THYME
The cell is colder than I expected.
Not just in temperature—though the stone floor leeches the heat from my bare feet, and the iron bars hum with a magic that presses against my skin like wet wool—but in *feel*. In silence. The Silver Court above thrums with life: the low growl of voices, the clink of goblets, the distant howl of wolves answering the rising moon. But down here, beneath the Archive, the world is muffled. Dead.
Like a tomb.
Or a prison.
I pace the length of the cell—ten steps forward, turn, ten steps back. My Fae robes have been stripped, replaced with a thin, gray shift that clings to my damp skin. They didn’t search me thoroughly. I still have the sigil-knife hidden in my hair, a slim blade of enchanted silver woven into the braid at my nape. Small comfort. Useless unless I get close enough to draw blood. And Kaelen Dain doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who lets enemies get close.
Not that I’m his enemy.
Not anymore.
Now I’m his *mate*.
The word makes my stomach twist. Not with fear. Not even with disgust.
With heat.
It’s still there—the mark on my collarbone. A dull, pulsing throb beneath the fabric, like a second heartbeat. Every few minutes, it flares, sending a wave of warmth through my chest, down my arms, pooling low in my belly. It’s not pain. Not exactly. It’s… *awareness*. A constant, humming reminder that somewhere above me, *he* is awake. Moving. Breathing. Thinking of me.
Or not.
Maybe he’s already forgotten me. Maybe I’m just another problem locked away until he needs me again.
But the mark doesn’t lie.
It *aches*.
And so do I.
I press my palm to the stone wall, grounding myself. Focus. Breathe. This is what Elara warned me about. *“The bond will test you,”* she’d said, her voice thin in the dream-visions. *“It will make you crave what you hate. It will twist your purpose.”*
But she didn’t tell me how *physical* it would be.
How my skin would feel too tight. How my breath would catch at the memory of his voice, his touch, the way his fangs grazed my pulse like a promise. How my body would *betray* me, arching toward the door every time I hear footsteps, hoping—*dreading*—it’s him.
The door creaks open.
It *is* him.
Kaelen fills the doorway, tall and shadowed, his silver eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. He’s changed—no longer in hunting leathers, but in dark, close-fitting clothes that emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, the power in his stride. No crown. No throne. Just a man. A predator.
And yet, the moment he steps inside, the air *changes*.
Thickens.
Crackles.
The mark on my collarbone *burns*.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low. Not a question.
“Did you expect me to be asleep?” I don’t move from the wall. My back is straight, my chin high. I will not cower. I will not beg. “Or were you hoping I’d be unconscious so this could be easier?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his gaze tracing the line of my throat, the pulse at my neck. I feel it like a touch. A brand.
“The Council wants you executed,” he says finally. “For theft. For treason.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“I know.”
I blink. “You *know*?”
“The footage was faked. Too clean. Too convenient.” He takes a step closer. “Someone wanted you discredited. Framed. *Removed*.”
“And you’re protecting me?” I laugh, sharp and brittle. “How noble. Or is it just the bond? Are you afraid if I die, you’ll die too?”
His eyes flash. “Don’t pretend you understand me.”
“I don’t need to. I know what you are. A tyrant. A killer. The man who let my mother be flayed alive for trying to escape your *precious* Contract.”
For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Not guilt.
Pain.
But it’s gone before I can name it.
“You don’t know what happened to your mother,” he says, voice quieter now. “You weren’t there for all of it.”
“I was there enough.”
“Then you know she broke the terms. She tried to flee. The Contract demanded punishment.”
“The Contract was *slavery*.”
“It was law.”
“Law written in blood.”
He exhales, slow, controlled. “And now you’re here to burn it.”
“Yes.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Especially if it kills me.”
He steps closer. Another foot. Another breath. The heat between us is unbearable. My skin prickles. My breath comes faster. The mark flares again, and this time, a low, aching *pull* radiates from my core, dragging me toward him like a leash.
Bond-heat.
Elara’s warnings flood back. *“When mates are near, the body responds. Heat. Hunger. Need. It’s not emotion. It’s magic. And it will consume you if you let it.”*
I press my hand to the wall, grounding myself. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Or what?” He’s close now. So close I can feel his breath on my face. Smell the pine and iron on his skin. “You’ll fight me? Again? You barely held a knife to my throat for three seconds before I flipped you.”
“Next time, I won’t miss.”
“There won’t be a next time.” His hand lifts, slow, deliberate. Not to strike. Not to grab.
To touch.
His fingers brush the side of my neck, just below the mark. A feather-light stroke.
Fire erupts.
I gasp, stumbling back—but the wall stops me. No escape. His hand follows, pressing flat against my collarbone, right over the mark. Heat floods my body, molten and relentless. My knees weaken. My breath comes in short, desperate pulls.
“See?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Your body knows the truth. Even if your mind refuses it.”
“Get off me.” I shove at his chest, but my hands are weak. Shaking. “This isn’t real. It’s magic. *Trickery*.”
“Is it?” His other hand finds my hip, claws—*actual claws*—digging slightly into the fabric. “Then why does your pulse race? Why does your skin burn? Why does your scent change when I touch you?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. My body is *alight*. Every nerve ending screams. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the heat pooling between them. My nipples tighten against the thin shift. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to *rip* his clothes off and feel him inside me.
And that—*that*—is the worst part.
Not the pain. Not the fear.
The *wanting*.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“And you’re my mate.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “And you’re *dripping* for me.”
I slap him.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the cell like a gunshot. His head snaps to the side. For a heartbeat, he’s still. Then slowly, he turns back.
His eyes are *black*.
No silver. No light. Just darkness. The look of a wolf about to tear out a throat.
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Let him kill me. Let him end this.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he *laughs*.
Low. Dark. A sound that vibrates through my bones.
“You hit like a queen,” he says. “Not a prisoner.”
Then he grabs me.
Not by the wrist. Not by the throat.
He scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I kick, thrash, claw at his arms—but he doesn’t react. Just holds me tighter, my body pressed against his chest, my face inches from his neck.
His scent is overwhelming. Wild. Male. *Mine*.
The mark flares, screaming.
“Put me down!” I snarl.
“No.” He turns, striding toward the door. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“My wing.”
“You can’t—”
“I can.” He pauses at the threshold, looking down at me. “And I will. Every night. Until the bond is sealed. Until you stop fighting it. Until you *beg* for me.”
“Never.”
He smiles. Cold. Certain.
“We’ll see.”
The corridors blur as he carries me—half-shifted, I realize. His canines are longer, his muscles denser, his speed unnatural. Guards step aside without a word. No one challenges him. No one dares.
His private wing is deeper in the palace, guarded by two sentinels who bow as we pass. The door shuts behind us with a heavy *thud*. No locks. No bars. Just silence.
He sets me down gently—too gently—on a wide bed draped in black furs. The room is sparse: a hearth, a wardrobe, a weapons rack. No mirrors. No windows. Just stone and shadow.
“This is your cell now,” he says. “Until the Council’s demands are met. Until the bond is stable.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” He turns to leave. “The heat will make sure of it.”
“You can’t keep me here.”
“I already have.” He pauses at the door. “Sleep, little witch. Dream of me.”
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
I’m alone.
But not free.
The mark still burns.
And my body—my traitorous, *hungry* body—aches for his return.
I curl onto my side, pressing my face into the furs. They smell like him. Like pine. Like power. Like *home*.
No.
Not home.
Prison.
I close my eyes.
And dream.
Of teeth in my neck.
Of hands on my hips.
Of a voice growling, *“You’re mine.”*
And for the first time in ten years—
I don’t dream of revenge.
I dream of *him*.
I wake with a gasp.
The room is dark. The fire low. But the mark—
It’s *glowing*.
And so is the sigil on my thigh.
I push up, trembling, and pull the shift aside. There, beneath my skin, the ancient witch-rune pulses with a soft, silver light. It’s never done this before. Never reacted to anything.
But now—
It’s *alive*.
And it’s pointing toward the door.
Toward *him*.
I press my hand to it, and a whisper slithers into my mind—
He tried to save her.
Elara’s voice.
Or my own guilt.
I don’t know.
All I know is the heat.
The need.
And the terrible, shattering truth—
I don’t hate him.
Not anymore.
And that terrifies me more than any prison ever could.