The fear didn’t come from the fight.
Not from the mutiny. Not from Lysander’s silver eyes or the vial of lies he’d poured into the scrying pool. Not even from the shadow wraith in the forest, its void-eyes reflecting the child we hadn’t yet named.
The fear came from silence.
From the way Opal’s breath hitched when she thought I wasn’t listening. From the way her fingers trembled as they brushed the bond mark on her neck. From the way she stared at the horizon, not with vengeance anymore, but with something worse—*doubt*.
And I knew—
I had to tell her.
Not about the truce. Not about Vexis. Not even about the child, though its presence hummed between us like a second heartbeat, steady, warm, *alive*.
I had to tell her about my father.
The fire in our chambers roared low, its flames flickering silver with every pulse of the bond. Moonfire. Not mine. Not hers. *Ours*. It curled along the stone walls, casting long shadows, turning the room into a living tapestry of light and memory. Opal sat on the edge of the bed, her back to me, her fingers pressed to her stomach where the child’s warmth pulsed in slow, steady waves. She wore a simple linen dress, the kind her mother used to wear, the fabric soft against her skin. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in dark waves, catching the firelight like ink spilled across parchment.
She didn’t turn when I entered.
Just kept her gaze on the flames.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice low. “Even for you.”
I didn’t answer right away. Just stepped into the room, my boots silent on the stone, my coat pulled tight against the chill. The wolf was close tonight—too close—but I wasn’t shifting. Not yet. Just pacing beneath my skin, claws pressing against muscle, breath coming in low growls. Not from anger.
From fear.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, stopping a few feet from her.
She turned then, her silver-blue eyes sharp, searching. “About what?”
“About what it means to be Alpha,” I said, my voice rough. “About what it means to lead. To protect.”
She didn’t flinch. Just lifted her chin, that stubborn fire in her gaze. “And?”
I exhaled. Slow. Controlled. My hands clenched at my sides. “My father wasn’t just a tyrant. He was a monster. He ruled the Northern Packs with fear. With fire. With blood.”
Her breath stilled.
She didn’t look away.
Just waited.
“He’d execute dissenters in the courtyard,” I continued, my voice low. “Not with a blade. Not with honor. He’d shift fully and tear them apart in front of their families. He’d make the pups watch. Said it taught them loyalty.”
Opal’s fingers tightened on her stomach.
“And the females?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I didn’t look at her. Just kept my eyes on the fire. “He took them. Not as mates. Not as consorts. As *property*. If one refused, he’d kill her. If one tried to run, he’d hunt her down. Made a sport of it.”
“And you?” she asked. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said, the word like a blade. “I was his son. His heir. I stood beside him. I watched. I *allowed* it.”
She didn’t speak.
Just stared at me, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.
“I thought it was strength,” I said, my voice breaking. “I thought power meant control. Meant fear. Meant silence. So I did the same. After he died. After I took the mantle. I ruled with an iron fist. No mercy. No weakness. I believed that’s what it meant to be Alpha.”
“And now?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Now,” I said, stepping into her, “I know it was weakness. Real strength isn’t in fear. It’s in *choice*. In protection. In love.”
She didn’t move. Just kept her eyes on mine, her breath trembling.
“I was afraid,” I said, my voice rough. “Afraid of becoming him. Afraid of losing control. Afraid of showing mercy and being seen as weak. So I held back. With my pack. With the Council. With *you*.”
“You didn’t hold back,” she said, her voice breaking. “You fought for me. You protected me. You—”
“But I didn’t *trust* you,” I said, stepping closer. “Not at first. I saw you as a threat. As a spy. As the woman who came to kill me. And I used the bond to control you. To keep you close. To make sure you couldn’t escape.”
She didn’t flinch.
Just kept her eyes on mine, her breath steady.
“But then,” I said, my voice low, “you started to break me. Not with magic. Not with fire. With *truth*. With defiance. With that fire in your eyes that refused to die. And I realized—I wasn’t afraid of becoming my father.
I was afraid of *not* becoming him.
Because if I wasn’t him… who was I?”
The room stilled.
The fire dimmed.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not with magic. Not with fire.
With her hand.
Her fingers brushed mine, warm, grounding. The bond flared—a surge of heat that made the ground tremble beneath our feet. My magic rose, not in dominance, not in control, but in *recognition*. As if my power knew what my mind refused to admit.
That I wasn’t just an Alpha.
I was a *man*.
“You’re not him,” she said, her voice soft. “You never were.”
“How do you know?” I asked, my voice rough. “You’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve felt my control. My rage. My need to dominate.”
“And you’ve seen me at *mine*,” she said, stepping into me. “You’ve seen my hatred. My vengeance. My need to destroy. But you didn’t run. You didn’t turn away. You *fought* for me. Even when I tried to push you out. Even when I tried to kill you.”
My breath caught.
“You’re not your father,” she said, her fingers tightening on mine. “You’re *Kael*. And you’re not afraid of becoming him.
You’re afraid of failing *us*.”
I didn’t speak.
Just pulled her into my chest, my arms locking around her, holding her like I was something fragile. Something *hers*.
“I don’t want to fail you,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I don’t want to fail the child. I don’t want to fail the truce. But I don’t know how to lead without fear. Without control.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand to my chest, over my heart. “Then don’t lead with fear,” she said. “Lead with *this*. With what beats here. With what burns between us. With what the child feels when we’re together.”
My breath stilled.
“You don’t have to be him,” she said, lifting her head. “You just have to be *you*. And if that means showing mercy? If that means trusting? If that means loving—”
“Then I’ll do it,” I said, my voice rough. “Even if it breaks me.”
She didn’t smile.
Just kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Real.
No force. No magic. No bond.
Just need.
Her hands found my waist, pulling me closer, her body pressing against mine. The fire roared to life, its flames turning silver, casting long shadows on the walls. The bond flared—not in pain, not in fire—but in harmony. My magic surged, not to dominate, not to control, but to soothe. To heal. To claim.
And when she deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine, her fingers tangling in my hair, I didn’t pull away.
I *arched* into her.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was living.
And I wasn’t alone.
We broke apart, breathless, our foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in the cold air. The child’s warmth pulsed between us, steady, calm, *unbroken*. The fire burned low, its flames still silver, still alive.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, my voice rough. “Not of Vexis. Not of Lysander. Not even of the trial.
I’m scared of losing you.”
She didn’t flinch.
Just reached up and brushed her thumb along the scar on my jaw—the one from the Iron Fangs’ ambush. The one I’d earned protecting her.
“You won’t,” she said, her voice soft. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not for him. Not for the Court. Not for anyone.”
“And if they demand the bond be broken?” I asked. “If they say the child is a threat? If they—”
“Then we fight,” she said, lifting her chin. “Together. We fight for the truth. For the truce. For *us*.”
My breath caught.
She wasn’t just saying it to comfort me.
She meant it.
And that—
That was more dangerous than any lie.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for my pack anymore.
I wasn’t just fighting for the truce.
I was fighting for a life.
And I didn’t know how to come back from that.
“I love you,” I said, the words raw, breaking free like a wound finally opened. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the child. But because you saw me at my worst—and you stayed.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand to my chest, over my heart. “Then prove it,” she said, her voice low. “Not with words. Not with fire. With *choice*.”
“What choice?” I asked.
“To trust me,” she said, stepping back. “To let me fight beside you. Not behind you. Not beneath you. *Beside* you.”
My jaw tightened.
It wasn’t just a request.
It was a test.
And I knew—
If I failed, I’d lose her.
“You want to stand beside me?” I asked, stepping into her. “Even when it’s dangerous? Even when it could cost you everything?”
“I already have,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I’d do it again.”
My breath stilled.
Then—
I reached for her hand.
Not to control.
Not to claim.
To *hold*.
“Then stand,” I said, my voice rough. “Not behind me. Not beneath me. *Beside* me. As my equal. As my match. As my *queen*.”
She didn’t smile.
Just stepped into me, her body a furnace, her breath warm against my neck. “Then lead,” she said. “Not with fear. Not with control. With *truth*.”
And then—
The bond flared.
Not in pain.
Not in fire.
But in need.
It wasn’t the heat cycle. Not the moon’s pull. Not magic.
It was us.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
I just… let go.
My hands found her face, my fingers brushing her jaw, her scars, the rough edge of her stubble. Her breath hitched. Her body stilled. And then—
She kissed me back.
Slow. Soft. Deep.
No force. No magic. No bond.
Just need.
And as the fire burned low, its flames turning silver again, casting long shadows on the walls, I knew—
The game had changed.
Because now, it wasn’t just about power.
It wasn’t just about the bond.
It was about truth.
And I would burn the world to get it.
But as I lay beside Opal, her arms locked around me, her heartbeat syncing with mine—
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the real danger wasn’t out there in the frozen wilds.
It was standing right beside me.
And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill him anymore.
Or keep her.
Opal’s Blood Moon
The Blood Moon rises over the Blackthorn Citadel, its crimson glow painting the stone spires in blood. Inside the Obsidian Chamber, Opal stands disguised in ceremonial robes, her pulse steady, her fingers brushing the hidden dagger at her thigh. She came to kill the Alpha. Not to be bound to him. But when the ritual begins—meant to renew the truce between species—her blood spills onto the altar… and his. The moment their essences mix, the runes ignite. A shockwave throws them together. His mouth crashes against hers—not in passion, but in agony. Their souls twist, fuse, burn. The council screams. The bond is forged. Now, Opal is no longer a spy. She is Kael’s Blood-Marked Consort—a political liability, a magical anomaly, and the only woman who can trigger his primal heat. He wants to control her. She wants to destroy him. But the bond punishes denial: fever, pain, hallucinations. And when the moon swells, their bodies betray them—pressed together in fevered dreams, his teeth grazing her throat, her nails scoring his back, neither knowing if it’s real or magic. A shadow looms—the real mastermind behind her mother’s death still walks free, manipulating both packs and courts. And Kael may be the only one strong enough to protect her… or the final obstacle to her revenge. From the first chapter, Opal’s goal is clear: break the bond, kill the Alpha, reclaim her birthright. But by Chapter 3, she’s forced into a public alliance. By Chapter 8, she’s fighting jealousy, a seductive vampire mistress, and her own body’s betrayal—when a midnight mission ends with her straddling Kael’s lap, breathless, his hand under her shirt, the door slamming shut behind them. Their love will be forged in fire, blood, and the heat of the Blood Moon.