The silence after Elira’s death was heavier than the screams before it. Not peaceful. Not triumphant. But hollow—like the air itself had been drained of breath, of magic, of time. The throne chamber of the Fae Court of Thorns stood in ruins: sigils cracked, silver threads severed, the bone-and-thorn throne splintered where Kael had thrown her against it. Blood pooled on the obsidian floor, dark and glistening, the scent of iron and decay thick in the air. The weight of what we’d done pressed against my chest—what *he’d* done. What *I’d* allowed.
Kael stood over her body, chest heaving, fangs still bared, his golden eyes glowing with the remnants of the shift. He hadn’t just killed her.
He’d severed the blood tie. Broken the lineage. Ended centuries of manipulation with one bite.
And now—
He looked lost.
Not in victory. Not in rage.
In grief.
Because she wasn’t just a monster.
She was his grandmother.
And he’d just killed her.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him—the way his shoulders trembled, the way his breath came in ragged pulls, the way his hand hovered over his chest, as if he could still feel the pull of that bloodline, the echo of her voice in his bones. The bond pulsed between us—warm, steady, alive—but for the first time, it didn’t feel like fire. It felt like an anchor. A tether pulling me toward him, not because of magic, but because I *wanted* to be there.
So I stepped forward.
My boots were silent on the blood-slick stone. I stopped just behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the storm of his scent—pine and iron, yes, but beneath it, something raw. Something broken.
“Kael,” I said, my voice soft.
He didn’t turn. Just stood there, staring at the body, his fangs slowly retracting, his eyes dimming from gold to human. The shift receded, leaving behind a man—battered, bloodied, but still standing.
“She called you her weapon,” I said, stepping closer. “Her heir. But you chose me instead.”
He turned his head, just slightly, his profile sharp in the dim light. “I didn’t choose you over her,” he said, his voice rough. “I chose *me* over her. The man I am, not the monster she wanted to make.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I reached for him.
Not to pull him away. Not to comfort him.
To *touch* him.
My fingers brushed the cut on his palm—the one from the blood ritual—then trailed up his arm, over the scars on his forearm, the old wounds from a childhood spent fighting to survive. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just let me touch him, his breath hitching as my fingers found the tear in his tunic, the blood on his side from the fight.
“You’re hurt,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s nothing,” he said, but he didn’t stop me as I pushed the fabric aside, revealing the gash—deep, but not fatal. Blood welled up, dark and rich, the scent sharp in the air.
“It’s not nothing,” I said, pressing my palm to the wound. My magic flared—crimson and wild—but not to heal. Not yet. Just to feel. To *know*.
He sucked in a breath, his body tensing. “Jade—”
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I said, lifting my gaze to his. “Not anymore.”
And then—
I knelt.
Not in submission. Not in reverence.
In *care*.
I tore a strip from the hem of my tunic, dipped it in the pool of blood—his, mine, Elira’s, it didn’t matter—and pressed it to the wound. He hissed, but didn’t pull away. Just watched me, his golden eyes burning, his breath unsteady.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low.
“I want to,” I said, tying the makeshift bandage in place. “You’ve carried your pain alone for too long. Let me carry it with you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to pull me up. Not to claim me.
To *hold* me.
His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip, the bond flaring—hot, electric. I leaned into his touch, my breath catching, my body remembering the kiss, the mark, the way he’d bitten me and saved us. And then—
I kissed him.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Soft.
My lips met his with a gentleness that stole my breath, my body arching into his, my hands sliding to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat. He didn’t take control. Didn’t dominate. Just let me lead, his mouth moving with mine, his breath mingling with mine, the bond pulsing between us—warm, unbroken, alive.
And when I pulled back, his forehead rested on mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You’re not what I expected,” he murmured.
“Neither are you,” I whispered.
And then—
We left.
***
The journey back to Blackthorn Keep was a blur—twisting tunnels, silent forests, the bond pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The magic carried the weight of what we’d done, what we’d survived, what we’d become. By the time we reached the keep, dawn was bleeding across the northern cliffs, pale light creeping through the trees, casting long, silent shadows.
The wolves were waiting.
Not in the courtyard. Not in the halls.
In the war room.
Torin stood at the head of the table, Lyra at his side, their expressions unreadable. The rest of the pack—Beta, Omegas, enforcers—lined the walls, their ears twitching, their eyes sharp. They knew something had happened. Could smell it on us—blood, magic, death.
And they were waiting to see what kind of Alpha would walk through that door.
Kael didn’t hesitate.
He walked in like he owned the room—bloodied, battered, but unbroken. I followed, my hand in his, the bond pulsing between us like a vow.
“Elira is dead,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “The blood tie is severed. The Shadow Fate stands. And if anyone in this room has a problem with that—” His golden eyes swept the room. “You can take it up with me.”
Silence.
Then—
Torin stepped forward. “She was your blood.”
“She was my prison,” Kael said, not looking at him. “And I’m done living in it.”
Torin didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Then we stand with you.”
Lyra stepped forward next. “And with her,” she said, nodding at me. “The fated pair. The storm.”
The pack murmured—wolves lowering their heads, omegas stepping forward, enforcers bowing. Not in submission. In *solidarity*.
And then—
Kael turned to me.
His hand found mine, his thumb brushing my pulse point. “You’re not just my mate,” he said, his voice low, for my ears only. “You’re my equal. My partner. My *truth*.”
And in front of the entire pack—
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Theirs.
The bond flared—hot, blinding, unbearable. Magic surged between us, crimson and gold, witch and wolf, flaring like a living flame. The room fell silent. The world stopped.
And when he pulled back, his forehead rested on mine, his breath warm against my lips. “No more lies,” he growled. “No more games. No more running.”
“No more running,” I agreed, my hands tightening on his shoulders. “We face the future together.”
He nodded. “And when the time comes—” His eyes flashed gold. “We burn it down.”
I smiled—small, fierce, real.
“Together.”
***
That night, I found him in the bathing chamber.
Not in the tub. Not preparing for a ritual.
Just sitting on the stone bench, shirtless, his back to the door, his body lit by the flickering fire in the hearth. Blood still streaked his side, the bandage I’d tied now soaked through. He hadn’t cleaned it. Hadn’t healed it. Just sat there, staring into the flames, his expression unreadable.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, stepping inside.
He didn’t turn. “I know.”
“Let me fix it.”
He didn’t answer. Just stayed there, his shoulders tense, his breath slow.
So I walked over. Kneeling beside him, I reached for the bandage, peeling it back. The wound was deep, but clean. No infection. Just blood. Just pain.
“You don’t have to suffer,” I said, my fingers brushing his skin.
“Maybe I do,” he said, his voice rough. “Maybe I need to feel it. To remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That I killed her,” he said, finally turning his head. His golden eyes burned into mine. “That I ended my own bloodline. That I’m no better than the monsters I’ve spent my life fighting.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I slapped him.
Not hard. Not to hurt.
But to *wake* him.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice sharp. “Don’t you *dare* do that. Don’t you dare turn her victory into your guilt. She spent her life trying to break you. To make you believe you were a monster. And now that she’s gone, you’re still letting her win.”
He stared at me, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing.
“You’re not a monster,” I said, my voice softening. “You’re a man. A good man. A man who fought to survive. Who protected his pack. Who chose *me* over power. Over blood. Over everything.”
His breath hitched.
“And if that’s not enough,” I said, my fingers tracing the scar on his chest—the one from when he was a boy, when they’d tried to break him—“then I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding you.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard.
Deep.
Claiming.
My mouth crashed into his, hungry, furious, a war cry. He gasped, arching into me, his hands flying to my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I straddled him, my body pressing against his, my magic flaring, the bond screaming with need.
“You’re mine,” I growled, breaking the kiss, my lips brushing his. “Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. But because you *chose* me. And I choose you. Every damn day.”
He didn’t answer.
Just lifted me, carried me to the tub, and laid me in the warm water.
And then—
He washed me.
Not like the first ritual. Not like the bath.
Like *care*.
His hands were slow, deliberate—trailing my arms, my back, the curve of my hips. No urgency. No hunger. Just touch. Just *us*. And when he reached the mark on my shoulder—the silver thorns, the crimson vines—he pressed his lips to it, a silent vow.
And then—
I washed him.
Not as his mate.
Not as his equal.
As the woman who loved him.
My fingers traced every scar, every wound, every piece of him that had been broken and rebuilt. And when I reached the gash on his side, I pressed my palm to it, my magic flaring—crimson and wild—and the wound sealed, the blood stopped, the pain faded.
He didn’t speak.
Just pulled me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his breath warm against my neck.
And for the first time—
He let me hold him.
Outside, the keep was silent.
But inside—
There was only us.
And the fire that would burn the world down.
Shadow Mate: Jade’s Vow
The night her sister died, Jade felt it in her bones—the snap of a spine, the silence of a severed bond. Now, three years later, she walks into Blackthorn Keep not as a grieving sister, but as Lady Seris Vale, a diplomat from the Southern Witches’ Conclave, here to negotiate interspecies peace. Her real mission? Unearth proof that Alpha Kael Blackthorn ordered the assassination of her sister, a hybrid peace envoy, and expose him before the Supernatural Council. But the moment she steps into the Grand Hall, the air shivers. Her blood sings. And across the room, Kael locks eyes with her, his wolf scent crashing into hers like a storm.
Before she can act, the Fae High Court intervenes: an ancient Shadow Fate prophecy has activated—two souls bound by blood and betrayal must unite or fracture the fragile peace. Jade and Kael are named as the fated pair. A ritual seals them with a shared pulse, a mark on their wrists, and a bond that flares with every heartbeat. One touch, and Jade feels his hunger—not just for power, but for her.
He thinks she’s a pawn. She thinks he’s a killer. But when a midnight ambush nearly takes her life, Kael rips out a vampire’s throat to save her, his claws slick with blood as he pins her against the wall, breath hot on her neck: “You don’t get to die before I decide what to do with you.”
Their bodies remember each other before their minds do. The bond deepens. Secrets unravel. And when Jade discovers a hidden ledger implicating Kael in her sister’s death, she prepares to strike—only to learn the truth is far darker: someone is using their bond to manipulate both their fates. Now, to survive, they must trust each other. To live, they must love. To win, they must become the storm.