I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m trembling from his kiss.
The memory of his mouth on mine burns like a brand—violent, claiming, alive. I can still taste him: iron and fire, dominance and something darker, something that coils low in my belly and refuses to let go. My lips are swollen. My breath still uneven. My core aches, not from pain, but from the unbearable, humiliating truth: I kissed him back.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
We walk back through the fortress in silence, the bond a live wire stretched between us, humming with something that isn’t just magic. It’s hunger. Possession. Need. Kael doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. But I feel him—every step, every breath, every beat of his heart syncing with mine. The corridors are dim, torchlight flickering against the stone, shadows stretching long and sharp. The guards we pass bow their heads, their eyes flicking to me—my flushed skin, my parted lips, the way I still lean slightly toward him, as if drawn by an invisible thread.
They see it.
They all see it.
I don’t hate him.
I want him.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any betrayal, any death.
We reach his chambers. He opens the door, steps aside. I walk past him, not looking back. The room feels different now—smaller, hotter, charged with the weight of what just happened. The bed is unmade, the crimson silk gown still crumpled on the floor, a silent accusation. I avoid it, moving to the window, where the jagged peaks of the Highlands claw at a sky heavy with storm.
“You played with fire,” Kael says, closing the door.
“So did you,” I say, voice low.
He steps closer, his presence a wall of heat and dominance. “You wanted me to see. To feel it. You wanted me to hurt.”
I turn. “And you did.”
“No.” He shakes his head, gold eyes burning. “I felt relief. That you hadn’t given in to him. That you still fought for me.”
My breath catches.
“I wasn’t fighting for you,” I say, but the words lack conviction.
“You were,” he says. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
He strips off his gloves, moves to the hearth. “You’ll attend the purification ritual tonight.”
“What ritual?”
“All fated pairs must undergo cleansing after the Blood Binding,” he says. “It aligns our magic. Removes impurities. Ensures the bond remains pure.”
My stomach tightens. “What does it involve?”
He turns, his gaze sweeping over me—slow, deliberate. “Skin-to-skin contact. Hot water. Steam. And me.”
My pulse stutters.
“I’m not doing it.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he says, stepping closer. “Refuse, and the bond will punish you. You’ll be feverish by dawn. Hallucinating by noon. And by nightfall—” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my shoulder. “—you’ll be on your knees, begging for my hands on you.”
“I’d rather die.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he murmurs. “Because you’re not just a witch. Not just a liar. You’re mine. And deep down, you know it.”
He turns toward the door. “Be ready. I’ll send the attendants.”
He leaves.
I stand there, my hands clenched at my sides. The purification ritual. Skin-to-skin contact. Steam. Him.
This isn’t just tradition.
This is a trap.
And I’m walking into it.
Hours pass. The storm breaks outside, rain lashing the shutters, thunder rolling through the peaks. I pace, my mind racing. I could run. Could fight. Could try to escape.
But I can’t.
The bond would kill me. The Council would hunt me. And even if I made it out, I’d still feel him—his presence, his scent, his voice in my blood.
I’m already his.
And the worst part?
Part of me doesn’t want to leave.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I say, voice flat.
Two female werewolves step inside—attendants, dressed in gray robes, their eyes downcast. One carries a bundle of white linen. The other, a silver tray with vials of oil, herbs, and a small knife.
“The ritual bath is prepared, my lady,” one says.
“I’m not your lady,” I snap.
They don’t react. Just wait.
I exhale. “Fine. Lead the way.”
The bath chamber is deep within the fortress—a circular room of white marble, the air thick with steam. A massive stone pool dominates the center, filled with water so hot it ripples with heat. Torches line the walls, their flames flickering with blue at the edges. The scent of lavender and pine fills the air, mingling with something deeper—magic.
Kael is already there, stripped to the waist, his chest bare, his skin glistening with sweat. He stands at the edge of the pool, his back to me, his shoulders broad, his spine a line of power. The runes on his back—old, faded, scars from battles I don’t know—twist like serpents down his skin.
He turns.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“Undress,” he says.
My breath catches.
“The attendants will assist,” one says, stepping forward.
“No,” I say. “I’ll do it myself.”
They bow and retreat to the shadows.
I stand there, my heart pounding. The gray robes feel like armor. Like a lie. I reach for the clasp at my throat, fingers trembling. One by one, I undo the ties, let the fabric slide from my shoulders, down my arms, to the floor.
I’m in nothing but my skin.
And he’s watching.
His gaze sweeps over me—slow, deliberate. Lingering on the curve of my hips, the line of my throat, the mark on my shoulder. His breath hitches. Just once.
“Get in,” he says, voice rough.
I step toward the pool, the stone cool beneath my feet. The water is scalding, the steam rising in thick waves. I lower myself in slowly, the heat searing my skin, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The water reaches my waist, then my chest, the heat sinking deep, loosening muscles I didn’t know were tense.
Kael steps in across from me, the water lapping at his hips. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
Then he reaches for a vial on the tray, uncorks it, pours the oil into the water. The scent of sandalwood and something darker—him—spreads through the steam.
“Turn,” he says.
“Why?”
“The ritual requires it,” he says. “Your back must be cleansed. Your scars anointed.”
My breath catches.
Scars.
I turn slowly, my back to him, the water lapping at my spine. I’ve spent years hiding them—whip marks from the witch who raised me, burns from fae magic gone wrong, the jagged line across my shoulder blade from a knife in the slums. They’re not just scars. They’re a map of survival.
And he’s going to see them.
I feel him behind me, his heat pressing against my back. Then—
His hands.
Hot. Rough. gentle.
He pours more oil into his palms, then begins to wash my back, his fingers gliding over my skin, tracing the lines of the scars, the ridges, the valleys. His touch is methodical, thorough, but there’s something deeper in it—care.
“Who hurt you?” he murmurs.
“You did,” I say, voice tight. “Ten years ago.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps washing, his thumbs circling a burn on my shoulder. “Not me. Not like this. These are old. Deep. Who did this?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters,” he says. “Because you’re mine. And no one touches what’s mine.”
I don’t answer.
His hands move lower, tracing the whip mark across my spine. “This one,” he says. “Recent. Three years ago?”
“Four,” I whisper.
“A witch?”
“My mentor.”
“Why?”
“I disobeyed.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “And this one?” His thumb brushes the jagged scar on my shoulder blade.
“A knife,” I say. “In the slums. I was sixteen.”
“You survived.”
“I always do.”
He moves closer, his chest pressing against my back, his breath hot on my neck. His hands glide over my shoulders, down my arms, the oil warming my skin, the heat sinking deep. My breath hitches. My core clenches.
“You’re strong,” he murmurs. “Fierce. Unbroken.”
“I’m not yours.”
“You are,” he says. “And not just because of the bond. Because of this.” His hands slide to my waist, pulling me back against him. His hardness presses into my spine. My breath stops. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your body responds to me? The way you arch into my touch, even when you hate me?”
“I don’t—”
“Liar,” he says, his voice rough. “You want this. You want me. And you always will.”
He releases me, steps back. “Turn.”
I turn slowly, my skin flushed, my breath uneven. He’s watching me, his gold eyes burning, his chest rising and falling. The water laps at his hips, the steam rising around him like a halo.
“Now you,” I say.
He hesitates.
Then, slowly, he turns.
His back is a battlefield—scars from claws, burns from magic, the deep, jagged line across his shoulder blade where a blade once nearly severed his spine. The runes tattooed there—old werewolf magic—twist like serpents down his skin.
“Anoint me,” he says.
I take the vial, pour the oil into my palms. My hands tremble. I step closer, the water lapping at my thighs, and begin to wash his back, my fingers tracing the scars, the ridges, the valleys. His skin is hot beneath my touch, his muscles tense, coiled. I move slowly, carefully, my thumbs circling the burn on his shoulder.
“Who did this?” I ask.
“A vampire,” he says. “During the Great War.”
“And this one?” I trace the jagged scar on his shoulder blade.
“A fae blade,” he says. “Your mother’s guard.”
My breath catches.
“You fought her people.”
“I fought traitors,” he says. “She was framed. I executed her to protect the peace.”
“You killed her.”
“I saved you,” he says, turning his head slightly. “By burning the temple, I gave you a chance to escape. If I’d shown mercy, they’d have hunted you to the ends of the earth.”
My hands still.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He turns, facing me. “Ask the Fae High Court. Ask Thorne. They’ll tell you the truth. Your mother refused to betray her people. They executed her for it. I made it look like a werewolf crime to protect you.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No,” he says. “But you’ll find out. And when you do—” He reaches out, his thumb brushing my cheek. “—you’ll know I never lied to you.”
He steps back. “The ritual is complete.”
I don’t move.
“You’re not just a witch,” he says, his voice low. “You’re not just a liar. You’re Fae royalty. And you’re mine.”
“I’ll never be yours,” I whisper.
“You already are,” he says. “Your body knows it. Your magic knows it. And soon—” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “—your heart will know it too.”
He steps out of the pool, water streaming down his body, and wraps a linen around his waist. “Come. The bond will be stronger tonight. And I won’t be there to stop it.”
I watch him go.
Then I sink into the water, the heat searing my skin, the steam rising around me like a shroud.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I’m not sure I can.
Because part of me—small, broken, awake—doesn’t want to.