The silence after the kiss was worse than the chaos.
Not the stunned hush of the Blood Moon Festival, where every noble, every assassin, every guard had frozen to watch Kaelen claim me with a kiss that tasted like fire and frost and something deeper—something that felt like surrender. No, that silence had been broken quickly. Shouts. Orders. The scrape of steel. Mordrek’s cold voice declaring us traitors. Kaelen’s snarl, frostfire blazing in his palms. The fight that followed—wild, desperate, bloody—had burned through the tension like wildfire.
But now, hours later, as I stood in the war room of the Obsidian Spire, reviewing maps of the Veil Market tunnels with Silas, the silence was different. Heavier. Colder. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of *him*.
Kaelen hadn’t spoken to me since we’d been cleared—after the assassins were dead, the evidence of Mordrek’s frame-up exposed, the High Chancellor forced to retract his accusation. The Council had accepted our story: a rogue faction of Dusk Fae, loyal to the Shadow Pact, had orchestrated the attack to destabilize the Concord. No mention of Opal of the Ember Circle. No mention of vengeance. Just loyalty. Just duty. Just the bonded pair, fighting side by side.
And the kiss?
Conveniently ignored.
Like it hadn’t torn a hole in my chest. Like it hadn’t made me *moan*. Like it hadn’t made me want to drop to my knees and beg him to do it again.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my attention back to the map. “We need eyes in the lower tunnels,” I said, tracing a route with my finger. “If Mordrek’s using them to move his men, we need to intercept before they reach the surface.”
Silas nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’ll send scouts. But you know he’ll expect that.”
“Let him.” I straightened. “I’m not hiding anymore.”
He studied me for a long moment. “You’ve changed.”
“I’ve always been this way.”
“No.” He crossed his arms. “You used to fight like you had nothing to lose. Now you fight like you have something to protect.”
My breath caught.
He didn’t say *him*. Didn’t have to.
Because he was right.
I *did* have something to protect.
Kaelen.
Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because of the way he’d looked at me after the kiss—silver eyes burning, voice rough, asking, *“Then why did you moan?”* Not with mockery. Not with triumph. But with *wonder*.
And because of the way I’d answered—*“That was survival.”* A lie. A terrible, fragile lie. Because we both knew the truth.
It hadn’t been survival.
It had been *wanting*.
“I should go,” I said, stepping back from the map. “I need to—”
“Check on him?” Silas asked, voice dry.
I didn’t answer.
But I didn’t deny it either.
He exhaled, a low, knowing sound. “He’s in his chambers. Healing. The venom’s out, but it left a wound.”
“I know.”
“And the bond?”
“It’s… loud.”
He smirked. “I’ve never seen him flinch at a blade. But you make him hesitate.”
I turned away. “Then he should’ve thought of that before he kissed me.”
“Or after,” Silas said. “He hasn’t stopped thinking about it.”
I didn’t respond. Just left the war room, my boots silent on the stone. The corridors of the Spire were dim, lit only by flickering torches and the cold glow of frost-runes etched into the walls. The air was thick with old magic and colder stone. My sigil pulsed beneath the fabric of my tunic, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat.
It knew I was going to him.
Good.
Let it burn.
I reached his chambers—black oak door, inlaid with frost-runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. I didn’t knock. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was dark. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. Frost clung to the edges of the windows, the air sharp with the scent of pine and iron. And there, by the window, silhouetted against the moonlit snow—Kaelen.
He was shirtless.
His broad back was to me, the hard lines of his shoulders, the ripple of muscle down his spine, the scar tissue marring his skin—old wounds, healed but never forgotten. The wound from the Dusk venom was on his left shoulder, a jagged, still-oozing gash that had resisted even his frostfire’s healing. Blood streaked his skin, dark against the pale of his back.
He didn’t turn.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, rough.
“Neither should you,” I shot back. “You should be in bed. Healing.”
“I don’t need healing.”
“You need someone to clean that wound before it festers.”
He turned then, slowly, his silver eyes locking onto mine. Cold. Assessing. But beneath it—something else. Heat. Awareness. The bond flared between us, a pulse of energy that made my skin prickle.
“You’re jealous,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m *angry*,” I corrected. “Angry that you’re standing here, bleeding, when you should be resting. Angry that you think you have to prove something by being strong all the time.”
“I don’t have to prove anything.”
“Then sit down.”
He didn’t move.
So I did.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, my hands reaching for the wound. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. My fingers brushed the edge of the gash, and he hissed, a sharp intake of breath.
“It’s deep,” I said, voice softer now. “The venom’s out, but the tissue’s damaged. You need stitches.”
“I’ll heal.”
“Not without scarring.”
“I already scar.”
“This one’s different.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “It’s from protecting me.”
He didn’t answer.
But the bond—this cursed, relentless bond—pulsed between us, not with heat, not with need, but with *recognition*. As if it knew. As if it remembered.
My mother’s voice echoed in my mind: *“Burn them all, Opal. Burn them until nothing’s left.”*
But I didn’t want to burn him.
I wanted to *heal* him.
I turned, walking to the washbasin in the corner, dipping a cloth in water, wringing it out. When I turned back, he was still watching me, his expression unreadable.
“Hold still,” I said, stepping behind him.
I pressed the cloth to the wound.
He tensed, his muscles coiling beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away. I cleaned the blood, my fingers gentle, my breath slow. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a low, steady thrum. My body remembered his kiss. Remembered the way his hands had gripped my waist, the way his mouth had moved against mine, the way I’d *moaned*.
And then—
He spoke.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“You’re my mate,” I said, voice steady. “I have to.”
“No.” He turned his head, looking at me over his shoulder. “You *chose* to.”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
I had chosen to come.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because I *wanted* to.
I finished cleaning the wound, stepping back. “You need stitches. I’ll get a healer.”
“No.” He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “I want you to do it.”
My breath hitched.
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
My chest tightened.
He let go, walking to the wardrobe, pulling out a clean shirt. He slipped it on slowly, wincing as the fabric brushed the wound. The shirt was black, fitted, but something about it—
Wait.
That wasn’t his.
It was too fine. Too delicate. The fabric—silver-threaded, embroidered with frost-lilies—was pure Winter Fae nobility. And the scent—
My stomach dropped.
Winter lilies. Poisoned honey.
Nyx.
“Where did you get that shirt?” I asked, voice low.
He paused, buttoning the first few buttons. “It was here. On the bed.”
“It’s hers.”
“It’s clean.”
“It’s hers,” I snapped. “You think I don’t know her scent? You think I don’t know what she is?”
“She’s nothing,” he said, turning to me. “You know that.”
“Then why does her scent 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. 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 his shirt. 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*.