The first thing I feel when I wake is the weight of silence.
Not the absence of sound—though the chamber is still, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers, the city beyond the glass humming with distant magic. Not the quiet of sleep—though Riven breathes steadily beside me, his arm still draped over my waist, his warmth seeping into my bones. No, it’s a deeper silence. The kind that settles in your chest when you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. When you’ve whispered a truth in the dark and can’t pretend you didn’t mean it.
“Stay with me.”
I said it.
Not in rage. Not in fever. Not in desperation.
In surrender.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of my own voice, the slow, steady thud of my heart. The Mark of Twin Thrones pulses beneath my skin—not in pain, not in protest, but in quiet, insistent recognition. Like it knew this moment was coming. Like it’s been waiting for me to stop fighting.
But I’m not ready.
I can’t be.
I came here to kill him. To expose the High King as my mother’s murderer. To burn his world down and walk through the ashes.
And instead?
I’m waking up in his bed. Again. My body aches in the deep, satisfying way that comes from a fight well fought, from pushing myself to the edge and back. But it aches in another way too—low in my belly, coiled tight, unspent. From the sparring. From the dance. From the way his hands felt on my hips, the way his voice broke when he said he’d wait however long it takes.
And worse—I don’t hate him for it.
I don’t hate me for it.
That’s the real danger.
I ease out of his arms slowly, careful not to wake him. His hand tightens around my waist for a second—instinct, not thought—then relaxes. I watch him for a moment, his storm-lit eyes hidden behind closed lids, his face softened in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Human.
I hate that I notice.
I pull on my training tunic—black silk, high collar, the slit up the thigh. The dagger is already in my sleeve, its weight familiar, comforting. I don’t look back as I slip out of the chamber, my boots echoing on marble, too loud in the stillness.
The palace is waking—servants bowing as I pass, nobles pausing to watch, their eyes sharp with curiosity. I feel their gazes like needles in my skin. They’re waiting for me to fail. Waiting for me to slip. Waiting for the Wildblood to fall.
But I won’t.
I make it to the courtyard before the weight in my chest becomes too much. The circle of runes is still etched into the stone, pulsing faintly with old magic. I step inside, unsheathe my dagger, and begin to move—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. Not 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.
My breath catches.
I know that voice.
I turn, my dagger still raised, my chest rising and falling too fast. Kael stands just outside the runes, dressed in wolf-leather armor, his scarred face unreadable, his golden eyes sharp with concern. He’s taller than I remember. Broader. But the way he watches me—like I’m something fragile, something worth protecting—that hasn’t changed.
“Kael,” I say, lowering the blade. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he says, stepping into the circle. “To make sure you’re still alive. Still you.”
I glare at him. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you to check on me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you’re not yourself either.”
My jaw tightens. “And what does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me—my stance, my grip, the way my fingers tremble slightly on the hilt. Then he draws his own blade—a long, curved silver dagger, its edge etched with Northern Pack sigils.
“Then show me,” he says. “Show me you’re still the woman who taught me how to fight. The woman who swore she’d kill the High King with her bare hands.”
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.
Because he’s using Riven’s words.
And it makes me furious.
“Then stop talking,” I snap, 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 at his sides—not to push me off, not to fight back—but to surrender.
Our breaths come fast. Shallow. Synced.
His golden eyes lock onto mine, dark with something I can’t name. Not anger. Not pride. Pain.
“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 chest rising and falling too fast. “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 lift—slow, careful—and brush a strand of hair from my face.
“You’re not what I thought,” he says.
“Neither are you,” I reply.
“You came here to destroy him,” he says, voice low. “Not to fall in love with him.”
My breath stops.
“I’m not in love with him,” I snap.
“Then why are you in his bed?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you should explain it to yourself.” He lifts his hand, pressing it to my chest, just above my heart. “Because I’ve known you since we were cubs. I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you bleed. I’ve seen you burn for revenge.” His voice cracks. “And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. Even when you hate him.”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t know what I feel,” I whisper.
“Then figure it out,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”
I open my eyes.
And for the first time—
—I see him.
Not as a childhood friend.
Not as a loyal pack brother.
But as a man who’s loved me in silence for years. Who’s watched me walk into fire and prayed I’d walk back out. Who’s here not to judge, but to save me from myself.
And I hate that I see it.
Because I can’t give him what he wants.
And I can’t give myself what I need.
I stand, offering him my hand. He takes it, rising smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I came here to help,” he says. “To remind you why you started this. To make sure you don’t lose yourself in the fight.”
“I haven’t lost myself,” I say.
“Haven’t you?” he asks. “You were supposed to be gathering intel. Exposing the truth. Instead, you’re dancing with him. Sleeping in his bed. Letting him touch you.”
“I’m still gathering intel,” I snap. “I know the truth now. The order was forged. Vexis killed my mother. Riven was forced to sign.”
His eyes narrow. “And you believe him?”
“I saw it in the Truth Mirror,” I say. “I saw Vexis threaten him. I saw him sign with grief, not cruelty.”
“And the bond?” he asks. “Is that why you believe him? Because it makes you want him?”
“It’s not just the bond,” I say, too fast.
He studies me. “Then what is it?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I don’t know.
Is it the way he held me during the fever? The way he kissed me like he was starving? The way he said he’d waited for me?
Or is it just the bond? Just magic? Just fate?
“Be careful,” Kael says, stepping closer. “He’s not like us. He’s not like me. He’s a king. A fae. He plays games with lives. And if he decides you’re no longer useful—”
“He won’t,” I say. “He needs me.”
“For the bond,” he says. “Not for you.”
My breath hitches.
“And if the bond breaks?” he asks. “If Vexis finds a way to sever it? What then?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
And that terrifies me.
“You came here to destroy him,” Kael says, voice low. “Not to save him. Not to love him. If you lose sight of that, you’ll lose everything.”
“I haven’t lost sight,” I say, too sharp.
“Then prove it,” he says. “Get the grimoire. Expose Vexis. Kill him. And then walk away.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you’ll be the one who’s destroyed,” he says. “And I’ll be the one who has to watch it happen.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I see the truth.
He’s not here to help me.
He’s here to save me from myself.
And I don’t know if I want to be saved.
“I have to go,” he says, stepping back. “The pack needs me. The rebellion is growing. If I’m not there to lead them—”
“Then go,” I say, voice cold. “Lead your pack. Fight your war. Just don’t tell me how to fight mine.”
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his golden eyes full of something dark, deep, and true.
“I love you,” he says, voice breaking. “I always have. And I’ll always fight for you. Even if you don’t want me to.”
My breath stops.
He turns and walks away, his boots echoing on stone.
I don’t call after him.
Can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll break.
And I can’t afford to break.
Not now.
Not when the real war is just beginning.
I stand in the courtyard long after he’s gone, my dagger still in my hand, my breath coming in shallow bursts. 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.
I return to the palace slowly, my boots silent on marble. The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what I’ve done.
I reach my room—no, his room—and pause at the door.
Inside, Riven is awake.
I can feel him. The bond pulses, deep and hungry. His presence like a storm rolling in, his scent already curling through the air, storm and cedar and something darker, something primal.
And I know—
—he felt it.
He felt Kael. Felt the fight. Felt the way my pulse spiked when he said he loved me.
And he’s waiting.
I take a breath.
Then I open the door.
He’s standing by the window, his back to me, his silhouette sharp against the glowing city. The morning light catches the silver thorns on his coat, casting long shadows across the floor. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the spires rise into the enchanted sky, his storm-lit eyes unreadable.
“He was here,” he says, voice low.
“Yes,” I say.
“And?”
“He reminded me why I came here,” I say. “To destroy you.”
He turns.
And for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks… afraid.
Not of death.
Not of power.
But of loss.
“And do you still want to?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
Just step closer, my boots silent on marble, my breath steady.
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense.
Then, slowly, I reach up.
And take his hand.
His breath hitches.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just pulls me into his arms, holding me like I’m something fragile, something precious.
And for the first time—
—I let him.
Because maybe—just maybe—
I don’t have to destroy him.
Maybe I can save him instead.
And in doing so, save myself.