The fire in my study had burned down to embers, but I didn’t feel the cold.
My blood was still hot from her. From *Opal*. From the way she’d trembled under my hands, the way her breath had hitched when I touched the sigil, the way her body had arched toward mine even as she spat defiance. She thought she was hiding it. Thought she could lie to me, to the bond, to herself.
She couldn’t.
Every pulse of her heart, every shift in her breath, every flicker of heat between her thighs—it all screamed the truth. She wanted me. Not just because the bond demanded it. Not just because fate had bound us.
But because *she* did.
And that terrified her.
I stood at the window, staring out over the snow-laced spires of the Winter Court, my fingers clenched around the edge of the sill. Frost crept from my skin, spreading across the glass like a living thing. My wolf growled low in my chest, restless, *hungry*. It had been too long since I’d let it run. Too long since I’d let it hunt.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I had other prey.
Her file lay open on my desk—thin, deliberately incomplete. *Elara Voss. Witch of the Lyon Coven. Minor noble. Seeks asylum. No known affiliations.*
Lies. All of it.
I’d had Silas pull the records the moment she’d stepped into the gala. The Lyon Coven had no record of an “Elara Voss.” No witch matching her description had ever been registered. No noble lineage. No bloodline. Nothing.
She was a ghost.
And yet—she’d fought like a warlock. Moved like a killer. Saved my life with a blade that moved faster than sight.
And her magic—
Fire. Raw, untamed, *alive*. Not the weak, ritual-bound flames most witches conjured. This was something older. Something *wild*. The kind of fire that burned through wards, that shattered sigils, that defied control.
Like hers.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I was back in the ritual chamber. Her body arched beneath mine, her skin burning and freezing at once, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I’d felt her—*known* her—in ways no magic should allow. Flashes of memory. Fragments of pain. A child hiding in the dark. A mother screaming in a tribunal. A vow whispered in the ashes: *Burn them all.*
And then—
Me.
Watching her. Wanting her. Longing for her long before the bond had snapped into place.
I’d tried to bury it. To lock it away. But the bond had torn the walls down, laid me bare. And now, every time I looked at her, I saw it—the truth I’d refused to admit.
I didn’t just *want* her.
I *recognized* her.
And that was more dangerous than any lie.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I said, not turning.
Silas stepped inside, his boots silent on the stone floor. My Beta. My brother. The only one who’d stood by me when the pack called me abomination. He carried a sealed envelope in one hand, his expression unreadable.
“You wanted her file,” he said, placing it on the desk. “This is everything we could find.”
I turned. “And?”
“Nothing. No record of Elara Voss. No witch matching her description in any coven. No known aliases. No magical signatures on file.” He paused. “But I did find something… interesting.”
He slid a photograph from the envelope—old, faded, taken in secret. A woman, dark-haired, fierce-eyed, standing in a tribunal chamber, her wrists bound in iron. Behind her, a child—small, wide-eyed, clutching a black thorn comb. The same comb Opal had worn tonight.
My breath stilled.
“That’s her,” I said, voice low. “That’s Opal.”
“And the woman?”
“Mira of the Ember Circle,” I said. “Witch. Hybrid. Executed twelve years ago for ‘corrupting Fae blood.’”
Silas exhaled. “You tried to save her.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He knew. We’d been brothers too long for silence to hide the truth.
I’d stood in that tribunal. Voted against her execution. Argued for mercy. For justice. For *truth*. But Mordrek had overruled me. The Council had sealed the verdict. And I’d watched her die—knowing I’d failed.
And now her daughter stood in my court. Bound to me by magic. Marked with my sigil. Looking at me with the same fire in her eyes.
“She doesn’t know,” I said. “About me. About the vote. About… anything.”
“She will,” Silas said. “Eventually. And when she does—”
“She’ll hate me more,” I finished.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. We both knew the truth.
Opal wasn’t here to be my mate.
She was here to destroy me.
I turned back to the window, my fingers tightening on the sill. “Find out who she really is,” I said. “Every contact. Every ally. Every secret. I want to know what she’s planning. What she’s after. And why—” My voice dropped. “Why her magic feels like *hers*.”
Silas hesitated. “You think she’s connected to Mira?”
“I know she is.” I closed my eyes. “I felt it in the bond. Her memories. Her pain. Her *rage*.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “What do you feel?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was worse than guilt.
Worse than duty.
It was *longing*.
And that—more than any oath, any law, any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t control.
Silas left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood there, alone, the weight of the night pressing down on me. The fire in the hearth sputtered, casting long shadows across the room. My reflection in the glass was a stranger—cold, hard, *empty*. The Alpha. The Enforcer. The man who’d sentenced a thousand to death without blinking.
But not her.
Never her.
I reached into my coat and pulled out the vial I kept hidden in the inner pocket—small, glass, filled with a single drop of blood. Mira’s blood. Taken the night they executed her. A relic. A secret. A *sin*.
I’d told no one. Not even Silas. Not even the Council.
Because I’d loved her.
Not in the way Fae love—with cold oaths and colder promises.
But in the way a man loves a woman he can never have. In the way a wolf loves the moon—desperate, aching, *forever out of reach*.
And when I’d seen Opal for the first time—watching me from the shadows, dagger in hand, fire in her eyes—I hadn’t just seen a threat.
I’d seen *her*.
Her mother’s defiance. Her mother’s fire. Her mother’s *blood*.
And now, bound to her by magic, I couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t tell her that I’d tried to save the woman I loved. Couldn’t tell her that I’d failed.
Because if she knew—
If she knew I’d loved her mother—
She’d destroy me.
The vial slipped from my fingers, shattering on the stone floor. The drop of blood sizzled, then vanished, absorbed into the cracks.
Just like her.
Just like us.
I turned from the window and strode to the desk, flipping open the file again. I wouldn’t find answers here. Not in lies. Not in shadows.
I needed to see her.
Not as my mate.
Not as the Council’s pawn.
But as *Opal*.
And I wouldn’t wait for her to come to me.
I’d go to her.
The corridors of the Winter Court were silent at this hour, the torches dim, the air thick with the scent of old magic and colder stone. I moved like a shadow, my boots making no sound, my presence bending the light around me. The Fae called it *glamour*. I called it survival.
Her chambers were on the east wing, far from mine, as if distance could weaken the bond. As if walls could stop what magic had already claimed.
I didn’t knock.
I didn’t need to.
The door opened at my touch, the runes flaring faintly as I crossed the threshold.
She was asleep.
Lying on her side, one arm curled beneath her pillow, the other resting on the sigil, as if even in sleep, she guarded it. Her hair spilled across the sheets like dark fire. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breath was slow, even.
Peaceful.
And yet—
The bond pulsed between us, a low, steady thrum. Even in sleep, she was *aware* of me. Even in dreams, she was mine.
I stepped closer, my boots silent on the rug. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, the faint scar just above her brow—old, healed, but still there. A warrior’s mark.
I reached out, my fingers hovering just above her skin. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. But the air between us crackled, charged with the bond, with memory, with *want*.
And then—
Her eyes opened.
Not startled. Not afraid.
*Knowing*.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, voice rough with sleep.
“No,” I agreed. “I shouldn’t.”
She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down to her waist. She was wearing a thin black nightgown, the fabric clinging to her curves, the sigil on her collarbone glowing faintly in the firelight. Her skin was warm, flushed. Her eyes—dark, defiant, *alive*—locked onto mine.
“Come to check on your property?” she asked, voice sharp. “Make sure I haven’t burned down your precious court?”
“I came to see *you*,” I said.
“Liar.”
“Truth.”
She laughed, low and bitter. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“The bond would’ve flared if I’d lied.”
She hesitated. Then, grudgingly, nodded. “Fine. You’re telling the truth. Now tell me *why*.”
I didn’t answer right away. I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, close enough to smell her—storm-scorched earth, wildfire, *her*. My wolf growled, low and possessive.
“I know who you are,” I said.
Her breath stilled.
“I know you’re not Elara Voss. I know you’re not a minor noble. I know you’re Opal of the Ember Circle. Mira’s daughter.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And I know why you’re here.”
“Do you?” She tilted her head. “Then tell me. Why am I here, *Alpha*?”
“To destroy the Council. To burn the Tribunal. To avenge your mother.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “And if I am?”
“Then you’ll fail.”
“Because of you?”
“Because of *us*.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was *sad*. “You think this bond makes me weak? Makes me yours?”
“I think it makes you *dangerous*.”
Her smile faded. “Why?”
“Because you’re not just fighting the Council.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “You’re fighting *me*. And you don’t know what I am.”
“A monster,” she said. “A killer. The man who let my mother die.”
“I tried to save her,” I said, the words raw. “I voted against her execution. I argued for mercy. But Mordrek overruled me. The Council sealed the verdict.”
She stared at me. Long. Hard. And then—
“Liar,” she whispered.
But the bond didn’t flare.
Because I wasn’t lying.
Her breath came faster. Her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. “Why?” she asked. “Why would you try to save her?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too dangerous.
Because if I told her—
If I told her that I’d loved her mother—
She’d destroy me.
And I couldn’t risk that.
Not yet.
Not until I knew what she was capable of.
Not until I knew if she could ever forgive me.
“Because she was innocent,” I said instead. “And because—” I hesitated. “Because she reminded me of someone I failed to protect.”
Her eyes searched mine. Looking for deception. Finding none.
And then—
She looked away.
“Get out,” she said, voice hollow. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
I didn’t move.
“You already have,” I said. “You saved my life. You let me touch you. You *dreamed* of me.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“I felt it,” I said. “In the bond. You dreamed of me. Of my hands on you. My mouth on your neck. Of saying *‘only if you’re mine too.’*”
Her face flushed. Not with anger.
With *shame*.
“You had no right—”
“The bond has no rules,” I said. “It shows us what we hide. And you—you’re hiding *everything*.”
She stood, the sheets falling away. She was barefoot, the nightgown clinging to her thighs, her body tense, *alive*. “I don’t owe you anything,” she said. “Not my trust. Not my secrets. Not my *body*.”
“You already gave them,” I said. “The moment you saved me. The moment you let me mark you. The moment you *wanted* me.”
“I don’t want you,” she spat.
“Liar,” I said.
And then—
I kissed her.
Not gentle. Not slow.
Hard. Possessive. A claiming.
Her lips parted in surprise, and I took it, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting fire and fury and *her*. She didn’t push me away. Didn’t fight. Her hands fisted in my coat, pulling me closer, her body arching into mine.
The bond exploded.
Heat tore through me, white-hot, unstoppable. My hands slid to her waist, lifting her, pressing her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around my hips. Her breath came in ragged gasps. My cock hardened, straining against my trousers, aching to be inside her.
And then—
She burned me.
Fire flared at my neck, searing through the fabric of my shirt. I broke the kiss, hissing, pulling back.
She was breathing hard, her eyes blazing. “I said *get out*.”
I touched the burn—small, precise, *hers*. A warning.
“You’ll pay for that,” I said, voice rough.
“I already have,” she whispered.
I stepped back. Slowly. Reluctantly.
“This isn’t over,” I said.
“It never was,” she said.
I turned and walked to the door.
But just before I left, I paused.
“You’ll wear the gown tomorrow night,” I said. “And you’ll dance with me.”
She didn’t answer.
I didn’t need her to.
Because the bond was still pulsing between us—hot, alive, *unbroken*.
And no matter how much she fought it—
No matter how much she burned me—
She was mine.
And I was hers.
And this war?
It had only just begun.