I didn’t go back to the chambers.
Not after the grove. Not after the kiss. Not after the slap.
After Kaelen walked away, leaving me barefoot in the damp earth, my skin still humming from the press of his mouth, my body aching in places I didn’t know could ache, I stayed beneath the ancient oaks, my back against the gnarled trunk, my arms wrapped around my knees, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
The moon hung high, silver and cold, casting long, jagged shadows across the grove. The air was thick with the scent of wild thyme and damp earth—my scent, his scent, tangled together like the roots beneath me. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, not in pain now, but in… satisfaction.
Like it had won.
And maybe it had.
I pressed a hand to my lips, still swollen from his kiss. I could still taste him—iron and pine, dominance and desire. I could still feel the scrape of his fangs, the heat of his hands, the way my body had arched into his like it was starving and he was the only meal it would ever need.
I had kissed him.
Not because the fever demanded it.
Not because the bond pulled me.
But because I wanted to.
And that was the worst part.
Because wanting him meant I was weak. Meant I was no longer just the hunter. Meant I was no longer just the avenger. Meant I was something else—something softer, something broken.
And I hated it.
But I hated myself more for lying.
I had slapped him. I had hissed, *“I will never belong to you.”* I had pushed him away like he was poison.
But the truth?
The truth was, I already did belong to him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of politics.
Because I had chosen to kiss him back.
And I would do it again.
The thought sent a shiver through me—hot, shameful, undeniable. My thighs clenched. My breath hitched. My pulse jumped, not from fear, but from need.
I was soaked.
Not from the dew on the grass.
From him.
From the memory of his body pressing mine into the earth, from the way his hips had ground against me, from the way his voice had rumbled against my skin when he said, *“You’re mine.”*
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the images, but they only came clearer—his hands on my waist, his mouth on my neck, the way he’d groaned when I bit his lip, the way his eyes had burned into mine like he was memorizing me.
I hated that I remembered.
Hated that I wanted to do it again.
So I stood.
Shoved myself off the ground, ignoring the way my legs trembled, ignoring the way my skin still burned where he’d touched me. I found my discarded shirt, pulled it on, and walked back to the citadel, my steps sharp, my spine rigid, my face blank.
I didn’t look at the guards.
Didn’t acknowledge the whispers.
Just walked.
Through the torchlit halls. Past the bloodwine fountains. Beneath the thorned chandeliers. I didn’t care who saw me. Didn’t care what they thought. Let them see me—disheveled, breathless, marked by the Alpha’s touch. Let them know I had broken.
Because I had.
And there was no going back.
When I reached our chambers, I didn’t expect him to be there.
But he was.
Standing by the hearth, his back to me, silhouetted against the firelight. His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the jagged scar that ran from wrist to elbow. He didn’t turn when I entered. Didn’t speak.
But I knew he was aware of me.
I could feel it—the way the air shifted, the way his presence pressed against my skin like a physical weight.
I walked to the bed, not looking at him, not speaking, just pulling off my boots and lying down with my back to him, my dagger tucked beneath the pillow.
Of course I still slept with a weapon.
Of course I didn’t trust him.
Good.
Let him think I was still fighting.
Let him think I hadn’t shattered.
I closed my eyes, willing sleep to take me, willing the fever to stay away, willing my body to stop aching for his touch.
But sleep didn’t come.
Instead, I heard it—his heartbeat.
Steady. Deep. Mine.
It echoed in the silence, a constant, relentless rhythm that seeped into my bones, into my blood, into the very core of me. I could feel him watching me, not with anger, not with possession, but with something worse.
Want.
And I hated that I wanted him to touch me.
So I lay there, motionless, breath shallow, body tense, pretending I was asleep, pretending I didn’t feel the way my skin burned for his hands, the way my pulse jumped when he shifted, the way my magic hummed in response to his nearness.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Faint.
His breath.
It caught.
Just once.
But I heard it.
And I knew.
He’d felt my heartbeat spike.
He knew I was awake.
He knew I was lying.
And he knew—
That I wanted more.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept my eyes closed, my breathing even, my body still.
But inside—
Inside, I was screaming.
Because I did want more.
More than the fever. More than the bond. More than the forced proximity and the political entanglement and the endless war of wills.
I wanted him.
Not as the Alpha. Not as the Thorned King. Not as the man who had bound me against my will.
But as Kaelen.
The man who had taken a silver-laced dagger for me. The man who had whispered, *“You’re not just fire, Sage. You’re light.”* The man who had kissed me like I was something worth saving.
I wanted him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
The hours passed in silence, the fire crackling in the hearth, the bond humming between us like a live wire. I didn’t sleep. Didn’t dream. Just lay there, trapped in my own mind, in my own body, in the endless war between vengeance and desire.
And then—
The dream came.
Not a memory. Not a fantasy.
A claim.
It started with his hands—large, calloused, warm—sliding up my waist, under my shirt. His breath on my neck. His voice, rough and low, whispering, *“You’re mine.”* I arched into him, moaning, my body on fire, my magic spiraling out of control. His fangs grazed my throat. His hips pressed against mine. I reached for him, desperate, aching—
And woke gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
The room was dark. Silent. But I could still feel him—his scent on the sheets, his presence in the air, the bond humming beneath my skin like a live wire.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. My fingers trembled. My thighs clenched. I was soaked—not with sweat alone.
And I hated myself for it.
I had come here to kill a vampire.
Not dream about being claimed by a wolf.
But the dream clung to me, vivid and shameful. I could still feel the weight of his hands, the heat of his body, the way my traitorous skin had burned for his touch.
I got up, moving to the washbasin, splashing cold water on my face. I stripped off my damp nightgown, scrubbing my skin until it was raw, trying to erase the memory of his hands, the phantom pressure of his mouth on my neck.
It didn’t work.
The bond pulsed, steady and insistent, a reminder that no matter how much I fought, my body knew the truth.
I wanted him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
When the fever returned, I didn’t fight it.
I walked to his chambers. Not because I wanted to. Not because I had given in.
Because I couldn’t breathe.
The pain was worse this time—sharp, stabbing pulses in my skull, my spine, my chest. My vision blurred. My legs trembled. I barely made it to his door before I collapsed against it, pounding weakly with my fist.
It opened instantly.
He was already dressed, waiting. As if he’d known.
“You’re late,” he said, catching me before I fell.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My body was on fire, every nerve screaming for relief. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me into the room, laying me on the bed.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I forced my eyes open. His face was close, his gaze intense. “The bond needs touch. Skin to skin. Can you handle that?”
I nodded, teeth clenched.
He didn’t hesitate. He pulled off my shirt, then his own, baring his chest—broad, scarred, powerful. Then he pulled me against him, my bare skin to his, our hearts pounding in time.
The relief was instant.
Like ice water poured over flame. The pain receded. The fever broke. My magic settled, humming softly beneath my skin, no longer wild, but aligned.
And then—something worse.
Desire.
It hit me like a physical blow—hot, urgent, undeniable. His breath was warm on my neck. His hands were on my back, pressing me closer. His heartbeat was steady, strong, mine.
I turned my head, my lips brushing his throat. I felt him freeze. Felt the way his breath caught. Felt the way his grip tightened.
“Sage,” he warned, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My body moved on its own, arching into his touch, my leg sliding between his, my hips grinding against his hard length.
He growled—low, dangerous—and flipped me onto my back, pinning me beneath him. His eyes burned into mine, feral, possessive.
“You don’t want this,” he said, voice strained. “Not like this.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “I do.”
He hesitated—just a second—then pulled away, rolling off me, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to me, breathing hard.
“No,” he said. “Not until you mean it.”
I lay there, trembling, my body aching, my pride shattered.
He had rejected me.
Not because he didn’t want me.
But because he wanted me to choose him.
And that—more than the fever, more than the bond, more than the dream—was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t.
But this time—this time, I was done running.
So when he turned back to me, his eyes dark, his jaw tight, I didn’t wait.
I reached up, grabbed his face, and pulled him down.
And I kissed him.
Not like before. Not a battle. Not a claim.
A war.
My lips crashed against his, teeth and tongue and fire. I bit his lower lip, drawing blood, tasting iron and need. My hands fisted in his hair, pulling him deeper, my body arching into his, grinding against him like I couldn’t help myself.
He groaned—low, dangerous—and kissed me back with everything he had, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. The bond flared between us, a live wire sparking under my skin, but this time—this time, I didn’t fight it.
I felt it.
His need. His hunger. His want.
And mine.
We kissed like we were dying. Like we were already dead. Like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered.
And when he finally pulled back, both of us breathless, his eyes burned into mine.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice rough. “Whether you admit it or not.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I’d want to deny it.
But then I remembered.
Lysara. The robe. The mark. The way she’d smiled.
And I hated myself.
Hated that I wanted him. Hated that I needed him. Hated that I was weak.
So I did the only thing I could.
I slapped him.
Hard.
His head snapped to the side. A red mark bloomed on his cheek. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at me, his eyes burning, his breath heavy.
“I will never belong to you,” I hissed, pushing him off me, scrambling to my feet.
He stood slowly, his presence a storm, his gaze never leaving mine.
“You already do,” he said, voice low. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the grove, my body still humming from his touch, my heart—
My heart—
Shattered.
And now, as I lay in his bed, my skin still humming from the memory of his hands, my body still aching from the fever, I realized—
I wasn’t just lying to him.
I was lying to myself.
Because I did want more.
More than vengeance.
More than justice.
More than survival.
I wanted him.
And that was the most dangerous truth of all.
I pressed a hand to my lips, still swollen from the kiss.
And I whispered—
“I wanted more.”
Just once.
So softly, I thought only the shadows could hear.
But then—
A shift.
A breath.
And from the other side of the room, I felt it—
His heartbeat.
Spiking.
Just like mine.
And I knew—
He had heard.
And I knew—
He would never let me go.
But then—
A shadow.
Outside the door.
Moving.
Not Kaelen.
Not a guard.
Someone else.
And I realized—
We weren’t alone.
And the game?
The game had just begun.