The fever breaks like a storm passing.
One moment, I’m drowning—heat coiling in my veins, the bond screaming in my blood, my body arching into Kaelen’s touch even as I curse it. The next, the fire recedes, leaving me weak, trembling, drenched in sweat and shame. I wake in his bed, tangled in wolf-gray furs, my shirt gone, my skin still humming from his hands. He’s beside me, fully clothed, one arm draped loosely around my waist, his breath slow and even against my neck.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. Just lie there, heart pounding, mind racing. I called him. I let him strip me. I let him touch me—*almost* touch me—and I didn’t stop him. Worse, I *wanted* him to keep going. The memory of his thumb brushing the underside of my breast sends a fresh wave of heat through me, low and insistent. I hate that. I hate *this*.
I came here to burn the Thorn Codex.
I did not come here to burn for the wolf who killed my uncle.
He stirs. Opens his eyes. Golden. Alert. No trace of sleep. He’s been awake. Watching me.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough with sleep and something darker.
“And you’re still here,” I say, pulling away. My voice is steadier than I feel. “Despite my charming hospitality, I don’t expect you to linger.”
He sits up slowly, muscles shifting beneath his shirt like something alive. “You were burning up. Hallucinating. I wasn’t going to leave you to collapse in some black-market club.”
“I didn’t ask you to save me.”
“You didn’t have to.” He stands, towers over me. “The bond did.”
My stomach tightens.
Not from anger.
From the unbearable truth in his words. The bond doesn’t care about pride. Doesn’t care about vengeance. It only knows hunger. And last night, I fed it.
“It won’t happen again,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed. My body aches—weak from the fever, sore from tension. “I’ll manage the bond. I’ll find another way.”
“There is no other way,” he says. “Not yet. The fever will return. Stronger. And next time, I might not get there in time.”
“Then I’ll die,” I say, standing. “Better than becoming your obedient little mate.”
He steps closer. “You’re not my mate. You’re my responsibility. And I don’t let my responsibilities die.”
“How noble of you.” I grab my shirt from the floor, pull it on. The fabric is cool against my overheated skin. “But I’m not yours to protect. I’m not yours to *claim*. And I certainly don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he says, voice low. “It’s duty.”
“Duty,” I repeat, turning to face him. “You keep saying that. But duty didn’t bring you to the Hollow Veil. Duty didn’t make you strip me. Duty didn’t make you hold me all night while I burned.” I step closer. “So don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I wanted this? You think I asked for a mate who hates me? Who wants to burn the world I’ve bled to protect?”
“And yet, here we are,” I say. “Bound by magic I didn’t choose. Trapped in a game I didn’t start. And you want me to *wait*? To *obey*? To play the good little mate while Malrik sells our bloodlines to the highest bidder?”
“I want you to *live*,” he snaps. “Is that so hard to believe?”
The bond flares—heat surging between us, sudden and fierce. My breath hitches. His pupils dilate. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You don’t get to tell me what I am,” I say, stepping back. “You don’t get to walk into my world and demand I tear it down.”
“I didn’t walk into your world,” he says. “You walked into mine. Lying. Stealing. Planning to destroy everything I’ve sworn to uphold.”
“And yet you’re still helping me,” I say, voice dropping. “You saw the ledger. You know Malrik’s selling the Codex. You know Selene’s helping him. So why are you still protecting this?” I gesture to the room, to the Spire, to the lie we’re both pretending is order. “Why are you still protecting *him*?”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “Because chaos is worse. You want justice? Fine. But you don’t get to burn the world to get it.”
“Then help me stop him,” I say. “Help me take it apart piece by piece. Help me expose him. You have the power. You have the access. You’re not just an enforcer—you’re an Alpha. *Lead*.”
“I *am* leading,” he says. “By keeping you from doing something stupid.”
“You’re not leading,” I say. “You’re *controlling*.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, golden eyes blazing.
The bond hums between us—no longer a war drum. A heartbeat. Ours.
And I hate that I can feel it.
“I’m leaving,” I say, turning toward the door.
“Where?”
“To do what I came here to do.” I don’t look back. “Without your permission.”
—
His chambers are deeper in the Spire than I realized—high above the city, accessible only by a private lift carved into the stone. The corridors are narrower here, lined with ancient wards that pulse faintly with containment magic. The air is cooler, quieter, scented with sandalwood and old blood. This is where the Alpha sleeps. Where he plans. Where he keeps his secrets.
I shouldn’t be here.
And yet, I am.
Because I need answers. About Malrik. About the Codex. About *him*. About the way his hands felt on my skin last night. About the way my body answered his, even as I cursed it.
I move silently, boots soundless on the stone. My fingers brush the wall—witch’s touch, subtle, searching. Sigils hum beneath my skin, reacting to my presence. Protection wards. Blood locks. Fae enchantments woven with wolf saliva. This place is a fortress. And I’m a thief in its heart.
Then I hear it.
Laughter.
Soft. Silken. Familiar.
Lady Selene.
My pulse spikes. Not from fear. From fury.
I follow the sound—down a side corridor, past a tapestry of wolves entwined under the full moon, to a heavy oak door etched with silver thorns. The same sigils as the ritual chamber. But this door is ajar. Light spills into the hall. And from within—
Her voice. “You always did prefer the dark, Kaelen. But I think you’d look *divine* in the light.”
My breath catches.
No.
Not possible.
Not *here*.
I push the door open.
The room is smaller than his main chambers—circular, lit by a single chandelier of frozen moonlight. A low bed dominates the center, draped in black silk and silver-threaded linen. And on it—
Selene.
She’s lounging against the pillows, one leg bent, the other stretched out, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. She’s wearing *his* ceremonial shirt—black leather, silver clasps, the Duskbane crest emblazoned over the heart. It’s unbuttoned. Just enough to reveal the curve of her breast, the pale skin beneath. Her lips are painted blood-red. Her eyes gleam with triumph as she looks at me.
And beside her—
Nothing.
The other side of the bed is empty. No Kaelen. No sign of him.
But his scent is everywhere.
Pine. Smoke. Heat.
And hers—fae wine, decay, something cloying, sweet, *wrong*.
“Rosalind,” she purrs, not moving. “How… *unexpected*.”
I step inside. Close the door behind me. My hands clench at my sides. My breath comes fast. The mark on my arm throbs—thorns in blood, alive with rage.
“Where is he?” I ask, voice low.
“Gone,” she says, stretching like a cat. “Called to the lower wards. Some emergency with the vampire contingent.” She smiles. “But he left me with a… *parting gift*.”
She lifts a silver goblet from the bedside table. Takes a slow sip. Fae wine. The kind that induces euphoria. Memory loss. Lies.
“You’re lying,” I say. “He wouldn’t leave you here. Not in his chambers. Not wearing his shirt.”
“Wouldn’t he?” She sets the goblet down. Slides a hand down her thigh. “He’s an Alpha. He has needs. And I’ve always been so… *accommodating*.”
My stomach twists.
“You’re nothing to him,” I say. “A political ally. A tool. That’s all.”
“Is that what he told you?” She laughs, soft and cruel. “How sweet. He always did prefer the truth wrapped in pretty lies.” She leans forward. “But we both know the truth, don’t we? The bond doesn’t lie. And it didn’t choose *me*. It chose *you*. The half-breed. The outcast. The witch who wants to burn his world.” She tilts her head. “So why do you think he keeps me close? Why do you think he lets me wear his shirt? His scent? His *bed*?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the doubt is already there—sharp, sudden, like a blade between my ribs.
“He liked it when I screamed his name,” she whispers. “Loud. Desperate. *Mine*.”
“Liar,” I hiss.
“Am I?” She stands. Slow. Deliberate. The shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin. “Ask him. Go on. Ask him if he’s ever taken me. If he’s ever let me mark him. If he’s ever let me *in*.”
I step forward. Fast. Grab her wrist. Yank her close. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to touch what’s not yours.”
She smiles. Unafraid. “And what is yours, Rosalind? The bond? The mark? Or the man?” She leans in, breath hot on my ear. “Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like you’re a fire he can’t control. Like you’re the one thing he’s afraid of.” She pulls back. “But fear isn’t love. And possession isn’t loyalty.”
I slap her.
Hard. Across the face. The sound cracks through the room like a whip.
She doesn’t flinch. Just touches her cheek. Smiles. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she says. “You want to hate him. Want to burn him. But you *want* him too. And that terrifies you.”
The door slams open.
Kaelen fills the doorway—tall, broad, radiating fury like heat from a forge. His golden eyes lock onto me. On Selene. On my hand still gripping her wrist.
“What the *hell* is going on?” he growls.
I let go. Step back.
Selene touches her cheek again. “Your mate has a temper, Alpha. I was just… welcoming her to the family.”
“Get out,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
She doesn’t move. “I was under the impression I was invited.”
“You were *tolerated*,” he snaps. “Not welcomed. Not *wanted*. Now get out. Or I’ll throw you out myself.”
For a second, I think she’ll argue. Challenge him. But then she smiles—sweet, false—and steps past me. Pauses at the door.
“You should be careful, Rosalind,” she says, not turning. “Men like him don’t change. They don’t *love*. They only take.”
The door closes behind her.
Silence.
Then—
He grabs my wrist. Not rough. Not gentle. Firm. Unyielding. The bond flares—heat surging between us, sudden and fierce. My breath hitches. His pupils dilate. His scent floods my senses—pine, smoke, *him*.
“You had no right to be here,” he says.
“You had no right to let her wear your shirt,” I snap.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is,” I say, yanking my wrist. He doesn’t let go. “Tell me why she was in your bed. Why she was wearing your scent. Why she thinks she has a claim on you.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because she’s a *spy*,” he says. “Malrik’s. I’ve been feeding her lies to protect the real investigation. She thinks she’s manipulating me. She doesn’t know *I’m* manipulating *her*.”
My breath catches.
“You’re using her?”
“I’m using *everyone*,” he says. “Including you. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
I stare at him. Trying to read his eyes. His scent. The truth in his words.
And then I see it—the flicker. The hesitation. The way his jaw tightens just slightly.
He’s not telling me everything.
“You let her wear your shirt,” I say. “You let her into your chambers. Into your *bed*.”
“It was part of the act,” he says. “She needed to believe she had power over me. Needed to believe she could get close.”
“And did she?” I whisper. “Did she get close?”
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t deny it.
The bond flares—heat surging, pulling us together. My skin burns. His hand tightens on my wrist. His other hand lifts, hovers near my face, like he wants to touch me. To claim me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “You’re not leaving my side.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
But it’s not because I have to.
It’s because I want to.
And because I’m afraid—of him, of her, of the truth.
“Did you enjoy her, Alpha?” I ask, voice trembling. “Or did she beg like I will?”