The silence after the fever dream is worse than any battle.
Not the quiet of the Aerie at dawn, when the stone hums with containment wards and the wind whispers through the mountain passes. Not the hush of the training yard when the last strike has been thrown and the sweat has cooled on skin. No—this is something deeper. Heavier. A stillness that presses against my ribs like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.
Torrent doesn’t speak.
She sits by the hearth in my chambers, wrapped in a black wool blanket, her storm-gray hair loose around her shoulders, her face unreadable. The firelight dances across her skin, catching the faint glow of the bond sigil over her heart. She stares into the flames, her breath slow, her hands clenched in her lap. Not from pain. Not from fear.
From shame.
She remembers.
Of course she does. Even delirious, even burning with fever, her mind is sharp as a knife. She knows what she did. What she *allowed*. The way she straddled me, grinding down, her body moving with a hunger that wasn’t just magic or fever or the bond—it was *her*. Her scent flooded the room, sweet and sharp, her magic crackling at her fingertips, her voice tearing from her throat as she whispered my name like a prayer.
And I didn’t stop her.
Because I couldn’t.
Because the wolf in my blood howled for her. Because my cock throbbed beneath her, hard and desperate, because my hands gripped her hips like I’d die if I let go. Because for the first time in two centuries, I wasn’t the High Alpha. I wasn’t the monster. I wasn’t the man who buried his heart beneath duty and silence.
I was just a man.
Wanting her.
And when the guards burst in—two of my most loyal soldiers, silver-laced armor gleaming, eyes wide with shock—I didn’t shove her off. Didn’t cover her. Didn’t growl a command to leave.
I held her.
And they bowed.
Low. Respectful.
Because they saw what I couldn’t hide.
She’s mine.
And I’m hers.
Even if she won’t admit it.
I stand at the window, my back to her, my hands braced against the stone. The Aerie floats above the Icelandic highlands today, cloaked in illusion, hidden from human eyes. Below, the volcanic plains stretch into the distance, black and barren, the sky bruised with storm clouds. Peaceful. Ordered. The world I’ve spent centuries building.
And she’s here to burn it down.
But not today.
Today, she’s weak. Hollowed out by the fever. Her magic, usually a storm beneath her skin, is coiled tight, barely a whisper. I can feel it through the bond—her exhaustion, her shame, the quiet, traitorous part of her that *wanted* it. That still wants it.
And I hate myself for it.
Because I should have stopped her. I should have been stronger. I should have been the Alpha.
But when she kissed me—hard, desperate, *true*—when she ground down on me, her body slick with want, her breath hot against my neck—I didn’t think.
I *felt*.
And now, the entire Aerie knows.
The whispers started yesterday. In the corridors. In the dining hall. In the training yard.
“She rode him in her sleep.”
“He didn’t stop her.”
“The bond is strong. Too strong.”
“She’s not a prisoner. She’s his problem.”
And Maeve Thorne—vampire heiress, Council liaison, self-proclaimed queen of the Silk Courts—found her in the library. Smiled. Whispered. Tried to twist the knife.
But Torrent didn’t flinch.
Just smiled back. Slow. Dangerous. Said, “When I wake up, he’ll still be there. Still wanting me. Still mine.”
And Maeve walked away.
Because she knows.
We all do.
This isn’t just a bond.
This is a war.
And I’m losing.
“You’re staring,” Torrent says, her voice low, rough.
I don’t turn. “You’re brooding.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About the fever.”
She doesn’t answer.
But I feel it—the shift in her, the way her breath hitches, the way her magic flares, just once, like a spark in dry tinder. She’s angry. Not at me. At herself. Because she wanted it. Because her body betrayed her. Because even now, with the fire gone, with the fever broken, with the shame burning in her chest, she can still feel me beneath her. Still taste me on her lips. Still hear me groan her name.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, finally turning. “The fever. The magic. The bond. It overwhelmed you.”
“I *wanted* it,” she snaps, standing. The blanket falls to the floor, revealing the thin chemise beneath, the torn strap, the way her body moves with a grace that makes my wolf snarl. “I wasn’t unconscious. I *knew* what I was doing.”
“Then why are you ashamed?”
She glares at me. “Because I came here to kill you. Not to *ride* you.”
“And yet you did.”
“Because I was delirious.”
“No.” I step closer, my voice dropping. “You did it because your body knows the truth. Because every time you look at me, you see the man who tried to save your mother. The man who let the world believe he was the monster. The man who *dreams of you*.”
Her breath catches.
“You think I don’t feel it?” I continue. “Your need? Your want? It pulses through the bond like a second heartbeat. You’re not just my mate, Torrent. You’re my *storm*. And I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her storm-colored eyes blazing, her chest rising and falling fast. And then—
She turns and walks to the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To clear my head.”
“You’re still weak.”
“Then let the bond burn.”
And she’s gone.
—
I don’t follow.
Not yet.
Let her run. Let her fight. Let her pretend she doesn’t feel it.
Because I know the truth.
And so does she.
But the Aerie is not kind to those who walk alone.
Three hours later, Silas finds me in the war room, studying the Council’s security grid, my wolf pacing beneath my skin.
“She’s not in the training yard,” he says, stepping inside. “Not in the library. Not in the gardens.”
My head snaps up. “Where is she?”
“The eastern corridor. Near the old alchemy lab.”
My blood runs cold.
That wing is abandoned. Sealed. The wards are weak. The surveillance is minimal. A perfect place for an ambush.
“She’s not alone,” Silas adds, his voice low. “Two guards saw a Council operative—witch, by the sigil—enter the hall ten minutes before her.”
I’m already moving.
—
I find her on the floor.
Not fighting. Not running.
Collapsed.
Her body is curled in on itself, her hands clutching her stomach, her face pale, her lips tinged with blue. The stench of poison fills the air—bitter, metallic, unmistakable. Wolfsbane. Silver-laced. A slow, agonizing death.
“Torrent!” I drop to my knees, pulling her into my arms. Her skin is cold. Her breath shallow. Her magic—flickering, fading. “Who did this?”
She doesn’t answer. Just coughs, a thin trickle of black blood at the corner of her mouth.
My wolf snarls.
No.
Not like this.
Not after everything.
“Hold on,” I growl, pressing my palm to her chest, feeling the bond—weak, fraying. “I’ve got you.”
She blinks up at me, her storm-colored eyes dim. “You shouldn’t… have come.”
“Shut up.” I rip open her chemise, exposing the bond sigil, and press my lips to it, sealing my mouth over the mark. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
And then—
I bite.
Not to mark. Not to claim.
To save.
My fangs pierce the skin just above the sigil, drawing blood—hers and mine—mingling in a hot, coppery rush. The bond flares—white-hot, electric—as our blood mixes, as my magic floods her veins, as the poison begins to burn away.
She gasps, her body arching into mine, her hands clutching my shoulders. Her breath hitches. Her pulse stutters. And then—
She moans.
Not from pain.
From *need*.
Because blood-sharing between mates is the most intimate act a werewolf can perform. It’s not just healing. It’s connection. It’s surrender. It’s a psychic tether that binds us deeper than magic, deeper than fate.
And it’s *addictive*.
I don’t stop.
I drink from her—just once, just enough to anchor the bond—and then flood her with my own blood, my magic, my life force. The poison burns away. Her skin warms. Her breath deepens. Her magic surges, flaring like lightning beneath her skin.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not hesitant.
Hard. Desperate. A collision of teeth and tongue and fury. Her lips move over mine, demanding, taking, *claiming*. My groan vibrates against her mouth, my body arching into hers, my hands sliding up her back, into her hair.
The bond flares—white-hot, electric. Our pulses sync. Our breaths tangle. The world narrows to the taste of her, the feel of her, the *need*.
And then—
I pull back.
“You’re alive,” I growl, my voice rough.
She stares at me, her lips swollen, her eyes dazed, her chest rising and falling fast. “You saved me.”
“I told you I would.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just touches the bite mark on her chest—small, precise, already healing. And then—
She touches the bond sigil on my chest, her fingers brushing the black thorns and claws.
“You’re in my veins now,” I whisper, my voice low. “You’ll never be free.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just looks at me—like she’s seeing me for the first time.
Like she’s realizing—
That the monster she came to kill
might already be in love with her.
—
We return to the chambers in silence.
She walks beside me, her steps slow, her body still weak, her magic coiled tight. I keep my hand on her back, not to control, not to dominate, but to *protect*. The bond hums between us—warm, steady, alive—but deeper now. Stronger. The blood-sharing has forged a psychic tether, a connection that goes beyond magic.
She’s in my veins.
And I’m in hers.
And the entire Aerie will know by morning.
When we reach the chambers, she doesn’t go to her room. Just stands in the center of the space, her storm-colored eyes locked on mine.
“Why did you do it?” she asks, voice low. “You didn’t have to save me. You could have let me die. It would have been easier.”
“Easier for who?”
“For you. For the Council. For *order*.”
“You think I care about order?” I step closer, my voice dropping. “You think I’ve spent two centuries building walls just to keep the peace? I did it to survive. To protect what was mine. And now—” I touch the bond sigil on my chest. “You’re mine.”
She doesn’t look away. “And if I don’t want to be?”
“Then you’re already too late.”
Her breath hitches.
And then—
She steps forward.
Closer.
Until we’re standing toe to toe, her body pressing into mine, her breath hot against my neck.
“You want me dead,” she says, voice trembling.
“I want you *bound*,” I growl. “Either way, you’re not leaving.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me—like she’s seeing the truth in my eyes.
And then—
She reaches for my hand.
Not to fight.
Not to run.
But to *stay*.
And I take it.
Because for the first time in two hundred years—
I don’t want to be the monster.
I want to be hers.