
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.