I didn’t go back to the chambers after the Ritual of Breath.
Not because I was afraid of what might happen.
But because I was afraid of what wouldn’t.
The bond had flared like wildfire in the Moon Garden, our magic merging, our breath syncing, our bodies pressed so close I could feel the thunder of his heart beneath my palm. The kiss had been a claiming—not of conquest, but of alignment. And when the Fae Matriarch declared us confirmed, I hadn’t felt triumph.
I’d felt terrified.
Because for the first time, I hadn’t fought it.
Hadn’t resisted.
Hadn’t even pretended to hate him.
And that was worse than surrender.
That was acceptance.
So I walked.
Through the torchlit halls, past the bloodwine fountains, beneath the thorned chandeliers. I didn’t care where I was going. Just that I needed space. Air. Time to breathe. My skin still hummed from his touch, my lips still burned from his mouth, my magic still coiled low in my belly like a storm waiting to break.
I wasn’t alone for long.
“Sage.”
I froze.
Kaelen stood at the end of the corridor, his silhouette sharp against the flickering torchlight, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his presence a storm in the silence. He didn’t approach. Just watched me, his eyes ember-bright, his jaw tight.
“You ran,” he said.
“I walked.”
“Same difference.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” he agreed, stepping closer. “But I get to follow.”
I didn’t answer. Just turned and kept walking. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t grab me. Just fell into step beside me, his silence heavier than any words.
We reached the east wing—a quiet stretch of corridors lined with ancient tapestries and blood-red drapes. At the end stood a heavy oak door, its iron handle shaped like a coiled serpent. The bathhouse.
Reserved for the elite. For purification. For healing.
And, if the rumors were true, for pleasure.
I stopped.
“I’m going in,” I said.
He didn’t move. “It’s not safe.”
“Neither is being near you.”
He stilled. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” I turned to face him, my voice low. “You kiss me like I’m yours, whisper promises in the dark, then expect me to just… stay? Like I’m some tamed beast you’ve leashed with your touch?”
“I never said you were mine to control,” he said, stepping into my space. “I said you were mine to protect.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice rough. “From Virell. From Lysara. From the Council. From yourself. You’re so busy trying to prove you’re strong that you won’t admit when you’re breaking.”
My breath hitched.
“You think I don’t see it?” he continued. “The way you flinch when someone touches you. The way you sleep with a dagger under your pillow. The way you look at me—like I’m either the man who’ll save you or the one who’ll destroy you. And I don’t know which one scares you more.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he was right.
And that was the worst part.
So I turned and opened the door.
Steam rolled out in thick, fragrant waves—sandalwood, jasmine, something deeper, earthy, primal. The bathhouse was a vast chamber of black marble and silver veins, lit by floating candles and the soft glow of fae lanterns. At its center stood a circular pool, its surface still and dark, fed by a waterfall that trickled from a carved stone mouth high above.
“You’re not coming in,” I said, stepping over the threshold.
“No,” he said. “But I’m not leaving.”
I didn’t argue. Just closed the door behind me, the lock clicking into place.
Silence.
Then—
Water.
I stripped quickly, folding my clothes with care, placing my dagger on the stone bench. The air was thick, warm, pressing against my skin like a living thing. I stepped into the pool, the water rising over my thighs, my waist, my chest, until I was submerged, the heat seeping into my bones, my muscles loosening, my magic settling.
I floated.
Let the water hold me, let the steam wrap around me, let the silence press in. No voices. No demands. No bond humming beneath my skin. Just stillness.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Faint.
The door.
Opening.
My eyes snapped open.
He stood there, silhouetted in the steam, his shirt gone, his chest bare, his scars on full display—jagged lines across his ribs, a deep gouge in his shoulder, the silver-laced wound on his side still dark with healing. He didn’t speak. Just stepped into the water, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on mine.
“I said you weren’t coming in.”
“And I said I wasn’t leaving,” he replied, sinking into the water across from me. “You don’t get to hide from me, Sage. Not anymore.”
“This isn’t hiding.”
“It is,” he said, moving closer. “You’re running from the truth. From the bond. From us.”
“There is no us.”
“Liar,” he murmured, reaching out, his fingers brushing the scar on my shoulder—a thin, white line from a silver dagger, the night I’d fought my way out of the coven’s ruins. “You flinch when I touch you. Not from pain. From memory.”
I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. His touch was warm, steady, gentle.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to carry scars?” he asked, his thumb tracing the edge of the mark. “To wake up in the dark, heart pounding, convinced the past is still hunting you?”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
“No,” he said, leaning closer. “But I know what it’s like to survive it. To walk into a den of predators with nothing but a lie and a dagger. To face death and keep standing. To love someone and lose them. To carry the guilt of not being strong enough to save them.”
My breath caught.
“You think I kept your mother’s journal to hurt you,” he said, his voice low. “But I kept it because it was the only thing I had left of her. The only proof that she ever existed. That she ever believed in me.”
“And now you use it to manipulate me.”
“No,” he said, his hand sliding to my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse. “I use it to tell you the truth. That she loved you. That she died protecting you. That she knew you’d come for justice. And that she would’ve wanted you to live—not just survive.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Not from sadness.
From rage.
“You don’t get to speak for her,” I hissed. “You don’t get to tell me what she wanted.”
“Then tell me,” he said, cupping my face. “What does she want? The woman who kissed me like she was claiming me? The woman who stayed in my arms all night, even after the fever broke? The woman who whispered, *‘I came here to kill a vampire. Not fall for a wolf.’* And then did it anyway?”
My breath hitched.
“You’re not just fire, Sage,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re light. And I see you. All of you. The hunter. The avenger. The storm. And the woman who’s so afraid of being loved that she’d rather burn than be saved.”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
So I did the only thing I could.
I kissed him.
Not like before. Not a battle. Not a claim.
A plea.
My lips crashed against his, desperate, aching, my hands fisting in his hair, pulling him deeper. He didn’t hesitate. Just kissed me back with everything he had, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. The water swirled around us, hot, thick, alive with magic. Our bond flared—witchfire and lycan strength, spiraling out of control, flaring around us like a storm.
And then—
He pulled back.
Just enough to breathe.
“Not like this,” he said, voice strained.
“Why?” I gasped. “Why do you keep stopping?”
“Because I want you to choose me,” he said, his forehead pressed to mine. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because you’re desperate. But because you want me. Because you trust me.”
My breath hitched.
And for the first time, I believed him.
But belief wasn’t enough.
Because love wasn’t enough.
And vengeance—
Vengeance was still alive.
So I turned and swam to the edge, hauling myself out of the water, my skin glistening, my breath ragged. I grabbed my towel, wrapping it around me, not looking back.
“Sage.”
I didn’t answer.
Just kept walking.
But then—
A hand.
On my arm.
He spun me around, his eyes burning, his breath hot on my neck. “You don’t get to run,” he said, voice low. “Not from this. Not from me.”
“Let go,” I whispered.
“No.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not like before. Not a battle. Not a claim.
A promise.
His lips were firm, demanding, but not cruel. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me against him, his body hard, his heat searing through the towel. 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.
I kissed him back—fierce, desperate, real—my hands fisting in his hair, my body arching into his touch. The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, his breath, the way his thumb brushed my hip, the way his fangs grazed my lower lip, the way my name sounded on his tongue like a prayer.
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—
A sound.
Soft. Faint.
Footsteps.
Outside the door.
Not guards.
Not servants.
Too light. Too careful.
We both stilled.
He stepped back, his presence a storm, his eyes never leaving mine. “Stay here,” he said, voice low.
“No,” I said, grabbing my dagger. “I’m not hiding.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded, drawing his own blade as we moved to the door.
It opened before we could reach it.
Riven stood there, his expression grim, his eyes flicking between us—my bare skin, his bare chest, our tangled limbs—before settling on Kaelen.
“Alpha,” he said, voice low. “She’s here.”
Kaelen tensed. “Lysara?”
Riven shook his head. “Worse. The Council has summoned you. Both of you. They’ve found the ledger.”
My blood turned to ice.
Not from fear.
From fury.
Because I knew—
The game had changed.
And I was no longer just the hunter.
I was the storm.
And I was coming for them all.
But first—
I had to survive the bathhouse.
And the man who had just kissed me like I was already his.