The moment she runs, the world cracks open.
One second, I’m standing in the throne room, my hand still warm from the pulse beneath Rowan’s wrist, the scent of her—storm and iron and something wilder, something hers—burning in my lungs. The next, the chamber erupts.
“Fated bond confirmed!” bellows Thorne, the Frostfang representative, rising from his seat with a snarl. His golden eyes blaze, fangs bared. “The Accord demands action!”
“It’s impossible,” snaps Lady Elira of the Seelie Court, her voice like frozen silk. “She’s a half-breed. An Omega. No true mate-mark could flare for such—filth.”
My growl cuts through the chamber like a blade. Low. Dangerous. Final.
Every head turns. Every predator holds their breath.
I don’t look at them. I keep my gaze locked on the archway where Rowan disappeared, my body coiled, every muscle screaming to follow. But I can’t. Not yet. The Council will smell weakness. And right now, weakness is a death sentence—for her.
“The bond flared,” I say, voice raw, each word scraped from the bone. “It doesn’t lie.”
“It can be faked,” says Malrik of the Unseelie, leaning forward with a serpent’s smile. His eyes—black as oil—flick to the side archway. “A clever witch’s trick. A stolen sigil. Or perhaps,” he purrs, “a political ploy. The Blackthorn Alpha, bound to a half-breed infiltrator? How… convenient.”
My lip curls. I know that game. He’s testing me. Probing for cracks. But he doesn’t know what I just saw in her eyes—what I felt in the bond. That wasn’t magic. That wasn’t deception.
That was her.
Rowan.
Alive.
After ten years of silence, ten years of searching, of guilt eating me alive—she’s here. And the bond between us, the cursed vow I made to save her family, has twisted into something else. Something the Council can’t ignore. Something ancient.
“The mark is real,” I growl. “And it will be proven.”
“By the Accord,” intones the Vampiric Consul, a gaunt figure draped in crimson silk, “when a fated bond is detected between two supernaturals of opposing bloodlines, a trial must be held.”
My stomach drops.
“Seven days,” he continues. “To prove compatibility. To consummate the claim. To present undeniable evidence of the mate-mark’s authenticity.”
“Or?” I demand, though I already know the answer.
“Or war erupts,” says the Fae High Judge, her voice echoing with the weight of centuries. “The Accord collapses. Wolves turn on witches. Vampires take sides. The fragile peace we’ve built since the Last War will burn.”
And it will be my fault.
Because if I don’t bind to her—if I don’t claim her—the bond will fester. It will drive me feral. And when an Alpha loses control, his pack follows.
But if I do bind to her…
Rowan will never survive it. Not after what I did.
She thinks I betrayed her. That I broke the vow. That I let her family die.
She doesn’t know the truth.
She doesn’t know I’ve spent every night since praying to whatever gods listen that she was still alive. That I sent scouts into every shadow, every ruin, searching for a trace of her. That I’ve kept her scent—faint, faded, but there—on a scrap of cloth in my chest, like a penance.
And now she’s here. Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.
As my mate.
The irony is a blade in my gut.
“The trial begins now,” declares the High Judge. “She will be brought before us. You will stand together. And the world will watch.”
“She ran,” I say, jaw clenched. “She won’t come willingly.”
“Then you will retrieve her,” Malrik says, smiling. “Or we will send the Blood Hounds. And trust me, Alpha—you don’t want them near your… mate.”
I bare my fangs. “Touch her, and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
He laughs. Soft. Cold. “Promises, promises.”
I don’t wait for permission. I turn and stride from the chamber, my boots echoing like war drums. The guards part before me. No one dares stop me.
But inside, I’m unraveling.
The bond is a live wire in my chest, thrumming with every beat of my heart. It’s not just pulling me to her—it’s burning. A deep, primal need, ancient and unrelenting. Bond fever. It starts slow—restlessness, heightened senses, a constant awareness of her proximity. But if denied? It becomes agony. Madness. I’ve seen Alphas tear their own packs apart, driven feral by the denial of their mate.
And Rowan… she’s not just my mate.
She’s the woman I failed.
I find her in the Blood Archive—a narrow, vaulted corridor lined with ancient tomes and sealed scrolls. The air is thick with the scent of ink and old magic. She’s standing before a restricted vault, her back to me, one hand pressed to the stone. Her breath is fast, her shoulders tense.
She’s trying to break in.
Of course she is.
I should’ve known. Rowan never was one to wait. Even as a girl, she was fire and fury, all sharp edges and reckless courage. The night I took her vow, she didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She looked me in the eye and said, “If you break your word, I’ll make you regret it.”
And now she’s here to collect.
I step forward, my boots silent on the stone. “Looking for something?”
She whirls, eyes wide—storm-gray, just like I remember. Her hand flies to her corset, where I know she keeps a blade. But she doesn’t draw it. Not yet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, voice cool. “I’m just exploring the archives. Part of my diplomatic duties.”
“Raine Vale,” I say, testing the name. It tastes like ash. “Daughter of a minor witch diplomat. No known affiliations. No record of combat training.”
Her jaw tightens. “And?”
“And you move like a soldier. You smell like the Thornwood after a storm. And your magic—sealed, but not gone. I can feel it. Like lightning in a bottle.”
Her breath hitches. Just slightly. But I hear it. I feel it—through the bond. A tiny spark, a flicker of fear, quickly smothered.
“You’re imagining things,” she says. “Or maybe your bond fever’s making you paranoid.”
My lip curls. So she knows about it. Good. Means she’s done her research. But she doesn’t know the half of it.
“The Council has declared us fated mates,” I say, stepping closer. “Seven-day trial. Prove the bond is real, or war begins.”
Her eyes narrow. “And if I refuse?”
“Then your people burn.”
She flinches. Just once. But it’s enough.
I see it in her—the flicker of doubt. She came here to kill me, yes. To break the vow, to take her revenge. But she didn’t come alone. She has allies. Silas, her so-called uncle. The witches of the Circle of Thorns. And if the Accord collapses, they’ll be the first to pay.
She knows it.
“You’re bluffing,” she whispers.
“Am I?” I step closer, until I can feel the heat of her body. Her breath stutters. Her pulse jumps in her throat. The bond hums between us, a living thing, pulling us together. “The Council’s already mobilizing. By dawn, the Blood Markets will be flooded with rumors. By noon, the packs will be restless. And by nightfall—”
“Stop.”
Her voice is sharp. Broken.
I do. Because I see it—her hands trembling. Not from fear. From need. The bond is affecting her too. Not as strong as it is for me—she’s not a full wolf—but it’s there. A low, insistent thrum beneath her skin.
“Why?” she asks, voice raw. “Why now? Why me?”
I want to tell her. I want to say, I never stopped looking for you. I didn’t know they’d kill them. I’ve been dead inside since the day you vanished.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Because if she knows the truth—if she knows I’ve been searching for her, that I’ve carried her memory like a wound—she’ll use it. She’ll twist it into a weapon.
And I can’t afford to be weak.
Not now.
So I do the only thing I can.
I reach out.
My fingers brush her wrist—the scar where I took her vow. Where the bond began.
She gasps.
Heat explodes between us. A jolt, sharp and electric, like lightning through the blood. Her pupils dilate. Her breath comes fast. Her body sways toward me, just slightly—drawn by the bond, by instinct, by something deeper.
I feel it too. The pull. The fire. The hunger.
But I don’t touch her more. I don’t close the distance. I just hold her wrist, feel the frantic beat of her pulse, and say, “You don’t have a choice, Rowan.”
Her name. I say it like a vow. Like a promise. Like a curse.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” I ask, voice low. “It’s your name. The one I whispered every night when I thought you were dead.”
She pulls her wrist away, hard. “I’d rather die than bind to you.”
And there it is.
The truth. The hate. The fire that’s kept her alive all these years.
I should let her go. I should walk away. Let her run, let her plot, let her try to kill me again.
But I can’t.
Because if she dies, the bond will destroy me. And if the bond destroys me, my pack falls. And if my pack falls, the Accord collapses.
And because—
Because I need her.
Not just as a mate.
As Rowan.
So I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over her lips. Close enough that I can see the pulse in her throat, the flare of her nostrils, the way her chest rises and falls with every breath.
“Then you’ll watch your people burn,” I say, voice a whisper. “Because if you don’t bind to me, war begins. And I won’t stop it. I’ll let it consume everything—every witch, every wolf, every fae who dares stand against me—just to keep you alive.”
Her eyes widen. Not with fear. With understanding.
She sees it now.
The trap.
She can kill me—but only if she’s willing to destroy everything she’s fought to protect.
She takes a step back. Then another. Her hands clench at her sides. “You’re a monster.”
“Yes,” I say. “But I’m yours.”
She turns and walks away, her boots echoing down the corridor. I don’t follow. Not yet.
Let her think. Let her rage. Let her hate me.
Because in seven days, she’ll have to stand beside me.
And when the Council demands proof of our bond—when they demand to see the mark flare, to feel the magic between us—she’ll have to choose.
Will she let the world burn?
Or will she let me touch her?
I close my eyes.
The bond pulses, a fire in my veins.
I’ve waited ten years for her.
I can wait seven more days.
But I won’t wait forever.
And when I finally claim her—when my fangs break her skin and my mark seals her as mine—I won’t be gentle.
Because Rowan doesn’t want gentle.
She wants a fight.
And I’ll give her one.