I wake with a gasp, my body jolting upright so fast the air cracks like a whip.
Darkness.
Heat.
And him.
Kaelen.
He’s beside me—on top of the covers, still dressed in his black trousers and open-collared shirt, one arm slung low across my waist, his hand resting possessively on my hip. His breath is warm against my neck, his scent—pine, ash, wildness—filling my lungs, his presence a weight that pins me to the bed not with force, but with something far more dangerous: care.
I freeze.
My heart hammers. My skin burns. My magic surges beneath my ribs like a storm front rolling in. I’m half-naked—my chemise twisted around my waist, one strap torn, my legs bare, the bond sigil glowing faintly over my heart, pulsing in time with my frantic pulse.
How did I get here?
The last thing I remember is collapsing into his arms in the archive, the file trembling in my hands, the truth burning through every lie I’d ever known. Kaelen’s voice—low, rough—telling me I didn’t come here to kill him. I came to burn the lies.
And then—
Nothing.
Just darkness. And tears. And the quiet, unbearable relief of being *held*.
And now—
I’m in his bed.
And he’s touching me.
Not in lust. Not in dominance.
But in protection.
Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare at the curve of his shoulder, the scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his lashes brush his cheekbone in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Not the High Alpha who rules with ice and silence, but a man who carries centuries of guilt like a chain around his neck.
A man who tried to save my mother.
A man who let the world believe he was the monster.
A man who just whispered, “Don’t move, or I’ll forget myself.”
And that—
That terrifies me.
Because I don’t know what happens when he forgets.
When the control slips. When the wolf breaks free. When the man beneath the mask finally stops pretending he doesn’t want me.
And I don’t know if I want him to.
I slide my hand down, fingers brushing the edge of his where it rests on my hip. The contact sends a jolt through me—sharp, electric—and I bite back a gasp. His skin is hot. His grip tightens, just slightly, like even in sleep, his body knows mine.
And then—
I feel it.
The pull.
Not just from the bond.
From *him*.
It’s deeper than magic. Deeper than fate. It’s in the way his breath hitches when I’m near, in the way his wolf howls for me, in the way he carried me back here like I was something fragile, something *his*.
I don’t belong to him.
I came here to kill him.
But right now, with his hand on my hip and his breath on my neck, I don’t feel like an assassin.
I feel like a woman who’s just discovered the enemy isn’t the man she thought he was.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I shift—just slightly—trying to slip out from under his arm without waking him.
Bad idea.
The second I move, the bond flares—hot and sudden—like a blade twisting in my ribs. I cry out, curling in on myself, clutching my chest as fire lances through me, sharp and deep. My vision blurs. My breath comes in ragged gasps.
Soulfire.
From breaking the ten-pace rule.
And then—
Kaelen stirs.
His arm tightens around me. His breath hitches. And then—
His eyes open.
Gold. Feral. Alert.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me, his gaze scanning my face, my body, the way I’m trembling, the way my fingers are pressed to the sigil.
“You’re hurting,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“I was trying to leave.”
“And the bond punished you.”
“It’s not a punishment. It’s a leash.”
He doesn’t argue. Just shifts, pulling me closer, his arm tightening around my waist, his body pressing into mine. The fire in my chest eases—just slightly—but doesn’t vanish.
“Ten paces,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck. “Or you burn.”
“I know.”
“Then stop trying to run.”
“I’m not running.”
“You are.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You’ve been running your whole life. From the Council. From the truth. From *me*.”
My breath catches.
“You think you know me?” I snap, pushing against his chest. “You think because you held me while I cried, you understand me?”
“No,” he says, not letting me go. “But I’m starting to.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to pretend you care.”
“I don’t pretend.” His voice drops. “I *do* care. Whether you want me to or not.”
The words hit like a blade.
I don’t answer.
Just look away, my chest rising and falling fast. The bond hums between us, warm and insistent. And beneath it, something else—something deeper, older, that makes my stomach twist.
Need.
Not just for revenge.
Not just for justice.
For *him*.
And I hate it.
“Let me go,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Kaelen—”
“You’re not leaving this bed,” he says, voice low, rough. “Not until the pain stops. Not until you stop pretending you don’t feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“This.” His hand slides up my side, slow, deliberate, his fingers brushing the edge of the bond sigil. “The pull. The heat. The way your body knows mine even when your mind refuses to.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I don’t feel it too?” he continues, his thumb circling the mark. “You think I don’t wake up every night with your name on my lips? That I don’t dream of you? That I don’t *want* you?”
My pulse hammers.
“Then why don’t you take me?” I challenge, tilting my chin up. “If you want me so badly, why don’t you just *claim* me? Bite me. Mark me. Make me yours in every way?”
His jaw clenches. “Because you don’t want it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’d use it against me.”
“Maybe I would.”
“And maybe I’m tired of fighting you.”
The words hang between us, sharp as glass.
And then—
I push up, straddling him, my hands braced on his chest, my body pressing into his. His breath catches. His eyes narrow. His cock thickens beneath me, hard and sudden, a ridge of heat against my core.
“Then stop fighting,” I whisper, leaning down until our lips are inches apart. “Stop pretending you don’t want me. Stop hiding behind duty and control and *lies*.”
His hands rise, gripping my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Then let me burn.”
And then—
I kiss him.
Not like last time—desperate, violent, a collision of teeth and fury.
This is slower. Deeper. A claiming. My lips move over his, soft at first, then harder, demanding. His groan vibrates against my mouth, his body arching into mine, his hands sliding up my back, into my hair.
The bond flares—white-hot, electric. Our pulses sync. Our breaths tangle. The world narrows to the taste of him, the feel of him, the *need*.
And then—
I stop.
I pull back, breathing hard, my forehead pressed to his. His lips are swollen, his eyes dazed, his chest rising and falling fast.
“You want me dead,” I say, voice trembling.
“I want you *bound*,” he growls. “Either way, you’re not leaving.”
And just like that, the moment shatters.
I push off him, scrambling off the bed, my legs unsteady, my skin too tight. I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want him. I can’t keep pretending I don’t *feel* him.
Because if I do—
If I let myself—
Then I’m not just here to burn the Council to ashes.
I’m here to burn myself alive.
I grab my gown from the floor, yanking it over my head, not caring that it’s wrinkled, not caring that my hair is a mess. I need out. I need air. I need to *think*.
“Where are you going?” Kaelen asks, sitting up.
“To clear my head.”
“You’re pushing the bond.”
“Then let it burn.”
And I walk out.
—
The corridors of the Aerie are silent this early—just the soft creak of shifting stone, the distant hum of containment wards, the echo of my footsteps as I stride down the narrow passage, my breath coming fast, my skin still humming from the kiss, from the touch, from the way his body arched beneath mine.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what I want.
One minute, I’m ready to kill him. The next, I’m straddling him, kissing him like I’ll die if I don’t.
And the worst part?
He’s not the only one who’s changed.
I am too.
Because I don’t want to kill him anymore.
I want to *know* him.
To understand why he let the world believe he was the monster. To know what it cost him. To see the man beneath the mask.
And that?
That’s the real betrayal.
Not Cassian’s lies.
Not Maeve’s schemes.
But the truth I can no longer deny.
I don’t hate him.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
I turn a corner—and freeze.
Silas Varek stands there, half-vampire, Kaelen’s Beta, his dark coat buttoned to the throat, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—sharp, observant—betray him. He’s seen something. Felt something.
“Torrent,” he says, voice calm. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“No.” He steps closer. “I don’t imagine you could.”
I don’t answer.
Just stare at him, my pulse hammering. He knows. He can smell it—the heat, the need, the way my magic is spiking in jagged bursts against the wards.
“You’re not his prisoner anymore,” he says quietly.
“I never was.”
“You were.” He tilts his head. “But not now. Now you’re his *problem*.”
My breath catches.
“He’s never hesitated for anyone,” Silas continues. “But for you… he’d burn the world.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me.
“Be careful,” he says, stepping past me. “The Council is fracturing. Cassian is moving. And if you break Kaelen—”
“I’m not trying to break him.”
“No,” he says, pausing. “You’re trying to save him. And that might be worse.”
And then he’s gone.
—
I don’t go back to the chambers.
Instead, I find myself in the training yard—a vast, open space of packed earth and ironwood dummies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel. I need to move. Need to fight. Need to burn off the heat, the need, the *doubt*.
I strip off my gown, tossing it aside, and step onto the mat in my underthings. My magic hums beneath my skin, restless, raw. I don’t use a weapon. Just my hands. My body. My rage.
I attack.
First the dummy—fists flying, kicks snapping, magic crackling in my fingertips. Then the air—spinning, dodging, striking. I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Just move, faster and faster, until my muscles burn, until my breath comes in ragged gasps, until the world narrows to the next strike, the next block, the next breath.
And then—
I feel it.
The pull.
Not from the bond.
From *him*.
I turn.
Kaelen stands at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his gold eyes burning, his presence a wall of heat and muscle. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his gaze scanning my body—the sweat on my skin, the rise and fall of my chest, the way my magic flares with every movement.
“You’re pushing the bond,” he says, voice low.
“You’re pushing *me*,” I snap.
“Then fight me.”
My breath catches.
“What?”
“If you’re so full of rage,” he says, stepping onto the mat, “then use it. On me.”
I don’t hesitate.
I surge forward, fists flying, magic crackling. He blocks—fast, brutal, inhuman—his arms deflecting my strikes, his body a wall of muscle and bone. I kick. He catches my leg, spins me, slams me onto the mat.
But I’m not done.
I roll, kick up, land on my feet, and attack again. Faster. Harder. Wilder. He blocks. Counters. Pins me. I break free. Attack. Fall. Rise. Fight.
And then—
He stops.
Just… stops.
Stands there, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, his eyes locked on mine.
“You’re not fighting me,” he says, voice rough. “You’re fighting *yourself*.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t want to kill me,” he continues. “You want to *understand* me. And that scares you more than hate ever did.”
I don’t answer.
Just stare at him, my chest heaving, my skin on fire.
And then—
He steps forward.
Closes the distance.
And pulls me into his arms.
Not to fight.
Not to dominate.
But to *hold* me.
My body molds against his, my head resting on his chest, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hums—steady, warm, alive. I close my eyes, breathing him in—pine and ash and wildness.
And for the first time since I walked into this place with a knife at my throat—
I don’t feel like an assassin.
I feel like a woman who’s just realized the enemy isn’t the man she thought he was.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
He was never the enemy at all.