I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I belong to him.
The words echo in my skull like a death sentence as I stand before the Council Chamber, the weight of Kael’s stolen robe still clinging to my skin. The bite on my shoulder pulses—steady, insistent—a second heartbeat synced to his. I can feel him inside the hall ahead, a dark presence behind the carved obsidian doors, his energy coiled tight, dangerous. The bond hums between us, a live wire strung from my core to his, pulling me forward even as every instinct screams to run.
But I can’t.
Kael’s warning from earlier claws through me: *If we’re separated for more than a few hours, we both die. Slowly. Painfully.*
I don’t believe him. I *can’t* believe him. Not fully. The Supernatural Council doesn’t execute envoys for emotional entanglements. They don’t trap fated pairs in political unions like caged animals. That’s myth. Propaganda. A control tactic.
But the bite is real. The bond is real. And the way my body aches when he’s not near—like my blood is thinning, my breath shortening—that’s real too.
I press my palm flat against the door. Cold stone bites into my skin. The runes etched into the frame glow faintly—warding sigils, ancient and sharp. I feel them vibrate against my magic, testing me. Rejecting me. I’m not one of them. I never will be.
The doors swing open.
The Council Chamber is a cavern of black stone and flickering torchlight, the air thick with the scent of old blood and older power. Twelve elders sit in a semicircle of carved thrones, their faces lined with age, their eyes sharp with judgment. At the center of the dais stands Kael, back straight, hands clasped behind him, his gold eyes locked on me as I enter.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches.
Riven stands at his right, silent, observant. His gaze flicks to my shoulder—the mark—then back to my face. There’s no judgment there. No triumph. Just… assessment.
I walk forward, my steps measured, my spine rigid. I stop beside Kael, close enough that the heat of him radiates against my arm, far enough that I don’t have to touch him.
“Envoy Morgana of the Northern Witches,” the High Elder intones, his voice like stone grinding on stone. “And Kael, Alpha of Alphas, Wolf King. You stand before the Supernatural Council on the third day of the Blood Moon Treaty.”
I keep my expression blank. Neutral. The perfect diplomat.
“The bond-rune exchange has confirmed a fated mating,” the Elder continues. “A rare and powerful union, blessed by the Blood Moon. Such bonds are sacred. Unbreakable. And, in times of political fragility, *strategic*.”
My stomach tightens.
“Therefore,” he says, raising his staff, “the Council decrees that you shall remain in bonded proximity for thirty days. During this time, you will reside together, attend all Council functions as a united front, and allow the bond to stabilize.”
I freeze.
“What?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
The Elder’s milky eyes turn to me. “Separation before stabilization risks bond-sickness. Delirium. Organ failure. Death.”
“That’s not true,” I say, my voice steady despite the panic clawing up my throat. “Fated bonds don’t kill. They’re myths used to control.”
“Are they?” The Elder gestures to a young werewolf standing at the edge of the chamber—pale, trembling, his eyes wild. “Bring him forward.”
The guards drag the boy to the center. He can’t be more than twenty. His scent is thin, frayed—like old paper about to tear.
“This is Torin,” the Elder says. “A fated mate who attempted to flee his bond. He separated from his partner for seven hours.”
“Liar,” the boy rasps. “She left *me*. I didn’t—”
“Silence.” The Elder raises his staff. “Show them.”
The guards tear open the boy’s tunic.
And I see it.
Across his chest, where a mating mark should glow bright and whole, is a jagged, cracked scar—blackened at the edges, weeping a thin, dark fluid. The skin around it is necrotic, gray and peeling. The mark is *dying*.
“Bond-sickness,” the Elder says. “If he does not reunite with his mate within the week, his heart will stop. His magic will collapse. He will die in agony.”
My breath catches.
It’s real.
The bond isn’t just magic. It’s *biology*. A living contract written in blood and bone. And if I run, if I try to escape—
I’ll die.
Kael turns his head slightly, just enough that I catch the edge of his smirk. He knew. He *knew* this would happen.
“The decree is law,” the Elder says. “For thirty days, you are bound by Council order to remain in close proximity. Any attempt to separate will be met with immediate arrest. Any act of sabotage against the bond—” His eyes narrow. “—will be punished by death.”
The room falls silent.
I feel the weight of it—the trap closing, the walls narrowing. I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I can’t even leave the same room as him.
“You will reside in the King’s chambers,” the Elder continues. “A bonded pair must share space, share scent, share breath. This is non-negotiable.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“And if we refuse?” I ask.
“Then you both die,” the Elder says simply. “The bond will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. And the Council will not intervene.”
Kael finally speaks. “We accept.”
I whip my head toward him. “You don’t get to speak for me.”
“I do,” he says, turning to me fully. His voice is low, rough. “Because you’re *mine*. And I won’t let you die. Not like that.”
“I’d rather die than belong to you.”
His eyes darken. “Then you’ll have to kill me first. And we both know you can’t do that without killing yourself.”
The truth of it slams into me like a blade.
I’m trapped.
Not just by the bond. Not just by the Council.
By *him*.
The decree is final. The elders rise. The guards step back. The chamber empties, leaving only Kael, Riven, and me in the echoing silence.
“You enjoyed that,” I say, my voice quiet, venomous.
Kael turns to me. “I didn’t have to. It was always going to happen. The bond demands proximity. The Council enforces it. I simply… allowed it.”
“Allowed it?” I step forward, my voice rising. “You *knew* this would happen! You let me walk into this like a lamb to slaughter!”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I let you *think* you were in control. But you never were.”
His hand reaches for my face.
I slap it away. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes flash. “You’ll learn.”
“I’ll kill you before I learn.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Try. But know this—every time you resist, the bond punishes you. And I’ll be there to watch. To *feel* it. Because your pain is mine now. Your pleasure. Your breath. Your *life*.”
I shove him back. “I am not yours.”
“The mark says otherwise.”
He turns and walks toward the door.
“Come,” he says over his shoulder. “We have thirty days to play.”
I don’t move.
Riven lingers behind, his expression unreadable.
“He’s not lying,” he says quietly. “About the bond-sickness. I’ve seen it before. It’s… bad.”
“And you serve him anyway?” I ask.
“I serve the pack,” he says. “And right now, the pack needs this treaty. Needs *you*.”
“I’m not here to help your treaty.”
“No,” he says. “But you’re here. And the bond doesn’t care about your mission. It only cares about survival.”
He nods once, then follows Kael.
I’m alone.
The chamber feels colder now, emptier. The torches flicker, casting long shadows across the stone. I press my hand to the bite on my shoulder. It burns—deep, insistent. A reminder.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I’m chained to him.
I walk back to his chambers slowly, each step heavier than the last. The fortress feels different now—no longer a battlefield, but a prison. The guards watch me with new eyes. Not suspicion. Not hunger.
Pity.
They know what the bond does. They know what thirty days in proximity means. The heat will build. The need will grow. And by the end, I’ll be begging for him.
I won’t.
I can’t.
But when I step into the room, Kael is already there, standing by the hearth, his back to me. He doesn’t turn as I enter.
“Take off the robe,” he says.
“What?”
“The one you’re wearing. It’s mine. You’ll wear your own now.”
I hesitate, then untie the belt and let the black fabric slide to the floor. I’m in the gray robes from the scent trial—werewolf sigils stitched in silver, marking me as his. I feel exposed. Claimed. Humiliated.
He finally turns.
His gaze sweeps over me—slow, deliberate. Lingering on the curve of my hips, the line of my throat, the mark on my shoulder.
“Better,” he says.
“This doesn’t mean I belong to you.”
“It means the Council believes you do,” he says. “And that’s enough—for now.”
He walks toward me, and I don’t back away. I won’t show fear. But my breath hitches as he stops inches away, his heat pressing against me, his scent flooding my senses.
His hand rises.
I tense—ready to fight, to bite, to run—
But he doesn’t touch me.
He reaches past me, opens a chest by the wall, and pulls out a length of silver chain.
My blood runs cold.
“What is that?”
He holds it up. A delicate collar, woven from moon-silver, embedded with tiny runes that pulse faintly.
“A bond-stabilizer,” he says. “Worn by fated pairs during the first month. It keeps the bond calm. Prevents sickness.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You will,” he says. “By tomorrow. The bond grows stronger each day. By the third night, you’ll be feverish. By the fifth, you’ll hallucinate. And by the tenth—” He steps closer. “—you’ll be on your knees, begging me to touch you.”
“I’d rather die.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he murmurs. “Because you’re not just a witch. You’re not just a liar. You’re *mine*. And deep down, you know it.”
He reaches for my neck.
I flinch back. “Don’t.”
“Wear it,” he says, holding the collar out. “Or don’t. But know this—if you refuse, the bond will punish you. And I won’t stop it.”
I stare at the chain. It glows faintly, humming with magic. It’s not a weapon. Not a leash.
It’s a *trap*.
Wearing it means surrender. Means accepting the bond. Means letting him win.
But refusing it means pain. Madness. Death.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I have to choose between my mission… and my life.
Slowly, I reach out.
My fingers close around the silver chain.
It’s warm. Alive.
And as I lift it toward my neck, the bond pulses—stronger, hungrier—like it’s *waiting*.
Kael watches me, his gold eyes burning.
“Fight me,” he says, voice rough. “And the bond will break you. Submit, and you live.”
I pause, the collar hovering at my throat.
My breath comes fast. My skin burns. The mark on my shoulder aches.
I came here to kill him.
But right now, I can’t even bring myself to put on a damn collar.
“I’ll kill you before I submit,” I whisper.
And then, with a hand that doesn’t tremble, I fasten the chain around my neck.