The northern tower hums with magic.
Not the oppressive, blood-tinged pulse of the Spire’s core, not the cold, calculated hum of Malrik’s wards. This is different—softer, warmer, alive. Moonlight filters through the high arched windows, painting silver streaks across the stone floor. Candles flicker in iron sconces, their flames dancing in time with the witches’ chants. The air is thick with the scent of crushed herbs, iron, and something else—something sharp and wild.
Sage.
She lies on the slab in the center of the chamber, her body pale against the dark stone, her dark hair fanned out like a storm. Wounds stripe her arms, her thighs, her back—each one a map of Malrik’s cruelty. The venom still pulses beneath her skin, dark veins threading through her flesh like ink in water. The healers move around her—three witches, a Fae with storm-gray eyes, and Taryn, limping but refusing to leave—pouring magic into her, stabilizing the bond, fighting the ritual’s corruption.
I don’t move.
Just kneel beside her, my hand wrapped around hers, my thumb brushing her pulse point. It’s weak. Erratic. But it’s there. And as long as it beats, I’ll stay.
“She’s holding on,” the lead witch says, her voice low. “But the moonlight essence is deep. It’s amplifying the pain, twisting her magic. If we don’t purge it soon—”
“You’ll purge it,” I growl. “Or I’ll tear this tower apart until you do.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just nods, her hands glowing as she presses them to Sage’s chest. The others follow, their magic weaving together—silver, green, violet—forming a net around her, trapping the venom, burning it out.
And then—
Sage screams.
Not loud. Not long.
But raw. Broken. A sound that tears through me like a blade.
My hand tightens around hers. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t answer. Just arches, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The Fae healer leans over her, murmuring in the old tongue, his fingers tracing sigils in the air. The venom retreats—just a little—pulling back from her heart, retreating into her limbs.
“It’s working,” Taryn says, his voice tight. “But it’s slow. And she’s losing blood.”
I look at the wound on her arm—the one Malrik cut, where he poured the dark liquid, where Lira injected the shadow venom. It’s still open, still weeping, still humming with corrupted magic. I don’t hesitate.
I press my palm over it.
“What are you doing?” the lead witch snaps.
“Giving her what she needs.” I close my eyes, summoning my magic—my strength, my life, my bond. “I’m Alpha. My blood is power. My magic is hers.”
And I let it flow.
Not a trickle. Not a drop.
A flood.
My energy pours into her—warm, golden, unyielding. I feel it leave me, feel my muscles weaken, feel my vision blur. But I don’t stop. Can’t. Because she needs it. Because if she dies, I die.
And then—
Her fingers twitch.
Then tighten.
Then grip.
Her eyes flutter open—silver, hazy, but aware.
“Kaelen,” she whispers.
My breath hitches. “I’m here.”
“You’re… pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
And she’s right.
I’m not fine.
My body is a cage of exhaustion, my magic drained, my strength fading. But I don’t let go. Just keep pouring, keep giving, keep holding.
“Stop,” she says, her voice weak but firm. “You’ll kill yourself.”
“Then I’ll die with you.”
Her breath stops.
And then—
She yanks her hand away.
“No,” she gasps. “Not like this. Not for me.”
I try to reach for her, but the healers step between us, their hands glowing, their voices sharp. “She’s stable,” the lead witch says. “For now. But she needs rest. And you—” she looks at me, “—need to recover. Or you’ll be no use to her.”
I want to argue.
Want to roar.
Want to tear through them and take her back.
But I know she’s right.
So I stand.
And I leave.
The recovery chamber is small—stone walls, a narrow bed, a single window facing the dying Spire. Smoke curls into the sky, the upper levels still collapsing, the lower dungeons sealed by rubble. Taryn said Malrik’s body wasn’t found. No surprise. That bastard always survives.
I don’t care.
Not yet.
Right now, all that matters is Sage.
I strip off my armor, my tunic, my boots, and collapse onto the bed. My body is a wreck—muscles screaming, magic drained, blood thin. But I can’t sleep. Can’t stop seeing her—chained, bleeding, broken. Can’t stop hearing her scream. Can’t stop feeling the way her hand gripped mine, like I was the only thing keeping her from falling into the dark.
And I was.
And I will be.
Forever.
The door opens.
I don’t turn.
Don’t have to.
“You look like shit,” Taryn says, limping inside, a flask in his hand.
“Feel like it.”
He tosses the flask to me. I catch it, uncork it—bloodwine, thick and dark, laced with healing herbs. I drink. It burns. But it helps.
“She’s alive,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The venom’s retreating. The wounds are closing. But the ritual’s magic is still in her blood. It’ll take time.”
“How much?”
“Days. Maybe weeks. Depends on her strength. And yours.”
I don’t answer.
Just drink.
“You gave her your blood,” Taryn says. “Your magic. That’s not just healing. That’s bonding. Deepening it.”
“I know.”
“And if she dies—”
“Then I die.”
He doesn’t argue. Just nods, his jaw tight. “Malrik’s gone. The Spire’s half-ruined. The council’s in chaos. Some are calling for peace. Some for war. But they’re all waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you.” He looks at me. “For her. For the bond. They want to know if it’s broken. If you’re still Alpha. If she’s still your mate.”
My pulse spikes.
“It’s not broken,” I growl. “It’s stronger than ever.”
“Then prove it.”
“I will.”
He stands, limping to the door. “She’ll wake soon. When she does—” he pauses, “—tell her the truth. All of it. Not just about Malrik. Not just about the journal. About you.”
“What truth?”
“The one you’ve been hiding.” He looks at me. “That you loved her mother’s memory. That you’ve been waiting for her. That you’re not just her protector. You’re her equal.”
My breath stops.
And then—
He’s gone.
The silence returns.
But it’s different now.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Heavy.
Like the weight of something unsaid.
And I know.
He’s right.
I’ve spent seven years building walls—of silence, of control, of cold, unyielding power. I let them believe I was the monster who signed the order. I let them think I did nothing. I let Sage hate me—because I thought it was safer. Because I thought if she loved me, she’d be a target. Because I thought if I loved her, I’d fail her.
But I was wrong.
She doesn’t need a king.
She doesn’t need a warrior.
She doesn’t need a protector.
She needs the truth.
And I’m going to give it to her.
The door opens again.
This time, it’s her.
Sage.
She’s pale. Weak. Leaning on a healer’s arm, her steps unsteady, her dark hair tangled, her eyes sharp, her chin lifted. She’s still in the healer’s tunic—white, loose, barely covering the bruises on her thighs, the bandages on her arms. But she’s walking. Standing. fighting.
And she’s looking at me like she owns me.
“You shouldn’t be up,” I say, standing.
“You shouldn’t be alive,” she says, voice weak but steady. “But here we are.”
The healer helps her to the bed, then leaves, closing the door behind her.
And then—
We’re alone.
And the silence is a blade.
“You gave me your blood,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands clenched in her lap. “Your magic. You could’ve died.”
“And you would’ve.”
“That doesn’t give you the right.”
“It does.” I step closer, my voice low. “Because you’re mine. And I’m yours. And if you die, I die. That’s not a choice. That’s the bond. That’s us.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—her silver eyes searching mine, her breath shallow, her pulse fluttering in her throat.
And then—
“Why?” she whispers. “Why did you save me? Why did you risk everything? Why do you keep doing it—over and over—when I’ve done nothing but hate you?”
My breath hitches.
And then—
I do the only thing I can.
I tell the truth.
“Because I didn’t sign your death warrant,” I say, voice rough. “I tried to stop it. I argued. I fought. And when I failed, I kept your mother’s journal—because I knew one day, her daughter would come. And when she did, I’d give her the truth.”
She doesn’t move.
Just watches me.
“And because I loved her memory,” I continue. “Not her. Not in the way Malrik did. But I loved what she stood for. What she believed in. A world without the Pact. A world where hybrids weren’t hunted. Where love wasn’t a crime.” My voice drops. “And when you walked into the Spire—when I saw your eyes, your fire, your fury—I knew. You weren’t just her daughter. You were her legacy. And I was going to protect it. Even if it killed me.”
Her breath hitches.
“And because I’m falling for you,” I say, stepping closer, my voice a vow. “Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. But because of you. Because you’re strong. Because you’re fearless. Because you’re not afraid to hate me. To fight me. To see me.”
She doesn’t speak.
Just stares at me—her eyes wide, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling.
And then—
“You didn’t love her,” she whispers.
“No.”
“And you didn’t touch Lira.”
“No.”
“And you kept the journal to protect me.”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t move.
Just looks at me—like she’s seeing me for the first time.
And then—
She reaches out.
Not to strike.
Not to push.
To touch.
Her fingers brush my cheek, light as a whisper, warm as fire. My breath stops. My pulse roars. My body tenses—every instinct screaming to pull her in, to kiss her, to claim her.
But I don’t.
Just stand there, my hands at my sides, my eyes locked on hers.
“You’re not what I thought,” she says, voice soft.
“Neither are you.”
And then—
She leans in.
Slow.
Deliberate.
And presses her lips to mine.
Not fierce.
Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
And full of something I haven’t felt in years.
Hope.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Just let her kiss me—her lips warm, her breath sweet, her body trembling against mine.
And when she pulls back, her eyes are wet, her cheeks flushed, her voice a whisper.
“Prove it,” she says.
And I know what she means.
Not with words.
Not with promises.
With action.
With truth.
So I do.
I take her hand.
And lead her to the bed.
Not to claim her.
Not to mark her.
But to hold her.
And for the first time—
I let her.
We lie together—her head on my chest, my arms around her, her breath warm on my skin. She’s weak. Still healing. But she doesn’t pull away. Just presses closer, her fingers tracing the scars on my chest, the silver wolf-mark at my throat.
“You’re not just a king,” she murmurs. “You’re not just an Alpha. You’re not just a warrior. You’re Kaelen. My mate. My equal. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I don’t believe you?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll keep trying.” She leans up, her lips brushing mine, soft and slow and full of something I haven’t felt in years.
Hope.
And when she pulls back, she whispers—
“Prove it.”
I don’t answer.
Just hold her tighter.
And for the first time in seven years—
I let myself believe.
That I’m not just a monster.
That I’m not just a king.
That I’m not just a warrior.
I’m hers.
And she is mine.
And if the world wants to burn—
Let it burn.
Because I’ve already found my fire.