I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m dreaming of his hands on my skin.
The thought claws through me as I wake, the scent of sandalwood and pine still clinging to my skin, the memory of his touch burning like a brand. The bath chamber feels like a dream—steam, heat, his rough hands gliding over my scars, my own fingers tracing the battlefield of his back. The ritual was supposed to purify. To cleanse. To align our magic.
Instead, it unraveled me.
I lie in his bed—Kael’s bed—sheets tangled around my legs, my body still humming from the aftermath. The silver collar hasn’t been returned. Without it, the bond is raw, exposed, a live wire stretched between us. I can feel him nearby, in the chamber beyond the hearth, his presence a low thrum in my blood. He’s awake. Watching. Waiting.
But not touching.
That’s the worst part.
After the bath, he left me in silence, wrapped in linen, my skin still warm from the oil, my breath still uneven. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look back. Just walked out, leaving me standing in the steam, trembling, ruined.
And now, the fever is back.
Not bond-sickness. Not yet. But something worse. Something deeper. A low, insistent throb in my core, a pulse at the mark on my shoulder, a whisper of heat every time I think of his hands on me, his breath on my neck, the way his hardness pressed into my spine as he washed my back.
I press my palms to my face, trying to erase the images. The way his thumbs circled my scars. The way his voice dropped when he said, *You’re mine*. The way I didn’t pull away.
I should hate him.
And I do.
But my body doesn’t care about hate.
It only cares about him.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I say, voice hoarse.
Kael steps inside, dressed in black leather, his hair slightly tousled, his gold eyes sharp. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me—on the bed, half-naked, the linen slipping, my skin still flushed from fever.
“You look like sin,” he says, voice rough.
I glare at him. “And you look like a predator.”
“I am,” he says, stepping closer. “And you’re in my den.”
He reaches the bed, his hand rising to the linen at my shoulder. I slap it away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You’ll wear proper robes today,” he says, ignoring me. “No more gray. No more silk. Just black. Like a proper mate.”
“I’m not your mate.”
“You are,” he says, leaning down, his breath hot against my ear. “And today, you’ll prove it.”
He straightens. “Get dressed. The warding ritual begins at moonrise. All fated pairs must participate. It strengthens the bond. Aligns our magic.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not a werewolf.”
“The bond doesn’t care,” he says. “And neither do I.”
He turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there, trembling. Not from fear. From rage. From the unbearable, humiliating truth: I’m losing control. Not just of the mission. Not just of my body. Of me.
I force myself up, strip off the linen, and pull on the black robes from the chest—tight at the bodice, long sleeves, high collar. They feel like armor. Like a surrender.
But I wear them.
Because I have no choice.
The warding chamber is deep within the fortress—a circular room of white marble, the floor etched with a massive spiral of runes, glowing faintly gold. Torches line the walls, their flames flickering with unnatural blue at the edges. The air is thick with the scent of iron and incense, of magic and something darker—desire.
Werewolves fill the space—Alphas, Betas, elders—standing in a ring around the dais. At the center stands a stone altar, carved with ancient symbols, a shallow basin at its center, already filled with dark liquid.
Blood.
Kael leads me forward, his hand at my back, guiding me to the center. The crowd falls silent as we step onto the dais, the runes beneath our feet flaring brighter, reacting to the bond.
The High Elder steps forward, his staff raised. “Kael, Alpha of Alphas, and Morgana, Envoy of the Northern Witches—fated by the Blood Moon, bound by magic, united by fate. You stand before the pack to strengthen the ward that protects the Iron Court. Let the ritual begin.”
He gestures to the altar. “The ward requires physical union. The magic flows through touch. Through heat. Through desire.”
My breath catches.
“What kind of union?” I ask, voice tight.
“The bond must be fully expressed,” the Elder says. “You will kneel. You will press palms together. You will let the magic flow.”
Kael doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, strips off his gloves, and kneels on the dais.
“Your turn,” he says, looking at me.
I don’t move.
“Do it,” he says, voice low. “Or I’ll make you.”
I kneel in front of him, my breath shallow. The runes beneath us pulse, reacting to our proximity. The air thickens. I can feel the bond humming, stronger now, hungrier.
“Place your palms against his,” the Elder says.
I lift my hands, trembling. Kael reaches for me, his fingers brushing mine before our palms press together. The moment our skin connects, the runes on the floor blaze gold.
Fire.
Not real fire. Not physical. But magic—raw, unfiltered, alive—surging through our hands, up our arms, into our chests. I gasp as it hits me, my back arching, my fingers curling into his.
And then—
Kael pulls me forward.
He doesn’t break contact. Doesn’t release my hands. Just drags me closer, until I’m straddling his thighs, my knees on either side of his hips, our palms still pressed together, our faces inches apart.
“Feel it,” he growls. “Feel the bond. Feel me.”
The magic surges.
Not just from the ritual. Not just from the runes.
From him.
It pours into me—heat, power, dominance—fusing with my own magic, my witch blood, my fae blood, swirling together in a storm of energy. My vision blurs. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. My core clenches, wet and aching, the pleasure building, unstoppable.
“Kael—” I gasp.
“Don’t fight it,” he says, voice rough, strained. “Let it take you.”
I try. I want to. But it’s too much—too intense, too deep, too right.
His thumbs stroke the inside of my wrists, slow, deliberate. My breath hitches. My hips shift, grinding against him without thought, seeking friction, seeking more.
His eyes darken. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me in.”
My head tilts forward, my hair falling around us like a curtain. His breath is hot against my lips. His heartbeat matches mine. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on my shoulder glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And then—
Our lips almost meet.
Not a kiss. Not yet. But close. So close I can feel the heat of his mouth, the roughness of his stubble, the way his breath catches when I tremble.
I want it.
I want him.
And for the first time, I don’t hate myself for it.
His hands slide up my arms, to my waist, pulling me tighter against him. My thighs tighten around his hips. My core aches, desperate, needing. The magic builds, a storm on the edge of release, the runes on the floor pulsing in time with our hearts.
And then—
The door slams open.
“The Council wants proof of bonding,” Riven says, stepping inside.
I leap back as if burned, scrambling off Kael’s lap, my hands flying to my mouth, my breath ragged. The magic snaps, the golden light vanishing, the runes fading to a dull glow.
Kael doesn’t move. Just sits there, his chest rising and falling, his eyes locked on me—gold, predatory, knowing.
“You interrupted the ritual,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
“The Council demands verification,” Riven says, stepping forward. “They want to see the bond confirmed. The runes must be visible.”
Kael stands slowly, his movements deliberate, controlled. He turns to me, his gaze sweeping over my face—flushed, trembling, ruined.
“Show him,” he says.
“No,” I whisper.
“Show him,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for the high collar of my robes. My fingers tremble as I undo the clasp, pull the fabric aside.
The mark on my shoulder glows faintly—golden, intricate, claimed.
Riven’s eyes widen. “It’s… stronger.”
“It’s real,” Kael says. “And it’s growing.”
Riven nods, then turns to the door. “I’ll report to the Council.”
He leaves.
The door closes.
And then—
Kael is on me.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch my face. Just grabs my wrist, yanks me forward, his other hand at my throat—not choking, just holding, feeling my pulse race.
“You were going to kiss me,” he growls.
“I wasn’t—”
“Liar,” he says. “You wanted it. You wanted me.”
“I hate you,” I gasp.
“You do,” he says, his voice dropping. “But you want me more.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “And you’ll get me. Soon. When the bond breaks you. When you’re on your knees, begging for my hands on you, my mouth on you, my fangs in your neck—”
“Never,” I whisper.
He smiles—slow, dark. “You already are.”
He releases me with a shove, steps back. “Come. The bond will be stronger tonight. And I won’t be there to stop it.”
I don’t answer.
I follow, silent, shaking.
As we walk back through the corridors, the bond hums between us—stronger, hotter, hungrier. And for the first time, I wonder—
What if I don’t want to win this war?
What if I want to lose?
What if I want to belong?
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 memory of what just happened. The bed is unmade, the black robes still clutched in my hands, a silent accusation.
“You’re not wearing the robes tomorrow,” he says.
I turn. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll wear something less… concealing,” he says, stripping off his gloves. “But you’ll still attend the Council. Still stand beside me. Still let them see what you are.”
“And what am I?” I ask, voice low.
He steps closer, his eyes burning into mine. “Mine. Whether you admit it or not.”
“I’ll never be yours.”
“You already are,” he says. “Your body knows it. Your magic knows it. And soon—” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my shoulder. “—your heart will know it too.”
I step back. “I came here to kill you.”
“And yet,” he says, “you’re still alive. Still breathing. Still here.”
He turns toward the hearth. “Sleep. The bond will be stronger tomorrow. And I won’t be there to stop it.”
I don’t answer.
I walk to the bed, the black robes slipping from my fingers. I don’t undress. I can’t. Not with him in the room. Not with the bond still pulsing, still hungry.
I lie down, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, the moon rises, full and red.
And inside, the fever returns.
But this time, I don’t fight it.
Because part of me—small, broken, awake—doesn’t want to.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now, I’m not sure I can.
Because I don’t know if I want to.