The Blood Moon Gala is a lie.
Not just in the way the torches flicker with false warmth, or how the wine flows like blood through crystal goblets, or how the laughter echoes too loud in the vaulted hall of the citadel—no, it’s a lie in the bones of it. In the way the delegates smile with their teeth, in the way the guards stand just a little too close, in the way the air hums with something sharp and unspoken.
Like a blade held to the throat.
I stand at the edge of the room, my crimson robes clinging to my skin, the sigil on my lower back pulsing faintly beneath the fabric. It’s been three days since the dungeon. Three days since I walked out of that cell with truth in my hands and fire in my veins. Three days since Kaelen pressed his palm to mine and sealed a vow in blood.
And still, the bond hums—low, steady, resonant—like it’s waiting.
Kaelen is across the room, speaking with the High Priestess, his storm-gray eyes sharp, his voice low. He’s dressed in black obsidian armor, the Lupari crest carved into the chestplate, his hair slicked back, every inch the Alpha. But I see the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flex at his side. The way his gaze flicks to me, just once, before returning to the conversation.
He’s watching.
Always watching.
And I hate that I need it.
“You look like you’re ready to fight,” Torin says, stepping beside me, a goblet of wine in hand. He’s in full Enforcer armor, his lupine helm pushed back, his face unreadable. “Or run.”
“I’m not running,” I say. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For the other shoe to drop,” I say. “Cassius isn’t gone. Rhea isn’t broken. And this—” I gesture to the gala, the music, the false celebration. “This is a funeral in disguise.”
Torin exhales. “You’re not wrong.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because Kaelen wants the world to see you,” he says. “Wants them to see the heir. The mate. The woman who stood in the Council chamber and tore the lies apart.”
“And if they try to tear *me* apart?”
“Then he’ll burn them to ash,” Torin says, voice low. “And I’ll help.”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as a Fae noble approaches Kaelen, her silver hair coiled high, her winter-ice eyes sharp. She leans in, says something, and I see his jaw tighten. See his hand flex. See him step back.
“She’s testing him,” I say.
“And you?” Torin asks. “Are you testing him too?”
I turn to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not letting him in,” he says. “Not really. You say you choose him, but you still fight. Still pull away. Still look at him like he’s the enemy.”
“And if I don’t?” I snap. “If I stop fighting? If I let myself *feel* it? What then? Do I just become his queen? His weapon? His *possession*?”
“Or maybe,” Torin says, stepping closer, “you become his equal. His partner. The woman who doesn’t need protecting—because she’s the one doing the protecting.”
I stare at him.
And then—
The music stops.
Not all at once. Not with a crash. But slowly, like a breath held too long, the strings fading, the drums falling silent, until the only sound is the flicker of torchlight and the pulse of blood in my ears.
And then—
A shot.
Sharp. Loud. *Real*.
Time slows.
I see it—just a flicker in the shadows above the balcony. A glint of metal. A muzzle. And then—
The bullet flies.
Not toward me.
Toward *him*.
Kaelen.
And I move.
Faster than thought. Faster than instinct. I don’t scream. Don’t shout. Just run—across the room, through the crowd, my heart a drum in my chest, my magic flaring beneath my skin.
And then—
I see it.
The trajectory.
The angle.
The *inevitability*.
And I know.
I can’t stop it.
But I can take it.
So I do.
I throw myself in front of him—just as the bullet strikes.
It hits me in the chest—just above the heart—deep, hot, *bright*. The force knocks me back, but I don’t fall. I *push*—my hands on his chest, shoving him behind me, my body a shield, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Blair!”
His voice—rough, raw, *terrified*—cuts through the chaos. The room erupts. Delegates scream. Guards draw weapons. Torin roars, shifting mid-motion, fur and fang erupting as he leaps toward the balcony.
But I don’t hear it.
Don’t see it.
All I feel is the fire in my chest. The way my body arches, how my fingers clutch at the fabric of my robes, how my knees buckle.
And then—
Kaelen is there.
His arms around me, lifting me, holding me like I’m something fragile, something *precious*. His face is inches from mine, his storm-gray eyes wild, his breath coming fast.
“Look at me,” he says, voice rough. “*Look at me*.”
I try. Can’t. My vision swims. The torches blur. The sigil on my back flares—white-hot, blinding—but it’s not enough. The bullet—Fae-forged, tipped with silver and dark magic—burns through my flesh like acid.
“You’re not dying,” he growls. “You’re *not*.”
“Let me go,” I whisper. “Save yourself.”
“No,” he says. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not *ever*.”
And then—
He runs.
Not toward the infirmary. Not toward safety.
Through the citadel.
Down winding stairs carved from black stone, past wards that hum with ancient magic, past guards who don’t stop us because they know better than to question the Alpha and his mate. My head lolls against his chest, my breath shallow, my body a dead weight in his arms.
But he doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t stop.
Just runs—faster, harder, like he’s trying to outrun death itself.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just hum.
It screams.
Not from pain. Not from rage.
From *connection*.
Heat. Fire. A surge of magic so violent it knocks the breath from my lungs. The sigil on my back flares—white-hot, blinding. The torches snuff out. The wards flicker. The air hums with power.
And then—
We’re not in the tunnels anymore.
We’re in a vision.
A memory.
But not ours.
It’s *hers*.
My mother.
She’s standing in the ruins of the Hollow, rain falling in sheets, blood on her hands. I’m a child—twelve years old, my hair shorn short, my face smudged with dirt—crouched behind a broken wall, watching. Fae assassins close in. And she—
She turns to me.
Not in rage.
In love.
“You were never my enemy,” she says, voice strong, clear. “You were my salvation. And she—” She looks at me, though I’m not there, though I’m just a ghost in this memory. “She is yours.”
And then she casts the spell.
Golden light erupts from her palms, wrapping around Kaelen, sealing him in a cocoon of power. The assassins strike—
And she falls.
But she’s smiling.
Because she knows.
She knows what’s coming.
She knows about the bond.
She knows about *us*.
The vision fades.
We’re back in the tunnels. On our knees. Breathless. Shaking.
Kaelen’s arms are still around me. His face is pressed into my neck. His breath is hot, ragged, unsteady. My hand is on his chest, over his heart, feeling it hammer beneath my fingers.
And the bond—
It doesn’t demand.
It doesn’t pull.
It just *is*.
Like we were always meant to be here. Like this. Together.
“You saw it,” he whispers. “You saw her.”
I nod, unable to speak.
“She knew,” he says. “She *knew*.”
“And now I do too,” I whisper.
He pulls back—just enough to look at me. His hands slide to my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn’t realize I was still crying.
“I don’t want to die,” I say, voice weak. “But I don’t know how to live like this. With the bond. With you. With everything.”
“Then don’t die,” he says. “And don’t live like this. Live like *us*. Not because the bond says so. Not because your mother wanted it. Because *you* do.”
“And if I don’t know what I want?”
“Then find out,” he says. “One breath at a time. One choice at a time. But don’t shut me out. Don’t shut *this* out.”
He leans in. His lips brush mine—soft, fleeting, like a promise.
And then—
He stands.
Lifts me into his arms again—gentle, careful, reverent—and carries me the rest of the way.
The healing chamber is deep beneath the citadel—carved from black stone, lit by flickering sconces, the air thick with the scent of damp and old magic. Mira is there, her indigo robes whispering against the stone, her dark eyes sharp, her hands glowing with counter-magic.
“She’s been shot,” Kaelen says, laying me on the stone table, his voice rough, raw. “Fae bullet. Silver. Dark magic.”
Mira doesn’t hesitate. Just moves—fast, silent—her hands pressing to the wound, her magic flaring violet light that surges into me, through the bond, through *us*. The sigil on my back flares—white-hot, blinding. The torches dim. Shadows stretch and twist along the walls.
And then—
I feel it.
The bullet—still lodged in my chest, burning through my flesh, my magic, my *life*.
“It’s too deep,” Mira says. “If I pull it out, she’ll bleed out. If I leave it in—”
“She’ll die,” Kaelen says. “Then do it.”
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t.”
“Blair—”
“I’m not afraid,” I say. “Not of death. Not of you. Of what happens if I let myself *feel* it. If I let myself want you. If I let myself—” I stop.
“Say it,” he says, voice low.
“Love you,” I whisper.
The word hangs in the air—fragile, dangerous, *real*.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at me. And then—
Slowly, deliberately—he reaches for the dagger at his belt—silver, curved, the hilt wrapped in leather stained dark with age. *Her* dagger. My mother’s.
“What are you doing?” Mira asks.
“Saving her,” he says.
And then—
He presses the flat of the blade to my wound.
Whispers an incantation—low, guttural, ancient.
And the bullet—
It moves.
Slowly. Painfully. *Out*.
I scream—low, deep, primal. My body arches. My fingers claw at the stone. My magic flares, violet light erupting from my palms, slamming into the walls, sending cracks through the stone.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just scream.
It *roars*.
Violet fire erupts from our joined hands, slamming into the ceiling, throwing back the torches, sending dust raining down. The sigil on my back flares—white-hot, blinding. The air hums with magic.
And then—
Silence.
The bullet clatters to the floor—small, dark, pulsing with residual magic.
And I’m still alive.
“She’s stable,” Mira says, voice tight. “But the wound’s still open. The magic’s still in her system. It’ll take hours to purge.”
“Then I’ll stay,” Kaelen says. “Until she’s healed.”
“You can’t,” Mira says. “The Council—”
“Can burn,” he says. “She took a bullet for me. I’ll die before I leave her side.”
Mira doesn’t argue. Just nods, steps back, and leaves.
The chamber is quiet now—too quiet. The torches flicker. The stone hums with containment magic. And Kaelen—
He’s on his knees beside me, his hand in mine, his storm-gray eyes sharp, unreadable. His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched at his sides. He’s angry. Not at me. Not at the Council. At *himself*.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, voice low, rough. “You didn’t have to take the bullet.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because if you died,” I say, “the bond would’ve broken. And I’d have died too.”
“That’s not the point,” he says. “You should’ve let me protect you.”
“Maybe I was protecting you,” I say. “Maybe I was the one who needed to save *you*.”
He stares at me. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then we’re even.”
“No,” I say. “We’re not. Because I didn’t do it for the bond. I didn’t do it for my mother. I did it because I *love* you. And if that makes me weak—”
“It doesn’t,” he says. “It makes you strong. Stronger than I’ve ever been.”
He leans in. His lips brush mine—soft, slow, *real*.
And the bond—
It doesn’t pull.
It doesn’t demand.
It just *is*.
Like a vow.
Like a promise.
Like a beginning.
Outside, the citadel breathes.
But in here?
In here, we are alive.