THYME
The storm hits at midnight.
Not with warning. Not with gradual wind or distant thunder. One moment, the sky above the Northern Packlands is a vault of cold stars, the moon a sliver of silver behind thin clouds. The next—
Lightning splits the sky.
Thunder cracks the earth.
Rain falls like knives, slicing through the air, flooding the courtyards, turning the stone paths to rivers. The wind howls through the spires of the Silver Court, rattling shutters, tearing banners from their poles, howling like a pack of starving wolves.
And I’m running.
Not from danger.
Not from enemies.
From *him*.
From the memory of his lips on mine in the bathing chamber. From the way his voice dropped when he said, *“Tonight, I’ll claim you.”* From the heat that still lingers between my thighs, the ache that pulses in time with the sigil beneath my skin.
I told him I wouldn’t run.
But I lied.
Because I’m not ready.
Not for the bite. Not for the mark. Not for the final surrender of my body, my magic, my *soul*—not when the Contract still chains us, when Mira still watches, when the Council still waits to tear us apart.
So I run.
Through the rain. Through the wind. Through the darkness.
Out of the palace. Into the wilds.
And then—
I see it.
The hunting lodge.
Half-buried in snow and shadow, its roof sagging under the weight of years, its windows boarded, its door hanging crooked on rusted hinges. It’s abandoned—left behind after the last Alpha’s hunt, forgotten by time, hidden by ancient wards that hum faintly beneath the storm.
Perfect.
I push open the door—wood groaning, hinges shrieking—and stumble inside. The air is thick with dust and mildew, the floor littered with broken furniture, the walls scarred with claw marks. But it’s dry. Sheltered. *Safe*.
I shut the door behind me.
And collapse.
Not from exhaustion.
From the bond.
It *screams*.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With *rage*.
A pulse of silver-blue magic rips through me, searing my veins, burning my skin, feeding on the separation, on the fear, on the *lie* I just told. My knees buckle. I press my hands to the wall, gasping, sweat slicking my back, my breath coming in ragged pulls.
“No,” I whisper. “Not now. Not like this.”
But it is.
Bond-sickness.
Again.
And this time—
There’s no Kaelen to pull me back.
No arms to hold me.
No voice to anchor me.
Just the storm. The dark. The silence.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the wind.
Not from the walls.
From *within*.
He’s coming.
My breath hitches.
Because it’s not my voice.
It’s *hers*.
My mother.
“Mother?” I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you—”
Run.
“I *am* running!”
No. The voice is sharp, urgent. You’re hiding. From him. From yourself. From the truth. You love him. You want him. You *need* him. And if you don’t stop running—
“Then what?”
Then you’ll lose him.
The words hit like a blade.
Because she’s right.
I *am* running.
Not from Kaelen.
From *us*.
From the future we could have. From the love that terrifies me more than any enemy. From the truth that I don’t want to destroy him.
I want to *keep* him.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Light floods the room.
And he’s there.
Kaelen.
Drenched. Soaked to the bone. His black leathers clinging to his body, his hair plastered to his skull, his silver eyes blazing in the dark. Rain pours off him, pooling at his feet, his chest heaving, his fangs bared.
He doesn’t speak.
Just strides forward, grabs my arm, and slams me against the wall.
“You ran,” he snarls, his voice rough, raw. “After you said you wouldn’t. After you kissed me. After you *promised*.”
“I didn’t promise anything,” I gasp, though my body betrays me—arching into his touch, my breath hitching, my pulse thundering.
“You promised me *you*.” He presses closer, his body caging mine, his cock hard against my stomach. “And you don’t get to take that back.”
“I wasn’t taking it back,” I whisper. “I was—”
“Running.” He growls the word. “From me. From the bond. From *us*.”
“Because I’m not ready!”
“And you never will be,” he says, voice dropping. “Not if you keep hiding. Not if you keep fighting. Not if you keep pretending you don’t want me.”
“I *don’t*—”
“Liar.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Your scent just turned honeyed. Your breath just hitched. Your body just *arched* into mine. And your sigil—”
His hand slides down, stopping just above my thigh, where the mark burns beneath my soaked shift. “—is *pulsing*. You want me. You *need* me. And you know it.”
My breath catches.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to deny it anymore.
“Then take me,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because you *love* me.”
He stills.
Then—
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard. Desperate. *Furious*.
His mouth crashes against mine, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming me in every way but the bite. His hands are in my hair, holding me still, his body pressing me into the wall, his cock a thick, hard line against my stomach. The bond *screams*, not with magic, but with *truth*, with *need*, with *love*.
And I kiss him back—just as hard, just as desperate, just as *furious*—my hands tangling in his soaked hair, my body arching into his, the ache between my thighs turning to fire.
We’re not enemies.
We’re not pawns.
We’re not even just mates.
We’re *soulmates*.
And then—
He lifts me.
One arm under my thighs, the other around my back, he carries me across the room, his mouth never leaving mine, his body never breaking contact. He sets me down on the only intact piece of furniture—a low wooden table, its surface scarred with claw marks, its legs cracked with age.
And then—
He tears my shift.
Not with magic.
With his *teeth*.
The fabric rips from neck to hem, falling away in tatters, leaving me bare beneath him, the cold air raising goosebumps on my skin, my nipples tight, my breath coming in short, desperate pulls.
“Kaelen—”
“Say it again,” he growls, his lips brushing my neck.
“Say what?”
“My name.”
“Kaelen.”
He shudders. “Again.”
“Kaelen.”
“*Again*.”
“Kaelen—”
And then he’s on me.
His mouth on my breast, his tongue swirling around my nipple, his fangs grazing the peak—just enough to send a shock of pleasure through me, just enough to make me gasp, to arch, to *beg*.
“Gods,” I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Kaelen—”
“Say it,” he growls, lifting his head, his silver eyes blazing. “Say you want me to claim you.”
“I—”
“Say it.”
“I—”
And then—
It happens.
Not from the storm.
Not from the bond.
From *outside*.
A scream.
High. Sharp. *Familiar*.
Mira.
And it’s not just a scream.
It’s a *cry for help*.
We freeze.
His mouth still on my breast. My hands still in his hair. Our bodies still fused in heat and need and *hunger*.
And then—
He pulls back.
Slowly. Reluctantly. His breath ragged, his fangs still bared, his eyes full of something dark and broken.
“She’s faking,” I whisper, though my voice lacks force. “It’s a trap.”
“Maybe.” He exhales, long and slow. “But if she’s not—”
“Then she dies.”
He looks at me. “And if I don’t go—”
“Then we’re no better than the monsters we’re fighting.”
He stills.
Then nods.
And in that moment—
I see it.
Not the Alpha. Not the wolf.
The man.
Who carries the weight of a kingdom.
Who tried to save my mother.
Who loves me.
And who will never stop doing the right thing—even when it costs him everything.
“Go,” I say, my voice soft. “But come back to me.”
He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Always.”
And then he’s gone—vanishing into the storm, the door slamming shut behind him.
And I’m alone.
Again.
But not empty.
Not anymore.
Because I feel him.
The bond hums between us—low, steady, *alive*—a thread of silver in the dark. I press a hand to my chest, where my heart still hammers, where the ache still pulses, where the *need* still burns.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
Not even close.
But for the first time—
I’m not running.
I’m waiting.
For him.
For us.
For the love that terrifies me.
And for the future we could have.
—
The storm rages for hours.
Thunder shakes the walls. Lightning flashes through the cracks in the boards. Rain pours through the broken roof, pooling on the floor, turning the dust to mud. I sit on the edge of the table, my legs drawn up, my arms wrapped around my knees, my shift in tatters around me.
And I wait.
For the scream to come again.
For the door to burst open.
For him to return.
But he doesn’t.
And the silence—
It’s worse than the storm.
Because it gives me time to *think*.
To remember.
The way his lips felt on my skin. The way his hands gripped my hips. The way his voice broke when he said my name. The way his body moved over mine, hard and desperate and *needing*.
I wanted it.
I *craved* it.
And if Mira hadn’t screamed—
I would’ve let him claim me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because I *love* him.
And that—
That terrifies me more than any enemy.
Because if I let him mark me—if I let him seal the bond—then I’m not just his mate.
I’m his *equal*.
And I’ll have to choose.
Between revenge and love.
Between fire and truth.
Between the woman who came to destroy him—
And the woman who wants to *keep* him.
And then—
The door opens.
Not with a crash.
Not with force.
Slowly. Carefully.
And he’s there.
Kaelen.
Drenched. Bloodied. His leathers torn at the shoulder, his face streaked with rain and something darker—*blood*. His chest heaves, his fangs still bared, his eyes searching the room—searching for *me*.
“You’re alive,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just strides forward, grabs my face, and kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard. Desperate. *Furious*.
His mouth crashes against mine, his tongue sweeping inside, his hands tangling in my hair, his body pressing me into the table. The bond *screams*, not with magic, but with *relief*, with *need*, with *love*.
And I kiss him back—just as hard, just as desperate, just as *furious*—my hands gripping his arms, my body arching into his, the ache between my thighs turning to fire.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathless.
“Mira?” I ask.
“Alive,” he growls. “But not for long. She was attacked. A vampire blade. Shallow. But enough to draw blood. To make noise.”
“And you believed her?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” He presses his forehead to mine. “If she’d been telling the truth—”
“Then you’d have saved her.”
He nods. “And if she was lying—”
“Then she played you.”
“Yes.” His voice is rough. “And I let her.”
“Because you’re not a monster,” I whisper. “You’re a man. Who does the right thing—even when it hurts.”
He stills.
Then pulls me into his arms, holding me tight, his face buried in my hair. “I thought I’d lost you,” he murmurs. “When I saw you gone. When the bond screamed. I thought—”
“I’m here,” I say, pressing closer. “I’m not running anymore.”
He lifts his head, his silver eyes searching mine. “Then say it. Say you want me to claim you. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because you *love* me.”
And I do.
Gods help me, I do.
So I say it.
“I love you,” I whisper. “And I want you to claim me. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because I *choose* you. Because I *want* you. Because I can’t breathe without you.”
He stills.
Then—
He lowers his head.
Not to my neck.
Not to my pulse.
To my ear.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I will *never* stop.”
And then—
He bites.
Not hard.
Not to mark.
Just enough to seal the vow.
And as the bond *explodes*, as the heat consumes us, as the world fades to fire and fury and *forever*—
I don’t fight it.
I don’t resist.
I just whisper—
“I still hate you.”
And he laughs—low, dark, *certain*—before pulling me close and answering—
“I know. But you dream of me.”
And I do.
Not of revenge.
Not of fire.
Not of blood.
But of *him*.
And for the first time—
I don’t hate that.
I *want* it.
And as the storm rages outside, as the bond seals, as the night stretches on—
I know—
This isn’t the end.
It’s only the beginning.
Of us.