OPAL

The peace didn’t last.

It never does.

Not in this world. Not in any world built on blood and oaths and old, rotting laws. The Hybrid Rights Vote had passed. My speech had been heard. Kael had knelt, not in submission, but in surrender—to love, to truth, to *us*. The bond had been renewed under the full moon, not by force, but by choice. And yet—

The silence was wrong.

Too clean. Too still. Like the air before a storm, thick with the promise of lightning. I felt it in the bond—a low, insistent hum beneath my skin, not of pain, not of denial, but of *warning*. The child’s warmth pulsed in slow, steady waves against my palm, but even that felt… guarded. As if it, too, was waiting.

“You’re tense,” Kael murmured, his voice rough against the shell of my ear. We stood on the balcony of our chambers, the night wind tearing at our coats, the stars burning cold above. Below, the Citadel slept—or pretended to. Torches flickered in the courtyards, their crimson sigils pulsing like slow, watchful hearts. The Northern Pack guards moved in silent rotation, their eyes sharp, their fangs bared just enough to be seen.

“So are you,” I said, not looking at him. My fingers brushed the hilt of the moonfire dagger at my thigh—the one Lysander had stolen, the one I’d reclaimed. The one I hadn’t slept without since the Blood Moon Festival. “You’ve been scanning the perimeter every hour. You didn’t eat at dinner. You haven’t let me out of your sight since last night.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped into me, his body a furnace, his breath warm against my neck. “Lyra’s still out there.”

“I know.”

“And she’s not done.”

“Neither are we.”

He turned me then, his golden eyes burning in the dim light. “You think she’ll come for me?”

“No,” I said, pressing my hand to his chest, over his heart. “She’ll come for what you love.”

His breath caught.

And then—

The child flared.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Its warmth surged, rising like a tide, syncing with the bond, with the crown, with *me*. My magic erupted—not in defense, not in attack—

But in truth.

I stepped forward.

Not to the edge of the balcony.

To the *memory*.

“She’s not just after power,” I said, my voice clear. “She’s after *you*. But not your body. Not your throne. She wants to prove she matters. That she’s more than a discarded lover. More than a pawn in Vexis’s game. She wants to hurt you the way she was hurt.”

Kael didn’t flinch. Just pulled me closer, his arms locking around me, holding me like I was something fragile. Something his. “And how does she do that?”

“By taking what you can’t live without,” I said, my voice breaking. “And right now, that’s not me.”

His grip tightened. “Don’t say it.”

“She’ll come for the nursery,” I said. “She’ll come for the child.”

He didn’t speak.

Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his heartbeat syncing with mine. The bond flared—a surge of heat that made the ground tremble beneath our feet. My magic rose, not in fire, not in light, but in *recognition*. As if my power knew what my mind refused to admit.

That I wasn’t just a witch.

I wasn’t just a queen.

I was his.

And he was mine.

“Then we protect it,” he said, his voice low. “Together.”

“Not just protect,” I said, stepping back. “We *prepare*. We set the trap. We make sure she walks right into it.”

He studied me—his golden eyes sharp, his wolf close, his love deeper than any magic. “You’re not afraid.”

“I’m terrified,” I said, lifting my chin. “But I’m not helpless. And I’m not letting her near my child.”

He didn’t smile.

Just kissed me—slow, deep, his hands tangling in my hair, his body pressing against mine. 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 I deepened the kiss, my tongue sliding against his, my fingers gripping his shoulders, he didn’t pull away.

I arched into him.

Because for the first time in my life—

I wasn’t just surviving.

I was living.

And I wasn’t alone.

We didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, we moved through the torch-lit corridors, the bond humming between us, the silence heavier than any words. My hand stayed low on my belly, my fingers pressed to that quiet warmth, that golden pulse. Kael walked beside me, his presence a wall, his silence heavier than any vow. We didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just stayed. Watched. Waited.

And then—

We reached the nursery.

Not the one in the family wing—too obvious, too vulnerable. This was a hidden chamber, deep beneath the Citadel, warded by moonfire sigils, protected by Northern runes, sealed with a blood-oath lock only Kael and I could open. The walls were lined with enchanted glass, their surfaces shifting like liquid silver, reflecting not the room, but the sky above. The floor was warm obsidian, etched with lunar patterns that pulsed in time with the child’s heartbeat. At the center—a cradle of living willow, woven with strands of moonlight, its roots deep in the soil of something older than time.

“It’s ready,” I said, pressing my hand to the glass. The sigils flared, not in warning, but in recognition. “The wards are set. The runes are active. The blood-oath is unbroken.”

Kael stepped beside me, his hand splayed on the glass opposite mine. The bond flared—a deeper pulse, richer, stronger. “And if she breaks through?”

“Then we’re ready,” I said, turning to him. “You’ll feel it the moment she crosses the threshold. I’ll feel it when she touches the wards. And the child—”

“Will know,” he finished. “Before any of us.”

I nodded.

“And when she comes,” I said, my voice low, “we don’t stop her.”

He didn’t flinch. “We let her in.”

“We let her *think* she’s won.”

“And then,” he said, stepping into me, “we take it all back.”

I didn’t answer.

Just reached up and brushed my thumb along the scar on his jaw—the one from the Iron Fangs’ ambush. The one he’d earned protecting me.

And then—

I kissed him.

Not in magic.

Not in fire.

Not in desperation.

But in truth.

Slow. Soft. Deep.

No force. No dominance. No bond.

Just need.

We didn’t return to our chambers.

Not yet.

Instead, we took shifts—Kael in the northern watchtower, me in the southern, our bond a live wire between us, our senses stretched thin. Hours passed. The moon shifted. The torches burned low. And then—

It happened.

Not with a scream.

Not with a blast.

With a *flicker*.

The bond flared—not in pain, not in fire—but in *warning*. I was on my feet before the thought formed, my dagger in hand, my magic rising like a tide. Kael was already moving, his boots silent on the stone, his golden eyes burning with the wolf.

“She’s here,” I said, not to him, but to the bond.

And then—

We ran.

Down the winding corridors, past silent guards, past flickering torches. The air thickened as we neared the nursery—ozone and iron, old magic and older grudges. The sigils on the walls pulsed crimson, not with power, but with *breach*. One ward down. Two. Three.

“She’s fast,” Kael growled, his voice guttural. “Faster than I thought.”

“She’s not alone,” I said, my breath ragged. “She’s using something. Blood magic. Vampire alchemy. I can taste it—bitter, like rot.”

We reached the chamber doors—carved from blackthorn, etched with lunar sigils. They were cracked. Splintered. The blood-oath lock was broken, its surface blackened, its edges smoking.

“Too late,” Kael said, his voice raw.

“No,” I said, pressing my hand to the door. “Not too late. She’s still inside.”

And then—

We stepped in.

The nursery was in ruins.

The enchanted glass shattered. The obsidian floor cracked. The lunar runes—smudged, broken, their silver light flickering like dying embers. And in the center—

Lyra.

She stood over the cradle, her back to us, her cloak of twilight flaring behind her. One hand gripped the willow branches, the other held a vial—small, glass, filled with something dark and pulsing. Etched into the glass—the sigil of the Unseelie.

And in the cradle—

Empty.

My breath stopped.

“Where is it?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Where is the child?”

Lyra turned slowly, her violet eyes glowing with ancient hunger. Her smile—too wide, too sharp, too knowing.

“It’s safe,” she purred. “For now.”

Kael stepped forward, his fangs bared, his body coiled to strike. “Give it back.”

“Or what?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’ll kill me? You’ll banish me? You’ve tried before. It didn’t work.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said, stepping beside Kael. My dagger was in my hand, my magic rising, but I didn’t attack. Not yet. “You don’t have to be Vexis’s weapon. You don’t have to be his pawn.”

“And what if I *want* to be?” she asked, her voice soft. “What if I *want* to burn the truce? What if I *want* to see you break?”

“Then you’ll die,” Kael said, his voice low. “And you’ll die alone.”

She laughed—a low, velvet sound that curled through the room like smoke. “I’ve been alone my whole life. What’s one more death?”

And then—

She uncorked the vial.

The dark liquid poured into the cradle.

And the willow branches *twisted*.

Not in growth.

In *agony*.

The cradle shrieked—a sound not of wood, but of something alive, something *screaming*. The silver light turned black. The roots writhed like serpents. And then—

It *moved*.

The cradle rose from the floor, floating, its branches curling like claws, its roots lashing like whips. And in its center—

A shape.

Not a child.

Not a body.

A *void*.

Dark. Hungry. Waiting.

“You see?” Lyra said, her voice triumphant. “I don’t need your child. I don’t need your love. I have something better. I have *power*.”

My breath came in ragged gasps.

She wasn’t just attacking us.

She was *corrupting* the cradle. Using the vial—Vexis’s blood, his magic—to twist the sacred vessel, to turn it into a weapon.

And then—

The child flared.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Wrath.

Its warmth surged, rising like a storm, syncing with the bond, with the crown, with *me*. My magic erupted—not in defense, not in attack—

But in truth.

I stepped forward.

Not to Lyra.

To the *memory*.

“You think you’re strong,” I said, my voice clear. “You think you can take what’s mine. But you forget—this cradle wasn’t made for you. It was made for *her*. For *us*. And it knows the difference.”

I raised my hands.

And then—

Moonfire erupted from my palms.

Not in a wave.

Not in a blast.

In a pulse.

It didn’t burn the cradle.

It revealed it.

For a single, blinding second, the entire chamber was flooded with silver light—and in that light, I saw it.

The truth.

Not just in the bond.

Not just in the magic.

But in us.

Kael’s scars. His fears. His love.

And mine.

The hatred. The vengeance. The grief.

All of it—laid bare.

And then—

The cradle *screamed*.

Not in pain.

Not in fire.

In *recognition*.

The void shattered. The black light turned silver. The roots stilled. The branches uncurled. And in the center—

Peace.

Lyra screamed—not in triumph, but in rage. She lunged for the vial, but it was too late. The moonfire had consumed it, not with fire, but with *truth*.

“No!” she shrieked. “You don’t get to win! You don’t get to have it all!”

Kael moved then—fast, brutal, no magic, no fire—just raw, physical dominance. He spun her, his arm locking around her waist, pulling her close, his body a furnace against her back. She didn’t resist. Just laughed—a broken, hollow sound.

“You think this is over?” she whispered. “You think I’m the only one?”

“You’re done,” I said, stepping forward. My dagger was at her throat, my magic rising. “No more games. No more lies. No more threats.”

She didn’t flinch. Just looked at me—her violet eyes burning. “You’ll never be safe. Not while he lives. Not while the void remains. Not while the blood moon rises.”

“Then I’ll burn it all down,” I said, pressing the blade harder. “Before I let you near my child.”

And then—

She smiled.

Not in victory.

Not in defiance.

In *pity*.

“You already have,” she said. “And you don’t even know it.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I raised the dagger.

And then—

Kael’s hand closed over mine.

“No,” he said, his voice rough. “Not like this.”

I turned to him. “She’ll come back. She’ll try again.”

“Let her,” he said, stepping into me. “We’ll be ready. But we don’t kill her. Not like this. Not in vengeance.”

My breath trembled.

And then—

I lowered the blade.

“Then what?” I asked.

“We imprison her,” he said. “In the Void Cells. With no magic. No contact. No hope.”

I nodded.

“And the cradle?” I asked.

He looked at it—its branches now still, its roots deep in the soil, its silver light breathing in time with the bond.

“It’s safe,” he said. “Because *you* are.”

I didn’t answer.

Just pressed my hand to my stomach, where the child’s warmth pulsed—steady, calm, *unbroken*. The bond hummed beneath my skin, not as a curse.

But as a promise.

And then—

The door opened.

Silas stepped inside, his coat pulled tight, his golden eyes scanning the room. He didn’t look surprised. Just walked to us, his boots silent on the stone, his presence a wall of heat and silence.

“You felt it,” I said, not looking at him.

“I always do,” he said, stepping into me. His hand found mine, warm, calloused, grounding. “He’s getting stronger.”

“But I’m stronger,” I said, lifting my chin. “And I’m not afraid anymore.”

He didn’t smile. Just pulled me into his chest, his arms locking around me, holding me like I was something fragile. Something his. My breath trembled. My heart broke. My fingers found the buttons of his coat, undoing them one by one. His skin was warm beneath my touch, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. He didn’t stop me. Just watched me, his gold eyes burning, his hands gripping my hips like I was something sacred. Something ours.

“Say it,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Say you want this. Say you want us.”

“I want you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I want this. I want everything.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He kissed me slow, deep, his hands tangling in my hair, his body pressing against mine. The bond flared—a surge of heat that made the ground tremble beneath our feet. My magic erupted, not in fire, not in light, but in pulse. Silver energy curls from my skin, not burning, not scorching—but revealing.

For a single, blinding second, the entire room was flooded with silver light—and in that light, I saw it.

The truth.

Not just in the bond.

Not just in the magic.

But in us.

His scars. His fears. His love.

And mine.

The hatred. The vengeance. The grief.

All of it—laid bare.

And then—

The light faded.

The room stilled.

And he was above me, his body a furnace, his eyes gold and burning. “Then let it burn,” he whispered. “Let it break. Let it remake us.”

“And if it destroys us?” I whispered.

“Then we’ll burn together,” he said, stepping closer. “But I won’t live in the dark.”

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 his face, my fingers brushing his jaw, his scars, the rough edge of his stubble. His breath hitched. His body stilled. And then—

He 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 revenge.

It wasn’t just about the bond.

It was about truth.

And I would burn the world to get her back.

But as I lay beside Kael, his arms locked around me, his 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 him.

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 her 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.