THYME
The first thing I notice is the scent.
Not the pine, not the damp stone of the Silver Court’s towering arches, not even the faint trace of blood still drying on the cobbles from the execution I just witnessed. It’s him. A raw, animal heat—like fire on frost, like iron left in the rain. It coils through the air, thick and primal, and it’s pulling me toward the throne room like a leash around my throat.
I adjust the silver-threaded sash of my Fae envoy robes, the fabric cool against my skin. My boots click softly against the flagstones as I walk, every step measured, every breath controlled. I’ve spent ten years preparing for this. Ten years of stolen grimoires, of blood rituals in hidden basements, of mastering the forbidden sigils that let me mask my scent, my magic, my very bloodline. I am not Thyme of the Verdant Coven. I am not the hybrid daughter of a murdered witch. I am Lyra of the Hollows, neutral envoy, here to observe the Moonfire Gala and report back to the Fae High Court.
At least, that’s what the forged credentials say.
My real mission is written in fire and vengeance. Burn the Ancient Contract. Break the bond. Destroy the Wolf King.
And yet—
As I step beneath the carved wolf-head archway into the grand hall, my pulse stutters.
He’s there.
Kaelen Dain.
The Wolf King.
He stands at the far end of the hall, still in his hunting leathers, blood dark on his knuckles, his silver eyes scanning the crowd like a predator testing the wind. He’s taller than I expected, broader, his body coiled with the kind of controlled violence that makes the air crackle. His hair is black, streaked with silver at the temples, pulled back from a face carved from ice and shadow. High cheekbones. A blade of a jaw. A mouth that looks like it’s never smiled.
And those eyes—
They find me.
Not scanning. Not passing over. Finding.
Locked.
My breath catches. My fingers curl into my palms. I don’t look away. I can’t. It’s like something inside me has snapped taut, a cord pulled from my chest straight to his.
Then he moves.
One step. Two. The crowd parts like water. No one speaks. No one breathes. He doesn’t need to growl. His presence alone is command.
He stops in front of me.
Too close. His heat rolls over me, searing through the thin fabric of my robes. I smell him now—pine and blood and something deeper, something wild that makes my knees want to buckle. My skin prickles. My throat tightens.
“You’re not Fae,” he says. His voice is low, rough, like stone dragged over bone.
I tilt my chin. “My credentials are in order, Your Majesty.”
“Credentials lie.” His nostrils flare. “You reek of witch.”
My blood goes cold. I’ve masked it. I know I’ve masked it.
“And wolf,” he adds, quieter. “But not ours.”
I don’t react. I don’t blink. “I’m here under diplomatic immunity. If you have concerns, take them up with the Archon.”
He leans in. His breath fans my ear. “I don’t care about your Archon. I care about lies in my court. About spies.”
“Then search me,” I challenge, holding his gaze. “Prove I’m lying.”
For a heartbeat, he just stares. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my wrist.
Fire explodes across my collarbone.
I cry out—sharp, involuntary—as a searing pain rips through my skin. My vision whites out. My knees give. He catches me before I fall, his grip iron, his body pressed against mine.
And then I see it.
A mark.
Flaring to life beneath my robes, glowing with an eerie, silver-blue light. Ancient runes I’ve never seen, spiraling from the base of my throat down toward my shoulder. It pulses with heat, with power, with something that feels like recognition.
Mate-mark.
The word slams into my skull like a hammer.
Impossible. I’m a hybrid. Witches don’t form bonds with wolves. Not like this. Not fated.
But the magic knows. My body knows. The mark burns with a truth I can’t deny.
And Kaelen—
His eyes are wide. Not with rage now. With something darker. Something like horror.
“No,” he breathes. “Not you.”
I yank my arm back, but the mark still glows, still pulses. I press my hand to it, but the heat doesn’t fade. If anything, it spreads—down my chest, along my ribs, a slow, molten crawl.
“What did you do to me?” I hiss.
“I did nothing.” His voice is low, dangerous. “This is blood magic. Ancient. Binding. You’ve been marked.”
“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I’ve never—”
“Then it’s waking now.” He steps closer, caging me against the wall. “Because of me. Because of this.” He grabs my wrist again, and the mark flares brighter, hotter. “We’re bound.”
“No.” I shove at his chest. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this.”
“Doesn’t matter what you want.” His fangs graze my pulse as he leans in, his voice a growl. “The bond doesn’t care. It only knows hunger. And it’s been starved for too long.”
I shiver. Not from fear. From something worse.
Desire.
It coils low in my belly, hot and shameful. My skin is too tight. My breath comes fast. I can feel his heartbeat against my palm, steady, powerful. His scent wraps around me, thick and intoxicating. I want to lean into him. I want to bite back.
I want to hate him.
“You’re a liar,” I spit. “A murderer. I came here to destroy you.”
His eyes flash. “Then you’ve already failed.”
Before I can respond, the doors crash open.
Guards flood in—enforcers, sentinels, their weapons drawn. At their head is Silas Vale, Kaelen’s Beta, calm-faced, observant, his gaze flicking between us.
“Your Majesty,” he says. “The Bloodmoon Relic has been stolen. Security footage shows—”
He stops.
Because the camera is pointed right at me.
And in the frozen frame, I’m standing in the Archive, a silver dagger in one hand, the ancient parchment of the Contract in the other.
Impossible. I haven’t even seen the Archive yet.
But the proof is there. Clear. Undeniable.
“You’re under arrest,” Silas says, stepping forward. “For theft of sacred relics and treason against the Northern Pack.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. His hand is still on my wrist. His thumb brushes the inside of my pulse, slow, deliberate. The mark flares again, sending a wave of heat through me so intense I gasp.
“She’s mine,” he says, voice low, final. “No trial. No council. She stays with me.”
Silas hesitates. “The Council will demand—”
“Let them demand.” Kaelen’s eyes never leave mine. “She’s marked. Bound. Mine by blood and magic. If she dies, I die. If she flees, I follow. And if anyone tries to take her—”
He bares his fangs.
“I’ll rip their throat out.”
The guards step back.
Silas watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “As you command.”
They leave.
The doors close.
And I’m alone with him.
“You framed me,” I whisper.
“No.” He releases my wrist, but the mark still burns. “Someone else did. But I won’t let them use you against me.”
“You’re using me right now.”
“Yes.” He steps back, but his gaze never wavers. “Because the bond is real. And it’s dangerous. And if you think you can walk out of here and finish whatever mission you came for, you’re wrong.”
“I came to burn your legacy to the ground,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I still will.”
He smiles. Not kindly. Not warmly.
Like a predator who’s just caught its prey.
“Then burn me, little witch,” he says. “But know this—every flame you light will only feed the bond. And every time you try to run—”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“I’ll bring you back. Again. And again. Until you stop fighting it.”
“Never,” I breathe.
He pulls back, his silver eyes burning into mine.
“We’ll see.”
And then he turns, striding toward the throne, leaving me standing in the center of the hall, my body on fire, my mission in ruins, and a mark on my skin that whispers one terrible truth—
I belong to him.