The first thing I feel is the fire in my blood.
Not metaphor. Not poetic. Not some delicate flush of arousal or the slow burn of desire. No—this is fire. Raw. Unstoppable. A molten tide surging through my veins, turning every nerve to flame, every breath to smoke. It starts low, deep in my core, a pulsing heat that spreads outward like wildfire through dry grass. My skin prickles. My breath hitches. My wolf—usually a whisper beneath my ribs—howls, not in warning, but in need.
Heat cycle.
It’s here.
And I’m not ready.
I press my palm to my stomach, feeling the heat coil beneath my fingers like a living thing. The Mark of Twin Thrones pulses in response—violet light flaring beneath my skin, reacting to the surge of magic, of instinct, of biology. The bond hums, not in harmony, not in calm recognition, but in hunger. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stop fighting the truth and finally let the animal take over.
And gods help me, I don’t know if I can stop it.
I rise from the stone bench in the Moonlit Grove, my boots echoing on marble. Riven is beside me—silent, still, his storm-lit eyes dark with something I can’t name. He felt it too. The shift. The change. The way my magic flared, my scent sharpened, my body arched into his like I was starving. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, his hand tightening on mine, his breath coming too fast.
“It’s starting,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods, his jaw tight. “I know.”
“I need to go,” I say, stepping back. “I need to lock myself in. I can’t—” My breath hitches as another wave of heat rolls through me, sharp and jagged. My knees weaken. My hands tremble. “I can’t be near you when it’s like this.”
“No,” he says, stepping forward, his hand flying to my wrist, not to stop me, but to hold me. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”
“You don’t understand,” I snap, yanking my arm back. “This isn’t just magic. It’s biology. It’s instinct. It’s—” Another wave hits, harder this time, and I gasp, doubling over, my hands flying to my stomach. “It’s need. And if I’m near you, I won’t be able to stop myself.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense. And then—
—he does the one thing I don’t expect.
He pulls me into his arms.
Not gently. Not carefully. But hard, fast, real. His arms lock around me, caging me in, his breath hot against my neck, his body pressing me to his chest. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand. My wolf howls. My magic surges. The heat in my core flares, sharp and jagged, and I arch into him, my hands flying to his back, my nails digging into his coat.
“You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low, rough. “Not like this. Not alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I gasp, trying to pull away. But my body betrays me. Arching into him. Pressing closer. Needing him.
“I do,” he says, tightening his grip. “Because the bond won’t let me. Because I won’t let you suffer alone. Because if you’re going to burn—” He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot, his voice breaking. “—then I’ll burn with you.”
My breath stops.
And for a single, fragile second—I think I’ll let him.
Think I’ll give in. Think I’ll let the heat take over. Think I’ll let myself want him the way my body is screaming to.
But then—
—I remember.
Remember who I am. What I came here to do. Remember the dagger in my sleeve, the mission in my blood, the truth in my bones. I came here to destroy him. To expose the High King as my mother’s murderer. To burn his world down and walk through the ashes.
And now—
—I’m clinging to him like I’m starving.
Like I’m his.
So I do the only thing I can.
I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back, his eyes wide, his breath ragged. But he doesn’t fall. Just watches me, his storm-lit eyes dark with something I can’t name—hurt, fury, need.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl, backing away, my hands fisted at my sides. “Not like this. Not when I can’t think. Not when I can’t—” Another wave hits, and I gasp, doubling over, my vision blurring. “I won’t be used like this.”
“I’m not using you,” he says, stepping forward. “I’m protecting you.”
“From what?” I snap, backing away. “From myself? From my own body? From the truth?” I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of my own heartbeat, the slow, steady thud that matches his. “You don’t get to decide what I need. You don’t get to lock me away. You don’t get to—”
“Then what do you want?” he asks, voice breaking. “Do you want me to leave you? To let you suffer alone? To let the heat take you until you’re nothing but instinct and fire?” He steps closer, his eyes blazing. “Because if that’s what you want—”
“No,” I say, voice breaking. “I don’t want that. I don’t want any of this.”
And gods help me, I mean it.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
Because he took a blade for me.
Because he waited for me.
Because he let me go when I wasn’t ready.
And because now—now he’s standing here, his storm-lit eyes dark with something I can’t name, whispering, “Do you want me to leave you?” like it’s a plea, like it’s a vow, like it’s the only truth he knows.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn.
And run.
The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what I’ve just done. My boots echo on stone, too loud, too fast, too wrong. My wolf howls beneath my skin—mate, king, ours—but I don’t listen. Just run. Through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors—until I reach my chambers.
The door slams shut behind me.
I press my back to it, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my hands trembling. The heat is worse now—sharp, jagged, wrong. It coils in my core, spreads through my limbs, burns in my blood. My skin is too tight. My magic is too close. My wolf is too hungry.
I stumble to the bed, collapsing onto the black silk sheets. The fire in the hearth surges—violet, then gold, then white—and the bond hums beneath my skin, not in conflict, not in protest, but in recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stop fighting. When I stop hating. When I finally let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the monster I came to destroy.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Not when my body is screaming for him.
I press my palm to my stomach, feeling the heat pulse beneath my fingers. My breath hitches. My hands tremble. The scent of storm and cedar fills the room—him—and I know he’s close. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
And I hate that I want him too.
I roll onto my side, curling into a ball, my hands fisted in the sheets. The heat builds—sharp, jagged, wrong. My wolf stirs, not in warning, not in rage—but in pride. Mate, it whispers. King. Ours.
“No,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to the mattress. “Not yet. Not like this.”
But the heat doesn’t listen.
It flares—hard, fast, real—and I arch into the bed, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, my hands flying to my throat. The bond screams. Fire and ice tear through my veins. The Mark of Twin Thrones flares on my palm, burning like a brand.
And then—
—the door opens.
I don’t turn. Don’t move. Just stay there, curled into myself, my breath coming too fast, my body trembling. But I know it’s him. Can feel him—his presence like a storm rolling in, his power humming in the air, his breath hot against my neck.
“Zara,” he says, voice low.
“Go away,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please. I can’t—”
“I’m not leaving,” he says, stepping closer. “Not this time.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, pressing my forehead to the mattress. “If you’re here, I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll—”
“Then don’t stop,” he says, kneeling beside the bed, his hand going to my hip, not to pull me close, but to hold me. “Let it happen. Let the heat take you. Let the bond scream. Let the world burn. But don’t push me away.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t move.
Just stay there, curled into myself, my hands fisted in the sheets, my body trembling.
“I came here to destroy you,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “To expose you as my mother’s killer. To burn your world down and walk through the ashes.”
“And now?” he asks, his thumb stroking the dip of my waist, his breath hot against my neck.
“Now,” I say, turning my head, my storm-dark eyes locking onto his, “I don’t know what I am.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense. And then—
—he does the one thing I don’t expect.
He leans down.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle. But hard, desperate, real. His lips crash into mine, teeth and tongue, claiming me like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for centuries and can’t take it anymore. My breath catches. My hands fly to his face, pulling him closer. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand.
And still, he kisses me.
Like he’s trying to devour me. Like he’s trying to prove something. Like he’s trying to break me.
And gods help me, I let him.
Because for the first time—
—I don’t have to be the weapon.
I can just be his.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his lips swollen, his eyes blazing. “Say my name,” he says, voice rough.
“Riven,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “Please—”
“Say it again,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine.
“Riven,” I say, arching into him. “I need you.”
And gods help me, I mean it.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
Because he took a blade for me.
Because he waited for me.
Because he let me go when I wasn’t ready.
And because now—now he’s here, his hands on my hips, his breath hot against my neck, his body caging mine in, whispering, “Say my name,” like it’s a vow, like it’s a promise, like it’s the only truth he knows.
So I do the only thing I can.
I pull him down.
And let the heat take us.
The world burns.
The bond screams.
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.