The first thing I did when I reached my chambers was burn the dress.
Not the silver-threaded gown I’d worn to the gala—the one now torn at the shoulder from Kaelen’s grip, stained with sweat and the residue of magic. No, I ripped that off and hurled it into the hearth, watching the flames swallow it whole. I wanted it gone. Every thread, every memory stitched into its fabric. The way it had clung to my body during the ritual. The way Kaelen’s hands had burned through the fabric when he pinned me to the dais. The way Lady Nyx had looked at it—like she already knew how it would end up.
Now, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, wrapped in a black silk robe, my skin still humming from the bond. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. I traced it with my fingertips—black thorns wreathed in frost, raised and tender. It didn’t just mark me as his. It *connected* me to him. A leash disguised as destiny.
And yet.
Even now, hours after the ritual, my body still remembered the heat. The way my blood had surged when his mouth touched my neck. The way my hips had lifted, desperate for friction, for relief. The way I’d *moaned*—raw, unguarded, *wanting*.
I clenched my fists.
No. I wouldn’t let this control me. I wouldn’t let *him* control me. The bond was magic, not fate. And magic could be broken.
I just had to find the right spell.
A knock at the door snapped me from my thoughts.
“Enter,” I said, voice steady.
The door opened, and a young Fae woman stepped in, her silver hair braided tightly, her posture rigid. A servant. Her eyes flickered to the fire, where the last embers of my gown crumbled to ash.
“My lady,” she said, bowing slightly. “The Alpha requests your presence in his chambers. Immediately.”
I didn’t move. “Tell him I’m indisposed.”
“He said… you would say that.” She hesitated. “And that if you refused, he would come for you himself.”
A slow smile curled my lips.
Of course he would. Kaelen didn’t ask. He *took*.
“Fine,” I said, stepping away from the mirror. “Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The servant bowed again and left.
I didn’t need ten minutes. I needed one.
I pulled on a new gown—deep crimson, high-necked, long sleeves. Witch silk, woven with fire-resistant threads. It hugged my curves but gave nothing away. Power, not provocation. Control, not chaos. I pinned my hair up with a single silver dagger—my real one, not the ceremonial thorn comb. Then I stepped into a pair of heeled boots, sharp as blades.
By the time I reached Kaelen’s chambers, I was ready.
His door was carved from black oak, inlaid with frost-runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. I didn’t knock. I pushed it open.
He was standing by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the moonlit snow. Tall. Imposing. Dressed in black, as always, his coat unbuttoned, revealing the hard lines of his chest beneath a fitted shirt. The room was cold—unnaturally so—frost creeping along the edges of the glass, the air sharp with the scent of pine and iron.
He didn’t turn.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m exactly on time,” I replied, closing the door behind me. “You said immediately. I decided what ‘immediately’ meant.”
He turned then, his silver eyes locking onto mine. Cold. Assessing. But there—beneath the ice—something else. Heat. Awareness. The bond flared between us, a pulse of energy that made my skin prickle.
“You burned your gown,” he said.
“It was damaged.”
“You burned it because it reminded you of me.”
“I burned it because it reminded me of *her*,” I shot back. “Nyx. The way she smiled when she saw it. The way she thinks she still owns you.”
His jaw tightened. “She doesn’t.”
“Then why does her scent still linger on your skin?”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. And the second they did, I regretted them.
Because they weren’t just an accusation.
They were a *confession*.
I’d noticed. I’d *smelled* her on him—faint, but there. Winter lilies and poisoned honey. And the bond—this cursed, traitorous bond—had *reacted*. Jealousy. Sharp. Hot. Unbearable.
Kaelen stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m *angry*,” I corrected. “Angry that you let her near you. Angry that she thinks she has a claim on you. Angry that the entire Court thinks I’m some obedient pet you’ve been *forced* to take.”
“You are not a pet.”
“Then stop treating me like one.” I stepped closer, refusing to back down. “You drag me to rituals. You pin me down. You whisper in my ear like you own me—”
“Because I *do*,” he growled, closing the distance between us in one stride. His hands shot out, gripping my upper arms, not hard enough to bruise, but firm. Possessive. “The bond is real, Opal. It’s not just magic. It’s *us*. And you feel it as much as I do.”
My breath hitched.
His touch sent electricity through my veins. The sigil on my collarbone burned. My skin flushed. My pulse roared in my ears.
And lower—
That ache. That *need*.
It was back. Worse than before. A slow, insistent throb between my thighs, spreading heat through my core.
I tried to pull away. He didn’t let me.
“Let go of me,” I demanded, voice trembling.
“No.” His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin of my inner arms. “You want to fight me? Fine. Fight. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to *me*.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Your body is.”
And then—
His hand moved.
Not to my face. Not to my neck.
But to my hip. His fingers splayed against the curve of my waist, pulling me forward, until our bodies were almost touching. Just a breath apart. His heat radiated through the fabric of my gown. My breath came faster. My nipples hardened. My thighs clenched.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Is it anger? Or is it *this*?”
His other hand slid up, fingers brushing the sigil on my collarbone. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My mouth fell open. A soft gasp escaped my lips.
“Stop,” I whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea.
He didn’t stop.
His thumb traced the edge of the sigil, slow, deliberate. “You think I don’t feel it too? The pull. The heat. The way my wolf growls when you’re near?” He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. “You think I don’t dream of you?”
My eyes closed.
No. No, I didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to *feel* this. Because if he meant it—if he *wanted* me—then everything changed.
And I couldn’t let it.
“You don’t know me,” I said, forcing my eyes open, meeting his. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’m capable of. You don’t know why I’m really here.”
“Then tell me,” he said. “Or keep lying. But don’t pretend this bond means nothing.”
“It means *survival*,” I snapped. “I’m here to expose the Council. To destroy the Tribunal. And if I have to play your obedient mate to do it, I will. But don’t for one second think I *want* this. Don’t think I want *you*.”
He stared at me. Long. Hard. And then—
He laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not a mocking one.
But something darker. Sadder.
“You’re a terrible liar, Opal,” he said, releasing me. “The bond would’ve flared if you meant that. But it didn’t.” He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “You hate me. Fine. Fight me. Use me. Manipulate me. But don’t pretend you don’t feel *this*.”
He gestured between us.
And the bond *pulsed*, a wave of heat that made my knees weak.
“Get out,” I said, voice breaking. “Just… get out.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t threaten. He just turned and walked to the door.
But just before he left, he paused.
“You’ll wear the gown I left for you tomorrow night,” he said, not looking back. “The Blood Moon Festival. The Court expects the bonded pair to dance. And I don’t care if you hate me—” He glanced over his shoulder, silver eyes burning. “You *will* dance with me.”
The door closed behind him.
I stood there, shaking.
Not from fear.
From *want*.
I wanted to burn him. Wanted to tear the sigil from my skin. Wanted to walk out of this palace and never look back.
But I also wanted to follow him. To press my body against his. To feel his hands on me again. To let the bond take over, just once, and stop fighting.
I clenched my fists.
No. I wouldn’t give in. I wouldn’t let this magic control me. I was Opal of the Ember Circle. I had survived the underground. I had faced warlocks, assassins, and the wrath of the Fae. I would not be broken by a man—no matter how powerful, no matter how *maddeningly* desirable.
I turned to the mirror.
And that’s when I saw it.
The tear.
Not in the gown I’d burned. Not in the one I was wearing.
But in the *shoulder* of my robe.
A clean, precise rip—just above the sigil. As if something had snagged it. As if *he* had torn it.
And worse—
My skin beneath it was flushed. My pulse visible at the base of my throat. My lips swollen, as if kissed.
I hadn’t been kissed.
But my body looked like it had.
The bond. It was *marking* me. Not just with the sigil. But with *evidence*.
I reached for the tear, about to fix it—
And then I stopped.
Because I heard it.
Whispers.
From the hallway. From the servants. From the nobles passing by.
“Did you see her leave his chambers?”
“Her gown was torn. Her skin flushed.”
“They must have consummated the bond.”
“The mongrel witch finally got what she wanted.”
My breath stilled.
They thought we’d… *done it*.
That we’d spent the night together. That I’d let him touch me. That I’d *wanted* it.
And looking at myself—torn robe, flushed skin, trembling hands—I realized:
I looked exactly like a woman who had.
A slow, dangerous smile curved my lips.
Let them think it.
Let them believe I’d taken what I came for.
Because if they thought I was weak, if they thought I was *his*, then they’d never see me coming.
I stepped to the wardrobe.
And pulled out the gown Kaelen had left for me.
Black silk. Deep V-neck. Slit to the thigh. Designed to show the sigil. Designed to show *him*.
I held it up, studying it.
Then I smiled.
Oh, I’d wear it.
And I’d dance with him.
But not because he commanded it.
Because *I* wanted to.
Because every step, every movement, every breath would be a weapon.
And when the Court watched us—when they saw the way his hands gripped my waist, the way my body arched into his, the way our eyes locked like we were the only two people in the room—
They wouldn’t see obedience.
They wouldn’t see submission.
They’d see *fire*.
And they’d know—
The Marked Queen wasn’t just bound.
She was *coming*.
That night, I dreamed of him.
Not the cold, controlled Alpha. Not the executioner.
But *Kaelen*.
His hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. His voice in my ear, whispering, *“You’re mine.”*
And this time—I didn’t fight.
This time, I *answered*.
“Only,” I whispered in the dream, “if you’re mine too.”
The bond flared.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t wake up screaming.
I woke up *smiling*.