The training yard is silent now.
No more fists flying. No more magic crackling in the air. No more rage burning through my veins. Just the slow, steady rise and fall of Kaelen’s chest beneath my ear, his arms locked around me like iron bands, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hums between us—warm, insistent, alive—not with pain, not with fury, but with something deeper. Something I can’t name.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just holds me.
And for the first time since I walked into this place with a knife at my throat, I let him.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Minutes? Hours? The Aerie shifts above the Icelandic highlands, cloaked in illusion, hidden from human eyes, the sky bleeding from dawn to midday. But time doesn’t matter. Not here. Not now. All that matters is the weight of him, the heat of his body, the quiet certainty that he’s not letting go.
And I don’t want him to.
That’s the worst part.
Not the fever dream. Not the blood-sharing. Not even the way he groaned my name when I straddled him in delirium, my body grinding down on his like I was starving.
It’s this.
The stillness. The surrender. The way my heart slows to match his, like we’re syncing to the same rhythm, the same breath, the same pulse.
It’s the way I *fit*.
And that terrifies me.
Because I didn’t come here to fit.
I came here to burn.
And now, standing in the dust of the training yard, my body pressed against his, my breath tangled with his, I feel the fire inside me flicker—not from vengeance, not from rage, but from something softer, hotter, more dangerous.
Need.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my hair.
“It’s nothing.”
“Liar.” His arms tighten. “You’re not running. You’re not fighting. You’re just… here.”
“Maybe I’m tired.”
“Maybe you’re starting to believe me.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
He finally pulls back, just enough to look at me, his gold eyes searching mine. There’s no mask now. No ice. No High Alpha. Just a man—raw, exposed, *wanting*.
“You don’t have to hate me,” he says, voice low. “You don’t have to fight me. You can just… stay.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I do?”
“Then we face Cassian together. We expose the truth. We burn the lies. And you get your justice.”
“And what do *you* get?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You.”
The word hits like a blade.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare at him, my heart hammering, my skin too tight.
And then—
The world tilts.
A wave of dizziness crashes over me, sharp and sudden, like the ground has dropped out from beneath my feet. My knees buckle. My vision blurs. My magic surges—wild, jagged, uncontrolled—and then collapses, leaving me hollow, weak, gasping for air.
“Torrent?” Kaelen catches me before I fall, his arms locking around me, his voice tight with alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t—” I try to speak, but my tongue feels thick, my thoughts muddled. Heat floods my skin, then recedes, then floods again, like a fever burning through me in waves. My bones ache. My blood sings. My head pounds.
“You’re burning up,” he says, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. “Shit. You’re on fire.”
“It’s the bond,” I whisper, my voice slurred. “It’s reacting. To the magic. To the fight. To—”
“To *me*,” he finishes, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing. “Your body’s rejecting the overload. Hybrid systems aren’t built for this kind of strain.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him I’m fine. Want to push him away and walk back to the chambers on my own.
But I can’t.
My limbs are lead. My thoughts are fog. The world narrows to the heat of his body, the rhythm of his steps, the way his heartbeat thrums against my ear.
And then—
Darkness.
—
I wake in fire.
Not real fire. Not flames. But heat—searing, unbearable, pulsing through my veins like liquid lightning. My skin is fever-hot. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My magic flares in short, jagged bursts, crackling at my fingertips, scorching the sheets beneath me.
I’m in Kaelen’s bed.
Again.
But this time, I’m not half-naked from a torn chemise.
This time, I’m stripped to my underthings, my gown discarded on the floor, my body drenched in sweat, my hair plastered to my neck. The bond sigil glows faintly over my heart, pulsing in time with my frantic pulse, a beacon in the dark.
And Kaelen is here.
Not beside me.
Not holding me.
But kneeling at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress, his head bowed, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. His shirt is gone. His trousers are unbuttoned. His body is taut, coiled tight with tension, his muscles straining beneath his skin like he’s fighting himself.
“Kaelen,” I croak, my voice raw.
He doesn’t look up.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just breathe.”
“I’m burning.”
“I know.”
“Make it stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He finally lifts his head, his gold eyes blazing, his fangs bared, his pupils narrowed to slits. The wolf is close. Too close. I can feel it—the hunger, the need, the way his gaze rakes over my body, lingering on the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, the swell of my breasts.
“Because if I touch you,” he growls, “I won’t stop.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
The fever spikes.
White-hot pain lances through me, sharp and sudden, and I cry out, curling in on myself, clutching my chest as the bond flares, burning like a brand. My magic surges—wild, uncontrolled—and then collapses, leaving me gasping, trembling, *needing*.
And then—
I see it.
A vision.
Not from the Soul Mirror. Not from the past.
But from *now*.
Kaelen above me. His hands on my hips. His mouth at my throat. His cock buried deep inside me, thick and hot, stretching me, filling me, claiming me. My back arches. My head throws back. My fingers claw at his shoulders. His name tears from my lips—Kaelen—a scream, a plea, a prayer.
And then—
I’m on top of him.
Straddling him. Grinding down. My hands on his chest. My lips on his. My body moving, riding him, taking what I need, what I *want*, what I’ve been denying since the moment our skin touched.
And he’s groaning my name. Torrent. Torrent. Torrent.
And the bond—white-hot, electric—flares between us, sealing us together, body and soul.
And then—
I wake.
But I don’t stop.
Because the fever has me. Because the vision is real. Because my body knows what it wants, even if my mind is too weak to fight.
I surge up, straddling him, my hands braced on his chest, my body pressing into his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at me, his breath ragged, his fangs bared, his wolf howling in his eyes.
“Torrent,” he warns, voice thick. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know *exactly* what I’m doing.”
I grind down, slow and deliberate, feeling the ridge of his cock beneath me, hard and thick, straining against his trousers. He hisses, his hands flying to my hips, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Stop,” he growls.
“Make me.”
And then I kiss him.
Not soft. Not hesitant.
Hard. Desperate. A collision of teeth and tongue and fury. My lips move over his, demanding, taking, *claiming*. 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 ride him.
Not through fabric. Not through clothes.
But in my fever, in my delirium, in my *need*, I grind down, over and over, my core slick with want, my body on fire, my magic crackling at my fingertips. He’s groaning my name, his hips lifting to meet mine, his hands gripping my waist, his breath hot against my neck.
“Torrent,” he gasps. “*Gods*, you feel—”
And then—
The door bursts open.
Guards. Two of them. Silver-laced armor. Cold eyes. They freeze in the doorway, their gazes locked on us—on me, straddling Kaelen, my body grinding down, my lips swollen from kissing, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
Shock. Disbelief. Then—
Understanding.
And then—
They bow.
Low. Respectful.
And back out, closing the door behind them.
But the damage is done.
The moment shatters.
I freeze. My breath catches. My body stills.
And then—
I realize what I’ve done.
What I’ve *allowed*.
My hands fly to my mouth. My heart hammers. My skin burns with shame.
“Kaelen,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I didn’t—”
“You were delirious,” he says, voice rough, pulling me into his arms, holding me as I shake. “It wasn’t you. It was the fever. The magic. The bond.”
“But I *wanted* it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me, his breath warm on my neck, his hands stroking my hair, his body still hard beneath me.
And then—
The fever breaks.
Like a wave receding, the heat drains from my skin, leaving me cold, weak, *exposed*. My magic settles. My thoughts clear. And the truth hits me like a blade.
I just rode Kaelen Dain.
In front of the guards.
And he *let* me.
“They saw,” I whisper.
“They saw nothing,” he says, voice low. “They saw their High Alpha tending to his mate. Nothing more.”
“They saw me grinding on you.”
“They saw a fever dream.”
“And you?” I pull back, looking into his eyes. “What did *you* see?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze, his gold eyes burning, his voice rough.
“I saw you,” he says. “My storm. My fire. My *mate*. And I saw the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you want me. Even when you’re unconscious. Even when you’re fighting it. Your body knows what it needs.”
My breath hitches.
“And do you?” I whisper. “Do you want me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me back into his arms, holding me as the last of the fever fades, as the bond hums between us, warm and alive, as the world outside the chamber moves on, unaware of what just happened.
But I know.
And so does he.
Because the guards saw.
And now, the entire Aerie will know.
That the assassin who came to kill him
just rode him in a fever dream.
And he didn’t stop her.
—
I don’t sleep.
Not that night. Not the next.
The fever leaves me weak, hollow, raw. I stay in the chambers, wrapped in a blanket, my magic coiled tight beneath my skin, my thoughts a storm I can’t control. Kaelen doesn’t press me. Doesn’t ask. Just brings me water. Food. Silence.
But the silence is worse.
Because I can feel him—through the bond, through the air, through the way his gaze lingers on me when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s not angry. Not disgusted. Not even amused.
He’s *satisfied*.
And that terrifies me.
Because he knows.
He knows I want him.
And now, so does the Council.
On the third day, the whispers start.
I hear them in the corridors. In the dining hall. In the training yard.
“Did you hear? The hybrid rode him in her sleep.”
“She was delirious. It wasn’t real.”
“It looked real to me. He didn’t stop her.”
“The bond is strong. Too strong.”
“She’s not a prisoner. She’s his *problem*.”
And then—
Maeve Thorne.
She finds me in the library, her gown of liquid crimson clinging to her like blood, her lips curved in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Darling,” she purrs, stepping close. “I heard about your… *episode*.”
My jaw tightens. “It was a fever.”
“Of course.” She leans in, her voice a whisper. “But tell me—when you were grinding on him, did you imagine it was *you* he wanted? Or just the bond?”
I don’t react.
Just stare at her, my storm-colored eyes locked on hers.
And then—
I smile.
Slow. Dangerous.
“I didn’t have to imagine,” I say, voice low. “Because when I wake up, he’ll still be there. Still wanting me. Still *mine*.”
Her smile falters.
And then—
She walks away.
—
That night, I dream of the fire again.
But this time, I don’t see my mother.
I see *me*.
Young. Scared. Hiding in the shadows.
And Cassian.
Not as a monster.
But as a man.
His hand reaches through the flames, pulling me back, saving me.
And then—
He whispers, “You’re my daughter.”
I wake with a gasp.
The bond hums—steady, warm.
And then—
A sound.
From the other room.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
But something softer.
A sigh.
A shift.
And then—
Whispers.
“Torrent…”
My name. On his lips.
In his sleep.
I sit up slowly, my breath caught in my throat.
And I realize—
He’s dreaming of me too.
Not as an enemy.
Not as an assassin.
But as something else.
Something I can’t name.
Something I’m starting to fear.
Because if he dreams of me—
Then maybe, just maybe—
He’s already mine.
And that?
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.
—
The Council Chamber is colder today.
Not in temperature—the hearths burn low, the air thick with the scent of pine and iron—but in tone. The twelve thrones are filled, the advisors silent, the guards rigid. The air hums with tension, the weight of accusation pressing down like a storm front.
I stand at the center of the ring, ten paces from Kaelen, who sits in the High Alpha’s throne, his posture straight, his face a mask of ice. To my left, Cassian rises from his seat, his silver robes shimmering, his smile sharp as a blade.
“My fellow Councilors,” he begins, voice smooth, carrying. “We gather today not in unity, but in crisis. For weeks, a spy has walked among us. A hybrid of tainted blood, posing as a neutral envoy, manipulating records, inciting rebellion, and now—” his eyes flick to me, cold, triumphant—“*bonding* with our High Alpha through unnatural means.”
Murmurs ripple through the Chamber.
“Torrent of the Hollow Moon Coven,” he continues, “claims to be fated to Kaelen Dain. But the bond—ignited in violence, in assassination—reeks of deception. And now, evidence has come to light.”
He raises a hand.
A scroll appears, carried by a silent attendant. Cassian takes it, unfurls it slowly, dramatically.
“Records from the Dresden outpost,” he says. “Proof that Torrent was seen coordinating with known hybrid insurgents. Communications. Maps. Orders. All bearing her sigil.”
My breath catches.
It’s forged. Of course it is. But it’s *good*. The parchment looks ancient, the ink faded, the sigil—my mother’s, twisted into mine—drawn with precision. Anyone who doesn’t know would believe it.
“She is not a diplomat,” Cassian declares. “She is a saboteur. A threat. And by the Purity Edict, Section Three, I call for her immediate exile to the Veil.”
Gasps. Whispers. A few Councilors nod.
My heart hammers.
I can’t use magic. I can’t alter the records. I can’t fight.
But I can *speak*.
I step forward, my voice cutting through the noise.
“You’re lying.”
Cassian smiles. “Prove it.”
“You want proof?” I say, turning to the Chamber. “Then let’s talk about *your* records. About the Dresden fire. About the ‘insurgents’ who supposedly burned it down. Funny thing—when I investigated, I found Council sigils at the scene. *Yours*, Lord Cassian. And the so-called ‘orders’?” I gesture to the scroll. “That’s not my sigil. That’s my *mother’s*—altered. Stolen. Just like her life was stolen when you forged Kaelen’s vote and sent her to the Veil.”
The Chamber erupts.
Cassian’s smile doesn’t waver. “Baseless accusations. You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof,” I say, stepping closer. “I need *logic*. You claim I’m a spy. But if I were, why would I bond with the High Alpha? Why would I risk exposure? Why would I stand here, unarmed, and challenge you?”
“Pride,” he says. “Recklessness. The arrogance of the tainted.”
“Or maybe,” I say, voice dropping, “I’m not the one who’s lying.”
I turn to the Council.
“You all know the rules. Fae bargains are bound by *words*. A promise spoken is a vow etched in magic. So let’s make one.” I lock eyes with Cassian. “Swear on your bloodline, Lord Cassian. Swear that every word you’ve spoken today is true. Swear it, and I’ll walk into the Veil without a fight.”
He doesn’t move.
The Chamber holds its breath.
Because he knows. We all know.
A bloodline oath can’t be broken. Not without consequence. Not without *truth*.
And he’s not going to swear.
Because he’s lying.
“You dare challenge me?” he hisses.
“I dare *you*,” I say. “Swear it. Or admit you’re afraid of the truth.”
He stares at me, his eyes black with fury. And then—
He laughs.
Soft. Cold. Like ice cracking.
“You’re clever, little storm,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But cleverness won’t save you. The Council will decide your fate.”
He turns to the others. “All in favor of exile?”
Hands rise—three. Four. Five. Not enough.
“Opposed?”
Kaelen’s hand lifts. Then the witch Councilor. The young werewolf Beta. And one more—a vampire elder I didn’t expect.
Six. Six to five.
I’m safe.
For now.
Cassian’s face darkens. But he bows his head. “The vote stands. Torrent remains… for now.”
He turns to leave.
And then—
He stops.
Looks back at me.
And whispers, just loud enough for me to hear:
“You don’t even know whose blood you carry, little storm.”
And then he’s gone.
—
I don’t speak on the way back.
Kaelen doesn’t either. The bond hums between us, quiet, strained. I can feel his tension, his focus, the way his wolf is coiled tight beneath his skin. He’s thinking. Planning. Protecting.
But not from me.
From *him*.
When we reach his chambers, I turn on him.
“You knew.”
He doesn’t pretend. “I suspected.”
“About the vote. About my mother. About Cassian framing you.”
He nods once.
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“I might have.”
“Or you might have killed me anyway.”
I stare at him. Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me.
“Why didn’t you fight it?” I ask. “Why let the world think you were the monster?”
“Because the Council needed a villain,” he says quietly. “Someone to fear. Someone to obey. If they thought I was weak—if they thought I could be *framed*—they’d have torn each other apart. War would have followed. And your mother…” He closes his eyes. “She’d have died in the chaos anyway.”
My breath catches.
He did it to protect her. Even in death, he shielded her from the truth.
“You tried to save her,” I whisper.
He opens his eyes. “I failed.”
And for the first time, I see it—the guilt. The grief. The weight of two centuries of control, of silence, of pretending he didn’t care.
He cared.
And he’s been paying for it ever since.
I step closer. “Cassian knows who I am.”
“He knows you’re a threat.”
“No. He knows *more*.” I touch the bond sigil on my chest. “He said I don’t know whose blood I carry. What does that mean?”
Kaelen goes still.
And then—
He reaches into his pocket.
Hands me a ring.
Silver. Ancient. And on the band—a sigil.
The same one from the forged decree.
The same one Cassian wore today.
“I found this,” he says, “in your mother’s cell. After they took her. It wasn’t hers.”
My hands tremble.
Because I recognize it.
Not from the decree.
From my dreams.
From the night they came for us.
From the hand that reached through the fire.
And suddenly, the truth hits me like a blade.
Cassian wasn’t just the one who framed Kaelen.
He was the one who *took* her.
And if he knew her…
If he left his ring behind…
Then maybe—
Maybe he’s not just the villain.
Maybe he’s my *father*.
The thought drops like a stone.
And the world tilts.
I look up at Kaelen, my breath coming fast.
“We’re not done,” I say, voice shaking. “This isn’t over.”
He nods. “No. It’s just beginning.”
And for the first time, I don’t know if I’m here to burn the Council to ashes.
Or to burn the man who gave me his blood.