The cell they call a suite is carved from obsidian and silence.
No windows. No mirrors. Just black stone walls that swallow sound and light, a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, and a single door guarded by two vampires whose fangs gleam even in the dim glow of the sconces. This isn’t a room. It’s a tomb with silk sheets.
I stand in the center, still in the silver dress that now feels like a shroud, my collarbone burning where the mark pulses beneath the blood. The wolf sigil. His mark. I press my palm against it, trying to smother the heat, but the magic hums under my skin, alive, aware. It’s not just a brand. It’s a leash. A tether that drags my pulse into sync with his, that makes my breath catch when he moves too close.
Kaelen hasn’t touched me since the gala. Not since the mark flared to life on my skin. He walked beside me like a shadow as the guards escorted us through the Spire, his presence a wall of silence. I expected threats. Demands. A repeat of his cold, “You’re mine now.” But he said nothing. Just walked, his boots striking the marble with precise, unhurried steps, his scent—pine and smoke and something wild—wrapping around me like a second skin.
And now we’re here. Locked in this gilded prison. Shared quarters.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said when the door closed behind us, the lock clicking like a tomb sealing.
He didn’t answer. Just moved to the far side of the room, where a massive bed dominates the space—black wood, dark velvet, a mountain of pillows that look like they’ve never been slept in. He begins removing his armor, piece by piece, setting each on a stone chest with ritual care. The shadow-woven plates hiss as they separate, folding in on themselves like living things. Underneath, he wears a fitted black tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins like rivers beneath pale skin.
He catches me staring. His silver eyes lock onto mine.
“Don’t test me, Sage,” he says, voice low, rough. “Not tonight.”
I bristle. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“It’s not the name I gave you.”
“It’s the name the bond knows.” He takes a step toward me, and the air between us thickens. “The magic doesn’t care about your lies. It knows your blood. Your soul. And it’s screaming that you’re mine.”
“Then your magic is deaf,” I snap. “Because I belong to no one.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his gaze like a blade sliding between my ribs. “You think this is a game? That you can play the noble rebel while the bond eats you alive?”
“I think you’re the one playing games,” I say, backing up. “Dragging me here, forcing this… union. You want peace? Then let me go.”
“And let you expose the council? Start a war?” He shakes his head. “No. You’re too dangerous to be free.”
“And you’re a coward for keeping me caged.”
Something flickers in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something darker. He closes the distance in two strides, caging me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head. His body is a furnace, radiating heat, his scent flooding my senses. My breath hitches. My pulse stutters. The bond thrums, a live wire under my skin.
“Call me a coward again,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet threat, “and I’ll show you what happens to women who challenge an Alpha.”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to look away. “Is that supposed to scare me? I’ve seen men die for less.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“Then prove it.” I press my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Or are you afraid of what the bond will do if you hurt me?”
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then—
A spark.
Not from me. From him.
His eyes flare silver. His breath catches. And I feel it—the jolt of magic, sharp and sudden, like lightning down my arm. But it’s not my power. It’s his. And it just hit the sigil I carved into my ribs.
I’d forgotten.
The containment charm. The one etched in my blood. It’s not just to hide my magic. It’s a weapon. A trap. And when his energy touched it, it reacted.
He stumbles back, snarling, clutching his chest. His fangs flash. His pupils narrow to slits. For the first time, I see it—cracks in the ice. Pain. Shock.
“What the hell was that?” he growls.
I smile. Cold. Sharp. “You touched me. You felt it.”
“You’ve got a ward on you.” His voice is raw. “A witch’s trap.”
“Call it insurance.” I step forward, pressing my advantage. “Every time you lay a hand on me, it shocks you. So if you’re going to threaten me, Alpha-King, maybe think twice about touching me again.”
He bares his teeth. “You think a little spell can stop me?”
“I think it’s a start.”
And then—
The world tilts.
A wave of dizziness slams into me, sudden and vicious. My knees buckle. My vision blurs. The room spins, the walls closing in, the air turning thick and heavy. I gasp, clutching my head, but the pain is everywhere—my skull, my spine, my chest. It’s like fire in my veins, ice in my bones. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Sage?”
Kaelen’s voice. Distant. Concerned?
No. Impossible.
I try to speak, but my tongue won’t move. My limbs are lead. I sink to the floor, my back sliding down the wall, my body trembling. The mark on my collarbone burns like a brand. The bond—it’s killing me.
This is bond-fever.
I’ve heard the stories. Witches who resisted fated bonds. Werewolves who denied their mates. The magic turns on them. Drives them mad. Breaks them.
And now it’s happening to me.
I curl into myself, shaking, sweat slicking my skin. My teeth chatter. My heart hammers so hard I think it’ll burst. And through the haze, I feel him—Kaelen—kneeling beside me. His hands on my shoulders. His voice in my ear.
“Look at me. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His face is blurred, but I see the silver of his gaze, the tension in his jaw. He’s saying something, but the words are lost in the roaring in my ears. Then his arms slide under me—strong, sure—and he lifts me.
I try to fight. I slap at his chest, weak and useless. But he doesn’t let go. He carries me across the room, his steps steady, and lays me on the bed. The velvet is cool against my fevered skin. He doesn’t leave. He sits beside me, one hand on my forehead, checking my temperature.
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs.
“Go… to hell,” I manage.
He ignores me. Instead, he strips off his tunic, revealing a chest carved from stone—broad, defined, dusted with dark hair. My breath hitches. Not from fear. From something else. Something the bond is twisting inside me. He rolls up the sleeves of his undershirt, then presses his palms to my temples.
“I’m going to try to stabilize the bond,” he says. “It’ll hurt. But it’ll help.”
“Don’t… touch me,” I whisper.
“Too late for that.”
And then—
Power.
Raw, lupine energy floods into me, pouring from his hands, seeping into my skull, down my spine. It’s not gentle. It’s a force, a flood, a claiming. My body arches off the bed, a cry tearing from my throat. The fever spikes—white-hot, unbearable—then, slowly, begins to recede. The shaking lessens. My breathing evens. The fire in my veins cools to embers.
But the connection—God, the connection—intensifies.
I can feel him. Not just his magic. Him. His thoughts, fragmented and dark. His guilt. His need. His hunger. And beneath it all, a thread of something softer. Something that terrifies me more than the fever.
Protection.
He’s trying to protect me.
From the bond. From myself. From the council.
And when I finally open my eyes, he’s still there, watching me, his expression unreadable. His hands are still on my temples, his thumbs brushing my skin. My dress is half-undone, the bodice slipping off one shoulder, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His gaze drops—just for a second—before snapping back to my eyes.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, too weak to speak.
He exhales, long and slow, then pulls his hands away. The loss of contact is like a wound. I whimper—soft, involuntary—before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you want to devour.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just stands, turning away, running a hand through his hair. “You should sleep. The fever might come back.”
“And you?” I ask. “Are you just going to stand guard all night?”
“Someone has to.”
“Why? Afraid I’ll try to escape again?”
“Afraid you’ll die if I don’t.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and raw. I don’t know what to say. So I close my eyes, turning my face into the pillow. His scent is there—pine, smoke, wildness. It clings to the fabric. To me.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
And I dream.
Not of fire. Not of blood.
Of teeth sinking into my neck. Of hands pinning my wrists. Of a voice growling in my ear, You’re mine.
I wake with a gasp.
Dawn hasn’t broken. The room is still dark, lit only by the faint glow of the sconces. But something’s different.
The air is charged. Thick. Heavy with the scent of him.
And on my pillow—
His scent.
Stronger. Closer.
Like he was here. Like he leaned over me. Watched me sleep.
I sit up slowly, my body still weak, my head aching. My fingers go to my collarbone, where the mark still pulses, faint but steady. And then—
I freeze.
Because I see it.
In the dim light, reflected in the polished stone of the wall—
The sigil.
Not just a mark.
A glow.
Silver. Alive. Curling over my collarbone like a living thing.
The bond has claimed me.
And no matter how much I hate him, no matter how much I fight—
Part of me is already his.