The air in the Winter Court’s Grand Atrium tasted like ice and lies.
I stood in the shadow of a frozen fountain, my stolen glamour clinging to me like a second skin. The mask of “Elara Voss”—minor witch noble from the Lyon Coven—was flawless. My gown, silver-threaded and slit to the hip, whispered against the marble as I moved. My hair, dark as burnt opal, was pinned up with a single black thorn comb. I looked the part. I sounded the part. I even smelled the part—rosewater and wintermint, not the storm-scorched earth and wildfire that clung to my real skin.
But none of it mattered.
Because he was here.
Kaelen Vire.
The Black Thorn Alpha. The Winter Court’s executioner. The man whose signature had sealed my mother’s death warrant twelve years ago.
He stood at the center of the Blood Moon Gala, surrounded by sycophants and silver-masked nobles, his presence a blade drawn across the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, his black coat cut like armor, his silver eyes burning with the cold fire of the Fae. Frostfire. A rare, lethal magic that could freeze a man’s heart in three seconds. I’d seen it once—on the night they took her. On the night he stood silent as they dragged my mother to the tribunal.
And now, he was dragging someone else.
A Fae dissident, bound in iron chains, his face bloodied, his mouth gagged. Kaelen didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The crowd parted like water before a shark. The air dropped ten degrees. Even the chandeliers of living ice dimmed as he passed.
My fingers curled around the dagger hidden in my sleeve. Cold iron. Witch-forged. One touch could disrupt any magical bond. One thrust could stop a heart.
One thrust could end him.
Do it.
The voice in my head wasn’t mine. It was hers. My mother’s. The last thing she’d said before the executioner’s blade fell: “Burn them all, Opal. Burn them until nothing’s left.”
I’d spent twelve years preparing for this moment. Twelve years in the underground, learning fire magic from rogue warlocks, mastering glamour, surviving in the Veil Markets, where witches were hunted like vermin. I’d clawed my way through every barrier, every lie, every scar—just to stand here, in this glittering cage of ice and arrogance, and kill the man who let her die.
And yet.
I hesitated.
Because killing him now wouldn’t be justice. It would be suicide. The Black Thorn Pack would tear me apart before I reached the door. The Council would brand me a terrorist. The fragile peace between the species—the only thing keeping the Hybrid Tribunals from executing every half-blood in Europe—would shatter.
And then what?
Revenge wouldn’t bring her back.
But exposure would.
I wasn’t here to kill Kaelen Vire.
I was here to destroy the system that made him judge, jury, and executioner.
The Supernatural Council. The Hybrid Tribunal. The Purity Faction. Every Fae noble who sneered at hybrids as “tainted.” Every werewolf who refused to acknowledge a witch’s strength. Every vampire who fed on the weak and called it tradition.
I was here to burn it all down.
And I couldn’t do that if I was dead.
So I lowered the dagger.
Just as the first assassin struck.
It happened fast. A blur of shadow from the upper balcony. A silver dart, tipped with Dusk venom. It wasn’t aimed at Kaelen.
It was aimed at the Council.
High Chancellor Mordrek—the ancient, ice-cold bastard who’d signed my mother’s death warrant—staggered as the dart struck his shoulder. He gasped, his face turning gray. The venom worked fast. One drop could paralyze a Fae for hours. A full vial would stop his heart.
Chaos erupted.
Nobles screamed. Guards lunged. The assassin—hooded, faceless—leapt from the balcony, landing in a roll, drawing twin blades.
And then more came.
Three. Four. All in black, all moving like smoke. They weren’t after one life.
They were after the entire Council.
My mind snapped into focus.
If the Council fell tonight, the Concord would collapse. Wars would reignite. The Black Thorn Pack would declare martial law. The Hybrid Tribunals would double their executions, calling it “security.”
And my chance to expose them—gone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
So I did the one thing I swore I’d never do.
I moved toward Kaelen.
He was already fighting, his frostfire flaring in his palms, freezing one assassin mid-lunge. Another came at him from behind, blade raised.
I didn’t think.
I acted.
My dagger flashed. Cold iron met flesh. The assassin dropped, clutching his throat.
Kaelen spun, frostfire blazing.
Our eyes locked.
For one heartbeat, the world stopped.
His gaze—silver, piercing, inhuman—raked over me. Not with gratitude. Not with shock.
With suspicion.
And then, beneath it—something else.
A flicker. A spark. A heat that had no right to exist.
My body reacted before my mind could stop it.
Heat surged in my core, low and insistent. My skin prickled. My breath hitched.
The bond.
No. Not yet. It wasn’t possible. The mate-bond ritual required ancient magic, a Council decree, a public ceremony.
And yet—
My collarbone burned.
Just a phantom ache. Just adrenaline. Just—
Another assassin lunged at Mordrek.
I moved. Again. Fire magic crackled in my palm. A whip of flame lashed out, searing the attacker’s arm. He screamed, dropping his weapon.
Guards swarmed. The remaining assassins were taken down, one by one.
Silence fell.
Smoke curled from scorched marble. Blood pooled on the ice. Mordrek leaned on his staff, his face pale, but alive.
The room turned to me.
Kaelen stood ten feet away, his chest rising and falling, his frostfire still flickering in his hands. His eyes never left mine.
“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous.
I straightened. “Elara Voss. Witch of the Lyon Coven. I was invited to the gala.”
“You fight like a warlock,” he said.
“And you breathe like a corpse,” I shot back. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind the stench.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. A few nobles gasped. No one spoke to Kaelen Vire like that.
He didn’t flinch.
He took a step forward. Then another.
The air between us thickened. My pulse roared in my ears. The heat in my collarbone spread, crawling down my spine, pooling between my thighs.
It wasn’t fear.
It was worse.
It was recognition.
My body knew him.
And it wanted him.
He stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough that I could see the flecks of blue in his silver eyes. Close enough to smell him—winter pine, iron, and something darker. Something primal.
“You saved my life,” he said.
“I saved the Council,” I corrected. “Your death would’ve started a war. And I hate messy endings.”
His lips twitched. Not a smile. A warning.
“Convenient,” he murmured. “A witch with perfect timing. A blade that moves like instinct. A body that—”
He didn’t finish.
Because Mordrek raised his staff.
“The Fates have spoken,” the High Chancellor intoned, his voice echoing through the atrium.
All eyes turned to him.
He raised a hand, and the ancient runes on the floor—etched in black stone—began to glow.
“A life saved demands a life bound,” he declared. “By the laws of the Concord, by the magic of the Ancients, I decree that Opal of the Ember Circle—”
My breath caught.
He knew.
He’d seen through the glamour.
“—is hereby bound to Kaelen Vire, Alpha of the Black Thorn Pack, as his bonded mate.”
No.
No, no, no.
I tried to move, but the runes flared. A pulse of magic slammed into me, locking my muscles in place. My glamour shattered like glass.
The room saw me.
Not Elara Voss.
Opal.
Half-blood. Witch. Daughter of the executed.
And now—
A searing pain erupted on my collarbone.
I screamed.
Fire and ice tore through my veins. My knees buckled. I fell to the floor, gasping, as the magic branded me—burning Kaelen’s sigil into my skin.
A black thorn, wrapped in frost.
His mark.
His claim.
His mate.
The bond roared to life.
Heat. Need. A hunger so deep it felt like drowning.
And then—
His hand.
Strong. Cold. Gripping my arm, hauling me to my feet.
Our faces were inches apart.
His breath was ice on my skin.
His eyes burned.
“You,” he growled, “are not my choice.”
My lips curled. “And you’re not mine, Alpha.”
He leaned closer. So close I felt the rumble in his chest.
“But you will obey.”
The crowd erupted—whispers, gasps, the sharp click of a thousand hidden knives being drawn.
Lady Nyx, draped in silver and spite, stepped forward, her smile venomous.
“How… unfortunate,” she purred. “The mongrel witch gets the crown.”
I didn’t look at her.
I kept my eyes on Kaelen.
My enemy.
My mate.
The man who had let my mother die.
And now, bound to me by magic I couldn’t break.
My lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Oh, Kaelen,” I whispered, so only he could hear. “You have no idea what I’m going to make you obey.”
The bond flared.
And for the first time in twelve years—
I felt alive.