I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I wear his collar.
The silver chain lies cold against my throat, a whisper of magic humming just beneath the skin. It’s supposed to stabilize the bond, to keep the fever at bay. But it doesn’t silence the pull. Doesn’t dull the heat that coils low in my belly every time he’s near. It only makes the trap feel more elegant—less like a noose, more like a gilded cage.
Kael watches me from across the chamber, lounging in a high-backed chair near the hearth, a scroll unrolled in his hands. He hasn’t touched me since I fastened the chain. Hasn’t spoken beyond a few clipped orders. But his presence is a weight, a constant pressure against my senses. His scent—pine and fire and something wild—fills the room, seeping into my lungs, my blood, my dreams.
Three days.
Three days since the Council decreed our forced proximity. Three days of shared meals, shared silences, shared space. Three days of pretending I don’t feel the bond tightening like a vise around my chest. Three days of him watching me, waiting for me to break.
I won’t.
I can’t.
The mission still burns in me, a quiet, cold flame beneath the heat of the bond. I came here to sabotage the Blood Moon Treaty. To destroy Kael. To reclaim my mother’s throne. And I will.
Even if I have to wear his collar to do it.
I turn from the window, where the jagged peaks of the Scottish Highlands claw at a sky heavy with storm. The fortress hums with activity—werewolves moving through the corridors, guards changing shifts, the distant clang of steel from the training yard. Normal. Controlled. Everything I need to exploit.
My eyes land on the desk in the corner—carved from black oak, littered with scrolls, quills, inkwells. Kael’s command center. The heart of his power. And, if I’m careful, the heart of his downfall.
I move toward it, slow, deliberate. My bare feet make no sound on the stone. The silver chain glints faintly in the torchlight.
“Don’t,” Kael says, not looking up.
I freeze.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He sets the scroll aside, gold eyes locking onto mine. “That desk is off-limits. Everything on it is sealed by blood-oath. Touch it, and the ink will burn your skin off.”
I don’t flinch. “I was looking for a quill.”
“Liar.” He stands, unfolding his body like a predator rising. “You want to sabotage the treaty. I can smell it on you—fear, fury, *purpose*.”
My pulse stutters, but I hold his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He crosses the room in three strides, stopping inches from me. His heat rolls over me, his scent overwhelming. The bond flares in response—sharp, insistent—a pulse between my thighs. I hate it. I hate *him*.
“You think I don’t know what you are?” he murmurs, voice rough. “A witch with fae blood, hiding behind lies. A girl who watched her mother die and swore revenge. You came here to kill me. I *know*.”
My breath catches.
“But you won’t,” he continues, one hand rising to trace the edge of the collar at my throat. “Because the bond won’t let you. Because *I* won’t let you. And because deep down—beneath all that rage, all that hate—you don’t *want* to.”
I slap his hand away. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“I don’t have to,” he says, stepping back. “Your body does.”
He turns toward the door. “Come. The Council requests our presence.”
I follow, silent, seething.
The Great Hall is crowded—Alphas, Betas, envoys from the vampire and fae courts. The air is thick with tension, with the low hum of whispered alliances and hidden agendas. The Blood Moon Treaty is more than a political agreement. It’s a power play. A final move in a game centuries in the making.
And I’m going to burn it down.
Kael leads me to the dais, where the High Elder stands beside a massive stone table. Scrolls are laid out—treaty clauses, alliance oaths, land grants. The ink is dark, almost black, shimmering faintly under the torchlight. Werewolf magic. Bound by blood.
“The final draft,” the Elder says. “To be signed at moonrise.”
My stomach tightens.
This is it.
The moment I’ve been waiting for.
If I can poison the ink—if I can lace it with a death-spell, a curse, something that will unravel the treaty the moment it’s signed—Kael will be exposed. The Council will turn on him. The werewolves will fracture. And I’ll be free.
But I have to be careful.
One misstep, and I’ll be dead before I can blink.
Kael stands beside me, his presence a wall of heat and dominance. His hand rests on the pommel of his blade. His eyes scan the room, sharp, calculating. He doesn’t trust anyone. Not even me.
Good.
I step forward, feigning interest in the scrolls. “May I?” I ask the Elder.
He nods. “Study it well, Envoy. Your people’s fate is in these words.”
I bend over the table, my hair falling forward to shield my face. My fingers hover over the inkwell—a carved obsidian cup, filled with liquid that looks like congealed blood. My magic stirs beneath my skin, ready.
Now.
I let a single drop of blood fall from my fingertip into the ink.
It’s a witch’s trick—subtle, silent. The blood carries a spell, one I’ve spent years perfecting. Not an explosion. Not a scream. A slow corruption. The ink will appear normal, but when it touches parchment, it will begin to decay the magic within. By dawn, the treaty will be ash. And Kael—
“Stop.”
The word is a growl, low and dangerous.
I freeze.
Kael is behind me. I didn’t hear him move. Didn’t feel him approach. But now his hand is at my throat, not choking, just holding, feeling the pulse race beneath his fingers.
“I can smell it,” he says, voice rough in my ear. “Your blood. Your magic. You think I wouldn’t know the scent of a death-spell?”
My breath comes fast. Panic claws at my chest, but I don’t fight. Not yet.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
He twists, spinning me to face him, his grip tightening just enough to make me gasp. His gold eyes burn into mine.
“You’re good,” he says. “Better than I expected. But not good enough.”
He releases me with a shove, then turns to the inkwell. With one finger, he stirs the ink.
And it *screams*.
A high, piercing wail, like a dying animal, rips from the well. The liquid bubbles, black smoke rising. The runes on the table flare red—warding sigils, reacting to the corruption.
The room falls silent.
Every eye is on us.
“Poisoned ink,” Kael says, voice cold. “A witch’s curse. Designed to unravel the treaty the moment it’s signed.”
My blood turns to ice.
“The perpetrator,” he continues, turning to me, “is standing right here.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
“No,” I say, backing up. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie,” he growls. “I *taste* your magic in it. I *feel* your hatred.”
He steps forward, and the crowd parts for him. Alpha. King. Predator.
“You came here to kill me,” he says, voice low, meant for me alone. “But you’re not just a murderer. You’re a *traitor*. And traitors don’t get trials.”
He grabs my wrist, yanks me forward. I try to twist free, but his grip is iron. His other hand closes around my throat, lifting me slightly, forcing me to look up at him.
“You want to destroy me?” he whispers. “Then do it with your hands. Not with tricks. Not with lies.”
His thumb brushes my pulse. My body betrays me—heat floods my core, the bond flaring in response. My breath hitches. My nipples tighten beneath my robes.
He feels it.
Of course he does.
A dark smile curls his lips. “You’re aroused,” he murmurs. “Even now. Even here. You *want* this. You want me to touch you. To claim you. To *break* you.”
“I want you *dead*,” I hiss.
“Same thing,” he says, leaning in. “Because when I’m done with you, you’ll be mine in every way. And you’ll *thank* me for it.”
He releases me with a shove, and I stumble back, gasping.
“Take her to the holding chamber,” he orders. “No food. No water. No magic. Let the bond do its work.”
Guards move forward, grabbing my arms.
“Wait,” I say, voice shaking. “You can’t—”
“I can,” Kael says. “And I will. Because you’re not just my enemy. You’re my *mate*. And I decide your punishment.”
The guards drag me away, my boots scraping against stone. I twist, fight, but they’re too strong. The last thing I see is Kael standing over the inkwell, his expression unreadable.
Then the door slams shut.
The holding chamber is small—stone walls, a single torch, a barred window high above. No bed. No chair. Just cold floor and colder silence. The guards strip me of the silver collar—“Can’t have you stabilized,” one mutters—and lock the door behind them.
I’m alone.
And the bond wakes up.
It starts as a throb—a low, insistent pulse in my chest, in my skull, in my core. Then it builds. Heat floods my skin. My breath comes in shallow gasps. My muscles twitch. The mark on my shoulder burns, deep and raw, like it’s being carved into me all over again.
Bond-sickness.
Kael wasn’t lying.
I press my back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. My hands tremble. My vision blurs. The torchlight flickers, stretching into long, writhing shadows. I see things—my mother’s face, her throat slit, her eyes wide with betrayal. I see Kael standing over her, his blade dripping blood. I see myself, older, chained to his bed, screaming as he bites into my neck.
No.
No, no, *no*—
I wrap my arms around my knees, rocking. The heat is unbearable. My skin feels too tight. My core aches, wet and desperate. I press a hand between my thighs, just to ground myself, and a moan escapes my lips.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
This is worse than pain. Worse than fear.
This is *need*.
The bond doesn’t just want union. It *demands* it. And my body—traitorous, broken, *alive*—is begging for him.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I’m on my knees, aching for his touch.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time bends in the fever. I drift in and out of consciousness, my skin slick with sweat, my breath ragged. The hallucinations grow sharper. I hear whispers—Kael’s voice, low and rough, calling my name. I feel hands on me, hot and possessive, sliding up my thighs, over my breasts.
Then—
The door opens.
Light spills in, harsh and blinding. I raise a trembling hand to shield my eyes.
And there he is.
Kael.
He steps inside, the door closing behind him. He’s alone. No guards. No witnesses. Just him and me and the bond, screaming between us.
He kneels in front of me, his gold eyes searching my face. “You’re burning up,” he says.
I don’t answer. Can’t.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. His touch is rough, but not unkind. A jolt runs through me—heat, need, the bond flaring in response.
“You fight it,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to. I can make it stop. I can make you *feel* good.”
I turn my face away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’ll die if I don’t.”
“Then let me die.”
He grabs my chin, forces me to look at him. “No. I won’t lose you. Not like this.”
His other hand moves to the mark on my shoulder. His thumb traces the edge of the bite, slow, deliberate. Pleasure rips through me—sharp, electric. My back arches. A moan escapes my lips.
“See?” he whispers. “Your body knows the truth. You’re mine. And you *want* this.”
“I hate you,” I gasp.
“I know,” he says. “But you’ll learn to love it.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Fight me, and the bond will break you. Submit, and you live.”
His hand slides down my arm, to my wrist. He lifts it, turns it over. My pulse thrums beneath his fingers.
“You’re not just a witch,” he murmurs. “You’re hiding something. And I *will* taste it.”
He presses his lips to my wrist—soft, slow, *claiming*.
And the world shatters.