The Council Chamber still smells of fire and old blood when I stride back in, boots echoing against the black stone. Dawn hasn’t broken yet—just a pale silver bleed at the edges of the sky—but the High Council is already assembled, their thrones filled, their eyes sharp with anticipation. They want answers. They want order. They want the storm I’ve brought into their carefully balanced world to be tamed.
And they want her.
Not like I do. Not with the kind of hunger that claws at my ribs, that wakes me in the night with the phantom taste of her skin on my tongue. No. They want her because the Heartstone spoke. Because fate, that ancient, unforgiving bitch, has chosen her as mine.
Fated.
Unbreakable.
Ours.
The words still ring in my skull, not from the altar, but from something deeper—something that lives in the marrow of my bones. The bond is real. I felt it the moment our eyes met. A jolt, a claiming, a chain snapping tight around my heart. And when our hands touched over the flame, gold blooming beneath our palms like a promise, I knew—this woman, this fierce, defiant witch with storm in her scent and fire in her veins, is the only one who can save me.
Or destroy me.
“Alpha.” Elder Varn, the eldest of the Council, rises from his throne. His silver-streaked hair falls over broad shoulders, his golden eyes narrowed. “You have returned. The Flame Test confirmed the bond?”
“It did,” I say, stepping forward. My voice is low, steady. “Amber of the Crimson Thorn is fated to me. The Heartstone recognized her. The magic accepted her.”
“Then the ritual must proceed.” Varn’s voice is firm. “Public marking in seven days. No delay. No appeal.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. The law is clear—fated bonds are sacred, binding, and must be sealed before the pack. To refuse is to invite chaos. To break the bond is to invite death. And if the Heartstone is to be stabilized, I need her magic. I need her blood. I need her bound.
But I don’t want her afraid.
I don’t want her broken.
I want her willing.
“She will be marked,” I say. “But she is not yet ready.”
“She has seven days,” snaps Councilor Dain, younger, brash, his wolf always too close to the surface. “That is more than enough time. She’s a witch. She knows the stakes.”
“She also tried to destroy the Heartstone,” I remind him. “She believes it’s a prison. To her, I’m the warden.”
“Then make her see the truth,” Varn says. “Or let the law take its course. If she refuses the mark, she dies at dawn on the eighth day.”
My jaw tightens. I know the law. I’ve enforced it myself. But this isn’t just politics. This is survival. The Heartstone is failing. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my strength wavers, in the nightmares that come more often now—visions of the pack tearing itself apart, of fire, of blood, of a world without her.
Without us.
“She will be marked,” I repeat. “But I will not force her.”
“You don’t have to,” Dain sneers. “The bond will.”
And he’s not wrong.
I feel it already—the pull, the heat, the way my body craves hers even now, miles away in her chamber. The bond is growing. Strengthening. And if we’re apart too long, it will drive us both to madness. Bond-sickness. Fever. Hallucinations. Pain.
Denying it will kill us.
But giving in? That’s its own kind of death.
“The matter is settled,” Varn declares. “Amber of the Crimson Thorn will undergo public marking in seven days. Until then, she remains under your supervision, Alpha. You are responsible for her compliance.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Then go,” he says. “Prepare your mate.”
I turn and leave, my boots heavy on the stone. The corridors of the Blackfang Palace are silent this early, the torches low, the shadows long. My mind races. I need to convince her. Not with force. Not with threats. But with truth.
She thinks I’m her enemy.
She’s wrong.
We’re both prisoners of the same curse.
—
I find her in the library.
Not where I left her. Not in the guest chamber with its gilded cage and false comforts. No—she’s deep in the oldest wing of the palace, surrounded by towering shelves of ancient tomes, her fingers tracing the spines of books bound in leather and bone. Moonlight spills through the high arched windows, painting her in silver and shadow. She’s barefoot, wearing a simple black tunic, her dark hair loose down her back. Her scent—wild rose and storm—fills the air, sharp and intoxicating.
She doesn’t turn as I enter. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps searching.
“Looking for something?” I ask, voice low.
She stops. Turns. Her eyes—green, fierce, unyielding—lock onto mine. “Yes. The truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“The truth about the curse. About my bloodline. About you.”
I step closer. The bond hums between us, a low, steady pulse. “You already know the truth. The Heartstone binds us both.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s what you want me to believe. But I’ve been reading. The Crimson Thorn witches were bound to serve the Wolf King—to fuel the Heartstone with our magic. That’s all. There’s no mention of the Alpha being bound too.”
“Because it was buried,” I say. “Suppressed. The first Wolf King didn’t want his pack to know he was just as trapped as you were. That he needed a mate not for love, but for survival.”
She studies me, searching for lies. “And you’re telling me this now because…?”
“Because I need you to understand,” I say. “If the Heartstone dies, I die. The pack fractures. War erupts. The Vale burns. You came here to free your mother’s soul. But if you destroy the Heartstone, you’ll kill thousands. Is that the legacy you want?”
Her breath hitches. For the first time, I see doubt flicker in her eyes. “There has to be another way.”
“There is,” I say. “The bond. Our magic, combined. It can stabilize the Heartstone. Break the curse without destroying it. Free your mother’s soul—and save my pack.”
She laughs, sharp and bitter. “And what do I get in return? A collar? A title? Your bed whenever you decide I’m useful?”
“You get me,” I say, stepping closer. “Not as your master. As your equal. As your mate.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. I see it. Feel it. The bond thrums, responding to her proximity, her heat, her defiance. “You don’t get to choose that for me.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Fate did.”
She turns away, fingers brushing the spine of an old grimoire. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“Then believe in this.” I reach out, not touching her, but letting the bond flare between us—heat, hunger, a pull so strong it makes my chest ache. “You feel it. Every time we’re near. Every time we touch. It’s not magic. It’s not just the curse. It’s us.”
She doesn’t answer.
And then—
A new scent cuts through the air.
Sweet. Cloying. Familiar.
Blood and roses.
My stomach drops.
“Kaelen,” a voice purrs from the doorway. “You didn’t tell me you had company.”
I turn.
Selene.
Princess of House Nocturne. Vampire. Former lover. Current nightmare.
She stands in the archway, draped in black silk that hugs every curve, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her crimson lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her cold, ancient eyes. Her hair is silver-white, falling in waves over one shoulder, and on her left hand—my ring. The Stormborn signet, forged from black iron and moonstone. The one I gave her centuries ago, not in love, but in political alliance.
And she’s wearing it like a trophy.
“Selene,” I say, voice flat. “You weren’t invited.”
She glides forward, barefoot, silent. “I was summoned by the Council. They wished to discuss the Blood Pact renewal.”
“Then you should be in the Chamber,” I say. “Not here.”
“But I heard you were with your… mate.” She lets the word roll off her tongue like a curse. Her gaze flicks to Amber. “So this is the witch who claims to be fated to you?”
Amber doesn’t flinch. “And you are?”
“Selene,” she says, stepping closer, too close, her scent wrapping around us both. “Kaelen’s first true love. His blood oath partner. The woman who shared his bed for decades.”
Amber’s eyes narrow. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes.” Selene smiles, slow, dangerous. She reaches up, fingers trailing down her own throat, over the old scar just above her pulse point. “He marked me here. Said I was the only one who could satisfy him. That I was his queen.”
My jaw clenches. “That was a lie. You know that.”
“Do I?” She turns to me, eyes gleaming. “You used me, Kaelen. For power. For alliances. But you never marked me as your mate. You never let me claim you.”
“Because you were never my fated one,” I say, voice hard. “You were a tool. And now you’re a nuisance.”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Then why do you still wear my mark?”
I freeze.
Amber’s gaze snaps to me. “Mark?”
Selene laughs, low and cruel. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? He carries my bite on his chest. A reminder of our nights together. A symbol of what he gave me—and what he’ll never give you.”
“That’s not true,” I growl.
But Amber is already stepping forward, her eyes blazing. “Show me.”
I hesitate.
Then, slowly, I pull back the front of my tunic.
On my left pectoral, just above my heart, is a scar—two small punctures, faded with time. A vampire’s bite.
Amber stares at it. Her breath comes fast. The bond between us flares, hot and jagged.
“It’s not a mating mark,” I say. “It’s a blood exchange. A political ritual. It meant nothing.”
“It meant everything to me,” Selene whispers, stepping between us. She turns to Amber, smile sharp as a blade. “Welcome to the family, sister.”
Amber doesn’t blink. “I’m not your sister. And I’m not your replacement.”
“No,” Selene says. “You’re his destiny.” She laughs, soft, mocking. “How poetic. The great Kaelen, brought to his knees by fate.”
She turns to me, eyes cold. “But remember, Alpha—fate can be broken. And if you think this little witch can save you, you’re already dead.”
She steps back. “Enjoy your seven days. I’ll be watching.”
And then she’s gone—vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echo of her laughter and the stench of her lies.
Amber doesn’t look at me. She turns back to the bookshelf, fingers trembling as she pulls out a grimoire.
“You should’ve told me,” she says, voice quiet.
“I was going to,” I say. “In my own time.”
“And when would that be? After the mark? After the bond was sealed?”
I step closer. “I told you the truth about the Heartstone. About the bond. That’s what matters.”
“No.” She slams the book shut. “What matters is that you lied by omission. That you let her stand there and twist the past to suit her needs.”
“I didn’t let her do anything,” I snap. “She’s a vampire. She thrives on manipulation.”
“And you?” She turns to me, eyes blazing. “Do you thrive on control? On secrets? On making me believe I’m the only one who matters, while you carry scars from another woman’s teeth?”
“That scar means nothing,” I say. “It’s a relic. A mistake.”
“Then why keep it?”
“Because it reminds me not to repeat it.”
She stares at me. The bond hums, strained, frayed. I can feel her anger, her hurt, her fear. And beneath it all—desire.
She wants me.
Even now.
Even hating me.
“You have seven days,” she says, voice low. “To prove you’re not just another man who uses women and calls it fate.”
“And if I can’t?”
She meets my gaze. “Then I’ll break the curse. And I’ll watch you burn with it.”
She turns and walks away, boots silent on the stone.
I don’t stop her.
Because for the first time, I’m not sure I want to.
The bond pulses in my chest, aching, hungry.
And I know—
Seven days won’t be enough.