I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m dreaming of his mouth on my neck.
The thought claws through me as I wake, drenched in sweat, my body trembling from the fever that’s taken root in my bones. The black robes cling to my skin, soaked through, the fabric heavy with heat. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, but with memory. The warding ritual. The magic. The way I straddled him, our palms pressed together, our lips almost meeting. I could have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. And when Riven burst in, I didn’t pull away because I was afraid.
I pulled away because I was terrified.
Not of him.
Of what I felt.
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 ritual, 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.
The next morning, I wake to silence.
Kael is gone.
The bed beside me is cold. The hearth is dead. The air is still, the fortress quiet. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe he’s left. That the bond has broken. That I’m free.
Then I feel it.
The pull. The hum. The low, insistent throb in my core. He’s not gone. He’s nearby. Watching. Waiting.
I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. Sunlight slices through the shutters, cutting golden lines across the floor. My skin is hypersensitive. The brush of silk against my thigh makes me shiver. The scent of him—pine, fire, raw male—clings to the sheets, to my hair, to my skin. It should repulse me. It should make me vomit, scream, tear the mark from my flesh with my nails.
Instead, my body hums.
My core aches. My breath comes in shallow hitches. The bond—this cursed, fated, impossible bond—thrums between us, a live wire stretched taut across the fortress. I can feel him nearby. Not in the room. Not touching me. But there, like a shadow at the edge of my senses. Watching. Waiting.
I press two fingers to the mark again. A jolt shoots through me, straight to my core. My back arches. A soft moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“Fuck.”
I throw the sheets aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet meet cold stone. I’m still naked. No sign of my robes. No dagger. No clothes. Just me, the mark, and the ghost of his touch.
I stand, swaying slightly. My head throbs. Last night—what happened? I remember the warding ritual. The surge of magic. The golden light. His voice in my ear: *You’ll get me. Soon.* I remember fighting him. Kneeing him. Drawing my blade. Then—nothing.
Did he drug me?
Did he… take me?
I run my hands over my body—hips, stomach, thighs. No bruises. No blood. No signs of violence. But the bite on my shoulder is fresh. New. And I know how werewolf claiming works. A public bite is a legal claim. A private one—especially on the shoulder, so close to the mating mark—is intimate. Possessive. It means you are mine, not just in law, but in flesh.
I didn’t give him permission.
But the bond doesn’t care about permission.
I find a robe hanging from a hook near the hearth—black, heavy, clearly meant for him. I pull it on. It swallows me, the sleeves dragging past my fingertips, the hem brushing my calves. It smells like him. I should burn it. I should tear it off. Instead, I tie the belt tight around my waist and step toward the door.
It opens before I reach it.
Kael stands there, framed in the doorway, sunlight behind him turning his silhouette into something carved from shadow and fire. He’s dressed in black leather again, his hair slightly tousled, his expression unreadable. His gold eyes lock onto mine.
“Awake,” he says. Not a question.
“Where are my clothes?” My voice is steady. Cold. I won’t let him see me weak.
“Burned,” he says, stepping inside. “They were tainted with Northern sigils. Dangerous.”
“Liar.”
He smirks. “Maybe. But you’re not wearing them.”
He closes the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing in the silence. He doesn’t come closer. Just watches me. Studies me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“The bond is strong,” he says. “Stronger than I’ve ever seen. It’s already calling to you, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He takes a step forward. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent—” He inhales, slow, deliberate. “—is spiced with arousal. Even now, you want me.”
“I want you dead,” I say again, but my voice wavers.
“Same thing, in the end,” he murmurs. “Death and desire—they’re not so different when the bond is involved.”
He moves closer. I don’t back away. I won’t show fear. But my body betrays me—skin prickling, breath catching, the mark on my shoulder burning hotter.
“You think you can resist it,” he says, stopping just a foot away. “You think you can hold onto your mission, your vengeance, your lies. But the bond doesn’t lie. It knows the truth. And the truth is—” He reaches out, his fingers brushing the edge of the robe at my collarbone. “—you’re already mine.”
I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes darken. “You’ll learn.”
“I’ll kill you first.”
He laughs—low, rough. “Try. But know this: if you run, if you fight the bond too hard, it will burn you alive. Denial causes bond-sickness. Fever. Hallucinations. Eventually—madness. And if we’re separated for more than a few hours, we both die. Slowly. Painfully.”
My stomach drops.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps back, arms crossed. “Ask the Council. Ask Riven. Or wait and see what happens when I leave this room and don’t come back.”
I don’t believe him. I can’t.
But a cold dread coils in my gut.
He turns toward the hearth. “Get dressed. You’ll attend the scent trial today.”
“Scent trial?”
“All new envoys must prove their identity. Their scent is tested against their claimed lineage. If it doesn’t match—” He glances at me. “—they’re executed for deception.”
My blood runs cold.
My scent is masked. I’ve layered it with salt, ash, and a witch’s veil. But if they test me too deeply, if they push past the wards—
They’ll smell the fae.
They’ll know I’m not a Northern Witch.
They’ll know I’m Morgana, daughter of the High Priestess, the girl who escaped the burning temple.
And they’ll kill me.
Kael watches me, his expression unreadable. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not afraid of your games.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t play games. I test truth.”
He gestures to a chest at the foot of the bed. “Your new robes are there. Wear them.”
I cross the room and open the chest. Inside are robes of deep gray, embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of a spiral—werewolf sigils. Not Northern. Not neutral. These mark me as his. As claimed.
I want to burn them too.
But I have no choice.
I dress in silence, Kael watching me the entire time. When I’m finished, he nods.
“Better.”
“This doesn’t mean I belong to you.”
“It means the Council will believe you do,” he says. “And that’s enough—for now.”
He opens the door. “Come.”
I follow him through the fortress—down torch-lit corridors, past guards who bow their heads, past werewolves who stare at me with suspicion, with hunger. Whispers rise in our wake.
“Is that her?”
“The fated one?”
“She doesn’t look strong enough.”
“Wait until the bond-heat hits. She’ll be begging for him.”
I keep my head high. My spine straight. I am not prey. I am not his. I am a weapon.
The scent trial chamber is a circular room of white stone, the floor inscribed with runes. Three Council elders stand at the center, their eyes closed, their hands raised. Riven waits at the edge, silent, observant.
Kael leads me forward.
“Envoy Morgana of the Northern Witches,” he announces. “Here to undergo the scent trial.”
One of the elders opens his eyes—milky white, blind, but seeing more than sight. “Step forward, child.”
I do.
“Lay your hands upon the circle.”
I kneel. My palms press against the cold stone. The runes glow faintly beneath me.
The elders begin to chant—low, guttural words in the old tongue. A wind stirs in the room, though there are no windows. My wards hum against my skin, straining. The air thickens. I feel it—the pull, the pressure, the attempt to unravel me.
They’re peeling back the layers.
Salt. Ash. Veil.
One by one, the wards begin to crack.
I focus. Breathe. Hold the line. I’ve trained for this. I’ve spent years mastering control. My magic coils beneath my skin, ready to reinforce the mask if needed.
The chanting grows louder. The wind howls. The runes blaze white.
And then—
It stops.
The elders lower their hands. The wind dies. The runes fade.
“The scent is true,” the blind elder says. “She is of the Northern Circle. Her magic is witch-born. Her blood is pure.”
Relief floods me—so sharp, so sudden, I nearly sway.
Kael’s gaze burns into me. He knows. He knows it’s a lie. But he says nothing.
The trial is over. I’m cleared.
As we leave the chamber, Kael falls into step beside me. His voice is low, meant only for me.
“Impressive,” he murmurs. “You masked the fae well. But not well enough. I could smell it. Faint, like moonlight on water. But there.”
My blood turns to ice.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Because I also smelled something else. Something… forbidden. Something that makes me wonder what you really are.”
I don’t answer.
He smirks. “But I’ll find out. The bond will make sure of it.”
We turn a corner, and the corridor ahead collapses in a roar of stone and dust.
Debris rains down. I cry out as a chunk of masonry grazes my temple, blood blooming hot against my skin. I stumble, disoriented—
And then strong arms catch me.
Kael.
He pulls me against his chest, shielding me with his body as more stone crashes down. Dust fills the air. I cough, my vision blurring.
“Hold on,” he growls.
And then he’s moving—carrying me, his arms locked around me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. My cheek presses against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, powerful. His scent surrounds me. My body relaxes—just for a second—into the warmth, the strength, the safety of him.
And then I remember.
I shove against him. “Put me down.”
“Not yet,” he says, striding through the dust. “There could be more.”
He carries me to a clear corridor, then sets me down gently. His hands linger on my arms, his eyes scanning my face.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
He reaches up, his thumb brushing the cut on my temple. His touch is rough, but not unkind. A jolt runs through me—heat, need, the bond flaring in response.
My breath hitches.
His eyes darken. “You feel it, don’t you? The bond. It’s not just magic. It’s alive. And it’s getting stronger.”
I step back. “I don’t want it.”
“Too late,” he says. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll know it.”
He turns to go.
“Wait,” I say.
He glances back.
“Why didn’t you expose me in the trial?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Because I want to see what you’ll do when you’re cornered. When you have no choice but to fight—or surrender.”
And then he’s gone.
I press a hand to my temple, the sting of the cut grounding me. But beneath it, beneath the pain, the bond pulses—lower, deeper, hungrier.
And for the first time, I’m not sure I can win this war.
Because my body is already betraying me.
And the enemy knows it.