The trial begins in two days.
Two days until the council decides whether I live or die. Whether the bond is sacred or cursed. Whether Kaelen stands with me—or lets me burn.
And yet, here I am.
On my knees.
In the heart of the Obsidian Spire, beneath a vaulted ceiling of black crystal that pulses with trapped moonlight, my palms pressed to cold stone, my breath shallow, my body trembling. Not from fear.
From want.
Kaelen stands behind me, his presence a storm at my back, his boots silent on the floor, his scent—pine, smoke, wildness—wrapping around me like a vow. His hands hover just above my shoulders, not touching, not yet, but the heat of them burns through the thin fabric of my tunic.
This is the Binding Altar.
Not for punishment.
For stabilization.
The ritual is ancient, rarely used: a sacred convergence of blood and bond, meant to anchor the mate-mark when it forms too quickly, too violently. The council approved it—barely—as a “necessary precaution” before the trial. A way to “ensure the bond’s legitimacy.”
Lies.
They don’t care about legitimacy.
They care about control.
And this ritual? It’s not about anchoring the mark.
It’s about exposing it.
About forcing us into proximity so deep, so intimate, that the bond will scream in front of witnesses. So loud, so raw, that even the coldest council member will feel it.
And if I break?
If I beg?
If I come beneath his hands?
Then they’ll have their proof.
That I’m not a warrior.
Not a queen.
Just a woman consumed by desire.
“Breathe,” Kaelen murmurs, his voice low, rough, so close it vibrates in my bones. “Let the magic find its path.”
“Easy for you to say,” I whisper. “You’re not the one on your knees.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, his heat searing through me. “But I’m the one who wants to put you there.”
My breath hitches.
Not from shock.
From truth.
Because he does.
I can feel it in the air, in the tension between us, in the way his voice drops when he looks at me—like he’s fighting a war inside himself. And I want it. Want him. Want to turn, to grab his face, to drag his mouth to mine and let the bond burn us both alive.
But I can’t.
Not here.
Not now.
Not with the council watching.
From the edges of the chamber, shadows shift. Vampires in crimson robes. Werewolves in furs. Witches with eyes like daggers. Fae with smirks like poison. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch, their presence a weight on my skin, their silence louder than any accusation.
And in the front row—
Lira.
She’s not wearing his shirt today.
But she might as well be.
Her dark hair is loose, cascading over one shoulder, her crimson gown slit to the thigh, her lips painted the same shade as fresh blood. And on her hand—
No ring.
Just the memory of one.
But her eyes—
They’re fixed on me.
On us.
And they’re smiling.
“Focus,” Kaelen growls, his hands finally settling on my shoulders. “Don’t let them in.”
“It’s hard not to,” I mutter. “When one of them wants me dead and the rest want me broken.”
“Then let them watch.” His thumbs press into the base of my neck, just above the bond mark, and a jolt of magic surges through me. “Let them see what they can’t have.”
I gasp.
My back arches.
Heat floods my chest, my stomach, the space between my thighs. The bond flares—white-hot, insatiable—responding to his touch like it’s starved for it. My fingers curl into the stone, desperate for purchase, for control.
But there is none.
Not here.
Not with him.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice a velvet threat. “That’s not the ritual. That’s you. That’s what happens when you try to fight what you are.”
“I’m not fighting,” I pant. “I’m surviving.”
“Survival doesn’t make you tremble.” His hands slide down my arms, his fingers brushing the sigils etched into my skin—the containment charm, the truth-seeker, the Mark of Unveiling Riven gave me. “You’re not afraid of them.”
“Aren’t I?”
“You’re afraid of this.” He leans in, his breath hot on my ear. “Of how much you want me. Of how good it feels when I touch you. Of how close you are to begging.”
“I won’t beg.”
“Liar.”
And then—
His hands move to my hips.
Not a caress.
A claim.
His fingers dig into my flesh, pulling me back against him, until my ass presses into the hard line of his arousal. My breath stops. My pulse roars. My thighs press together, trying to smother the ache building low in my belly.
“You’re wet,” he growls. “I can smell it.”
Shame floods me—hot, humiliating. I try to pull away, but he holds me tighter.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not here. Not like this.”
“Then where?” he demands. “In the dark? In secret? When no one can see how much you’re mine?”
“I don’t care who sees.”
“But you do.” He nips my ear, just once, a sharp, possessive bite. “You care because you’re afraid they’ll see the truth. That you’re not just my mate. You’re my queen. And they’ll never accept that.”
My breath hitches.
“Then prove it,” I say, voice trembling. “Not with words. Not with magic. With action. With truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just slides one hand around my waist, up under my tunic, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breast.
Fire erupts.
Not from the bond.
From me.
My magic surges, unbidden, raw, responding to his touch like it’s been waiting for this moment. My back arches. A gasp tears from my throat. His breath hitches. His grip tightens.
“You feel that?” I pant. “That’s not the bond. That’s me. And I will not be controlled.”
“Then stop pretending you don’t want this.”
His hand moves higher, his thumb brushing the peak of my breast through the thin fabric of my chemise. My head falls back against his shoulder. My eyes close. My mouth parts.
And then—
“The ritual begins,” announces a witch elder, her voice dry as dust.
Kaelen freezes.
So do I.
But his hand stays.
His body stays.
Pressed against mine.
“Place your palms on the altar,” the witch commands. “Let the magic bind you.”
Kaelen slowly removes his hand, guiding me forward until I’m on all fours, my palms flat on the cold stone. He kneels behind me, his thighs bracketing mine, his chest pressing into my back. His hands cover mine, his fingers lacing with mine, his heat searing through me.
“This is not submission,” he murmurs. “This is power.”
“Feels like both,” I whisper.
“Good.”
The witch raises her staff. A pulse of golden light ripples through the chamber, activating the runes carved into the altar. They flare—silver, crimson, obsidian—woven together in a pattern older than the Spire itself. The air hums, thick with magic, charged with the weight of ancient oaths.
And then—
The bond ignites.
Not a spark.
A supernova.
It surges through me, raw and unfiltered, pouring from Kaelen’s hands into mine, flooding my veins, my heart, my soul. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My vision blurs. My body arches, pressing back into him, seeking more, needing more.
And he gives it.
His chest presses into my back. His hips grind against my ass. His breath is hot on my neck. His voice—a low, rough growl—rumbles in my ear.
“You’re mine,” he says. “Say it.”
“No—”
“Say it.”
“I’m not—”
“Say it, Sage.”
And then—
His hand slips between my thighs.
Not inside.
Not yet.
Just pressure.
His palm presses against my core, firm, insistent, through the fabric of my trousers. Heat explodes. My back arches. A moan tears from my throat—soft, broken, unmistakable.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”
“Kaelen—”
“Say it.”
And then—
I do.
Not because I’ve broken.
But because it’s true.
“I’m yours,” I gasp. “Gods help me, I’m yours.”
He groans—low, guttural, victorious—and his hips buck against me, his arousal a hard line against my ass. His other hand moves to my breast, cupping it, squeezing, his thumb brushing my nipple through the fabric.
“Again,” he demands.
“I’m yours,” I whisper. “Only yours.”
And then—
The magic peaks.
A pulse of silver light erupts from the altar, blinding, searing, wrapping around us like a cocoon. The bond flares—deeper, stronger, unbreakable—sealing the mark, anchoring the magic, binding us in ways no ritual, no council, no law can undo.
And I come.
Not from touch.
Not from penetration.
From the bond.
From the magic.
From the raw, animal possession of it.
My body trembles. My breath hitches. My fingers tighten around his. And I scream—
Not in pain.
In triumph.
And when the light fades, when the magic settles, when the chamber comes back into focus—
I’m still on my knees.
Still pressed against him.
Still his.
And the council?
They’re silent.
Even Lira has nothing to say.
Because they saw it.
They saw the truth.
Not just the bond.
Not just the magic.
But the desire.
The surrender.
The love.
And then—
“You’re not supposed to feel this,” Kaelen breathes, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling against my back. “The ritual isn’t meant to—”
“Then why do I?” I whisper, turning my head to look at him.
His silver eyes blaze. His jaw is tight. His breath is hot on my lips.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
Hard. Desperate. A claiming. His mouth crashes over mine, his hands framing my face, his body pressing me down onto the altar. I gasp, but he doesn’t let me speak. Doesn’t let me fight. Just takes, consumes, owns.
And I let him.
Because for the first time—
I’m not fighting.
I’m not surviving.
I’m his.
My hands claw at his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. My body arches into his, my thighs parting, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The altar is cold beneath me, but his body is fire, his mouth is heaven, his hands are home.
And then—
His hand moves to the laces of my trousers.
Not asking.
Taking.
His fingers work the knot, pulling it free, sliding the fabric down my hips—
And then—
Crash.
The door bursts open.
Boots echo on stone.
Voices rise.
“The Council demands an explanation!”
We freeze.
Kaelen pulls back, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing silver. I’m still beneath him, my trousers half-off, my tunic torn at the shoulder, my lips swollen from his kiss, my body still trembling from the bond, from the magic, from him.
The chamber is full.
More council members. More guards. More eyes.
And at the front—
Malrik.
His smile is slow, serpentine. “Ah. Interrupting a private moment?”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Just keeps me pinned beneath him, his body a shield, his presence a warning. “You interrupted a sacred ritual.”
“And yet,” Malrik says, stepping forward, “it seems to have become something… profane.” He looks at me, his eyes black as void. “Is this how you prepare for your trial, Moonblood? By spreading your legs for the Alpha-King?”
Rage floods me—hot, blinding. I try to push Kaelen off, but he holds me down.
“Stay,” he growls. “Let me handle this.”
“Oh, I think the damage is done,” Malrik purrs. “The bond is unstable. The ritual corrupted. And now?” He spreads his arms. “Now the council sees the truth. That you’re not a mate. You’re a mistress. A distraction. A weakness.”
Kaelen rises slowly, pulling me up with him, his hand at my back, his body still shielding mine. “She is my mate,” he says, voice cold, final. “And if you question her honor again, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
Malrik laughs. “You think threats will save you? You’ve broken the ritual. You’ve defiled the altar. You’ve proven the bond is not sacred—but cursed.”
“Then let the trial come early,” Kaelen says. “Let it be now. Let the world see the truth.”
Malrik’s smile falters. “You’re eager to die.”
“I’m eager to burn you with me.”
A ripple runs through the chamber.
Even the guards hesitate.
Malrik studies us—Kaelen, standing tall, his body a fortress, his eyes blazing fire. Me, trembling, half-undressed, but unbroken, my chin lifted, my gaze steady.
And then—
He smiles.
Slow.
Cruel.
“Very well,” he says. “The trial will begin tomorrow. At dawn. In the Eclipse Chamber.”
Kaelen doesn’t react. Just turns, guiding me toward the door, his hand firm at my back.
But as we pass Malrik—
He leans in, his voice a whisper only I can hear.
“You think he’ll save you?”
I don’t answer.
“He won’t,” he says. “He’ll choose power. And when he does—” his eyes flick to Kaelen, “—he’ll thank me for removing his weakness.”
I keep walking.
Don’t look back.
But I feel it.
The crack.
The fracture.
The bond, for the first time, feels fragile.
Like glass.
Like it could shatter.
And if it does—
I’ll die.
But worse—
I’ll have died for a lie.
We don’t speak as we walk back to the suite.
The guards follow. The council watches. The Spire breathes lies.
And I—
I walk beside him.
Still his.
Still trembling.
Still afraid.
But not of death.
Of love.
Because I know now.
The war isn’t just coming.
It’s already here.
And I’m not just fighting Malrik.
I’m not just fighting the council.
I’m fighting him.
Fighting the way his voice makes my skin burn.
Fighting the way his hands make my body arch.
Fighting the way his eyes make my heart stop.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to win.
I want to lose.
I want to fall.
I want to burn.
And I’m terrified—
That he’ll let me.