The first thing I feel when I wake is the absence of fear.
Not the absence of danger—Elarion still hums with it, the city floating above London like a blade held to the throat of the mortal world. Not the absence of tension—Riven still watches me like I’m both a weapon and a wound, like he’s afraid I’ll either shatter or kill him. No, it’s not danger I don’t feel.
It’s fear.
Of him.
Of the bond.
Of what I might become if I let myself want him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
I sit up slowly, the black silk sheets pooling around my waist. Dawn hasn’t broken yet, but the sky outside is already shifting—shades of violet and silver bleeding into the horizon, the stars fading like dying embers. I press my palm to my chest, feeling the steady thud of my heart. The Mark of Twin Thrones pulses beneath my skin, not in pain, not in protest, but in quiet recognition. He’s close. I can feel him—his presence like a storm rolling in, his scent already curling through the air, storm and cedar and something darker, something primal.
But I don’t go to him.
Not this time.
Instead, I rise, pull on a simple black training tunic, and slip out into the silent corridors. My boots echo on marble, too loud in the stillness. The palace is asleep—or pretending to be. I don’t care. I need space. I need air. I need to move.
The courtyard is empty when I reach it—a vast expanse of polished black stone, ringed by towering thorned hedges that shift when you’re not looking. Silver vines climb the walls, glowing faintly with dormant magic. The air is cool, sharp with the scent of dew and iron. I walk to the center, where a circle of runes is etched into the stone, pulsing with ancient power.
This is where they train. Where fae duel with glamours and blades, where lies are cut open and truths are spilled like blood.
I unsheathe my dagger—the one I stole back from Riven’s desk, the one that’s mine, that’s me—and step into the circle.
The blade feels right in my hand. Balanced. Lethal. Just like the woman I used to be before the bond, before the fever, before the kiss that shattered me.
I begin to move.
First, the basics—stance, grip, pivot. Then faster—feints, parries, thrusts. I spin, slash, lunge, my body remembering what my mind has tried to forget. I was trained young, in the hidden dens of the Northern Pack, where survival meant speed and silence. My mother taught me. She said a blade was the only truth in a world full of lies.
And now?
Now I wonder if she was right.
I increase the pace—faster, harder, sharper. My breath comes in steady bursts. My muscles burn. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless, eager. It wants out. It wants to fight. To hunt.
But I don’t let it.
Not yet.
Instead, I focus on the blade. On the rhythm. On the way the metal sings through the air, cutting silence like a scream. I don’t think about Riven. Don’t think about the grimoire. Don’t think about Vexis, or the Truth Mirror, or the way my heart stuttered when Riven said he’d waited for me.
I just fight.
Until I hear it.
Boots.
Slow. Deliberate. His.
I don’t stop. Don’t turn. Just keep moving, my dagger flashing in the dim light.
“You’re good,” he says, voice low, from the edge of the circle.
I don’t answer. Just spin, slash, lunge.
“But not fast enough.”
That makes me pause.
I turn, my dagger still raised, my chest rising and falling too fast. He stands just outside the runes, dressed in black training gear, his storm-lit eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. He’s not smiling. Not smirking. Just watching me—like he can see every secret I’ve ever buried.
“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” I say.
“I know you’re holding back,” he replies, stepping into the circle. “I can see it in your stance. In your breath. In the way your wolf whines when you fight.”
My jaw tightens.
“And you’re one to talk,” I snap. “You’ve spent centuries pretending to be a monster. But I’ve seen the truth. You’re not him. Not anymore.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just watches me, his gaze dark, intense. Then, slowly, he draws his own blade—a long, silver dagger, its edge etched with glowing sigils.
“Then show me,” he says. “Show me what you’re really capable of.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
“You want to fight me?” I ask, stepping closer. “You think you can handle it?”
“I don’t want to fight you,” he says, voice low. “I want to see you. All of you. Not just the fury. Not just the fire. But the woman beneath it.”
My pulse kicks.
“Then stop talking,” I say, lunging.
He parries—fast, precise, his blade meeting mine with a sharp clack that echoes across the courtyard. I spin, slash low. He blocks. I feint left, thrust right. He sidesteps, grabs my wrist, twists. I twist with him, using his momentum to flip us—my back hits the stone, but I kick up, knocking him off balance. He stumbles, recovers, and I’m on him.
Blade to his throat.
We freeze.
My knee is pressed into his stomach. My other leg is between his, pinning him down. My dagger rests against his pulse, just above his collarbone. His hands are on my hips—not to push me off, not to fight back—but to hold me there.
Our breaths come fast. Shallow. Synced.
His storm-lit eyes lock onto mine, dark, intense, hungry.
“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“But not fast enough?” I whisper, pressing the blade slightly deeper. A drop of blood beads on his skin.
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his thumb stroking my hip through the fabric. “You could kill me right now.”
“I could,” I agree. “And I still might.”
“Then why don’t you?”
My breath hitches.
Because I don’t know.
Because the bond doesn’t scream. Doesn’t burn. Doesn’t warn me.
Because my wolf doesn’t snarl.
It whimpers.
Mate, it whispers. King. Ours.
And because—
—I don’t want to.
Not anymore.
Not like this.
I lower the dagger.
But I don’t move off him.
Just stay there, my body pressed to his, my breath warm against his skin. His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer. My pulse hammers. Heat pools low in my belly.
“You could have disarmed me,” I say, voice unsteady. “You didn’t. Why?”
“Because I wanted to see what you’d do,” he says. “Because I wanted to know if you’d hesitate. If you’d care.”
“And?”
“You did,” he says, lifting his hand to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You care.”
I close my eyes.
“I shouldn’t.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you do.”
I open my eyes.
And for the first time—
—I let myself see him.
Not as the man who signed my mother’s death order.
Not as the king who bound me against my will.
But as the man who waited for me.
Who fought for me.
Who held me while I burned.
Who kissed me like he was starving.
And gods help me, I want him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
So I do the only thing I can.
I flip him.
In one fluid motion, I twist, using his own grip against him, rolling us until he’s on top, his body caging me in, his blade at my throat. My breath catches. My pulse roars. His eyes blaze—storm-dark, furious, pleased.
“But not fast enough,” I say, smiling.
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then, slowly, he lowers the dagger. Lets it fall from his fingers. Reaches up instead, cupping my face in his hands.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“So are you,” I whisper.
“And if I kissed you right now?”
“Then I’d bite you again.”
He smiles.
Slow. Dangerous.
Then leans down—
—and stops.
Just hovers, his lips a breath from mine, his breath warm against my skin. The bond pulses, deep and hungry. My wolf howls. My body arches.
“Then do it,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t.
Just pulls back, standing in one smooth motion, then offers me his hand.
“Again,” he says.
I take it.
And we begin.
The second round is faster. Harder. More precise. No more hesitation. No more games. Just movement—parry, thrust, spin, block. We dance around each other, blades flashing, bodies close, breaths syncing. He’s strong. Fast. Ruthless. But so am I.
And this time, I don’t hold back.
I let the wolf in.
Not fully. Not yet. But enough—my senses sharpen, my reflexes quicken, my movements become instinct, not thought. I see the flicker in his eyes when he notices. The way his breath hitches. The way his grip tightens on his dagger.
He likes it.
And gods help me, I like that he likes it.
We clash—blade on blade, body on body. He grabs my wrist, pulls me close. I twist, kick his leg out. He falls, rolls, comes up behind me, his arm wrapping around my waist, his blade at my throat.
“Yield,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.
“Never,” I say, elbowing him in the gut.
He grunts, loosens his grip—just enough. I slip free, spin, slash. He blocks, but I’m faster now. I feint left, go right, kick his dagger from his hand. It skitters across the stone.
Then I’m on him.
My body slams into his, knocking him back. We fall, rolling, until I’m on top again, my knees on either side of his hips, my dagger at his throat.
We’re both breathing hard. Sweating. Shaking.
His hands are on my thighs—hot, possessive, claiming.
“You could kill me,” he says, voice rough. “But you won’t.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you want me alive,” he says. “Because you want to see what I’ll do next. Because you want to feel it when I touch you.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
“You think I don’t feel it too?” he growls. “You think I don’t wake up every night with your name on my lips? You think I don’t burn for you?”
My pulse hammers.
“Then why?” I whisper. “If you want me so much, why haven’t you taken me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense.
Then, slowly, he lifts his hand.
And wipes the sweat from my brow.
Just a touch. Simple. Tender.
And it shatters me.
Because it’s not dominance.
It’s care.
And I don’t know how to fight that.
“I don’t want a conquest,” he says, voice low. “I want you. All of you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. I want your fire. Your fury. Your truth.” He cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “And I’ll wait however long it takes.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of the way his voice breaks on the last word.
Because of the way his hands tremble.
Because of the way his eyes—those cold, storm-lit eyes—look at me like I’m the only light in his darkness.
And I don’t know what to do.
So I do the only thing I can.
I sheathe my dagger.
And stand.
He watches me, doesn’t move. Just lies there, his chest rising and falling, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re not what I thought,” I say.
“Neither are you,” he replies.
I turn to leave.
“Zara,” he says.
I pause.
“We’re not done.”
I look back.
And for the first time—
—I smile.
“No,” I say. “We’re just beginning.”
As I walk back to the palace, the bond hums beneath my skin—not in conflict, not in protest, but in quiet, steady recognition.
Not just magic.
Not just fate.
Want.
Raw. Unstoppable. Right.
And for the first time—
—I don’t fight it.
I just let it in.
Because maybe—just maybe—
I don’t have to destroy him.
Maybe I can save him instead.
And in doing so, save myself.