The corridors of the Aerie are too quiet.
Not the hush of stone at dawn, not the stillness of an empty hall—this is something heavier. A silence that hums with tension, with whispers not yet spoken, with glances that linger too long. I feel it in the air, in the way the wards pulse faintly against my skin, in the way my magic crackles at my fingertips like static before a storm.
I shouldn’t have walked away.
Not from the bathhouse. Not from *him*. Not after I kissed him—hard, desperate, *true*—after I straddled him, after I tasted the roughness of his breath, the heat of his body, the way his cock throbbed beneath me, thick and ready, like he was seconds from breaking.
But I did.
Because I’m not ready.
Because if I let myself want him—if I let myself *need* him—then everything I came here for collapses. My mother’s trial. Cassian’s lies. The fire that took my childhood. All of it burns away in the heat of his hands, the roughness of his voice, the way he says my name like it’s a prayer.
And I can’t lose that.
I can’t lose *me*.
I turn a corner, my boots echoing against the slate, my storm-gray dress clinging to my damp skin, my hair still tangled from the steam. The bond hums between us—warm, insistent—ten paces behind me, then fifteen, then twenty. I can feel him. Not just through the tether, but in the air, in the way my pulse stutters when I think of his hands on my hips, his mouth hot against my neck, the way he groaned when I kissed him.
And then—
I hear it.
A whisper.
Soft. Mocking.
“So the High Alpha’s *problem* has a temper.”
I freeze.
Maeve Thorne steps from the shadows, her gown replaced with something darker—deep violet, clinging to her like smoke, her lips painted the color of dried blood. She’s not smiling. Not this time. Her eyes are sharp, her posture rigid, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
“You followed me,” I say, voice low.
“You left a trail,” she says, stepping closer. “Wet footprints. Magic spikes. The scent of him still on your skin.” Her nose flares. “You *touched* him. After you saw me bare. After you saw the mark.”
“It was fake.”
“And you believed him?” She laughs, soft, cold. “Of course you did. You’re bound. You’re *his*. You’d believe anything he told you.”
“I believe what I *feel*.”
“And what do you feel?” She steps into my space, her breath warm against my ear. “Do you feel his hands on you? His mouth? His fangs? Or do you just feel the *bond*—the magic that makes you kneel when he calls?”
My magic flares.
A crackle of lightning dances at my fingertips, sharp and sudden. She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles.
“Careful, little storm,” she whispers. “You’re not the only one who knows how to play with fire.”
And then—
She’s gone.
Not running. Not retreating.
Just… gone. Like mist dissolving into stone.
And I’m left standing in the corridor, my breath coming fast, my skin too tight, my magic a storm beneath my skin.
She’s not wrong.
That’s the worst part.
She’s not wrong about the bond. About the way it pulls me to him. About the way my body *knows* him, even when my mind fights it. About the way I kissed him in the bathhouse like I’d die if I didn’t.
And now, I don’t know what’s real anymore.
Is it love?
Or just magic?
Is it desire?
Or just fate?
And if I can’t tell the difference—
Then what am I even fighting for?
—
I find him in the war room.
Not where I left him. Not poring over maps with Silas. But alone. Standing at the far window, his back to me, his hands braced against the stone, his shoulders tense, his presence a wall of heat and muscle. The Aerie floats above the Black Sea tonight, cloaked in illusion, the sky bruised with storm clouds, the water below churning like a living thing.
He doesn’t turn.
Just says, voice low, rough, “You’re pushing the bond.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About Maeve?”
He doesn’t answer.
But I feel it—the shift in him, the way his pulse hitches, the way his wolf stirs beneath his skin. He’s angry. Not at me. At *her*. At the lie. At the way she used his name like a weapon.
“She’s not going to stop,” I say, stepping closer. “She’ll keep coming. She’ll keep whispering. She’ll keep showing her skin, her lies, her *fake* mark—”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you deny it sooner? Why let her call you? Why let her summon you like you were some… some *lover* waiting in the wings?”
He turns.
Slow. Deliberate.
His gold eyes burn in the dim light, 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 beneath the damp fabric.
“I didn’t summon her,” he growls. “Silas intercepted a message. Said she had intel on Cassian. I went to shut her down. Not to see *her*.”
“And you didn’t think to bring me?”
“Would you have come?”
“No.”
“Then I did what I had to.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me.
“You think I don’t see it?” I say, stepping closer. “The way she looks at you. The way she *claims* you. The way she thinks she has a right to you.”
“She doesn’t.”
“But others will.” I press forward, my voice dropping. “The Council. The packs. The Silk Courts. They’ll see this. They’ll hear about it. They’ll say you’re weak. That you’re distracted. That you’re *mine*.”
“I am yours.”
My breath stops.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” He steps forward, closing the distance, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot against my neck. “You felt it in the garden. You felt it when I knelt. You felt it when you touched my neck. I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not pretending. I *want* you. I *need* you. And if the world wants to burn because of it—” His hand slides up my side, slow, deliberate, his fingers brushing the edge of the bond sigil. “Then let it burn.”
My pulse hammers.
“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 *ache* for you?”
My breath hitches.
“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 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 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 back, 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 bench, yanking it over my head, not caring that it’s damp, not caring that my hair is a mess. I need out. I need air. I need to *think*.
“Where are you going?” Kaelen asks, stepping forward.
“To clear my head.”
“You’re pushing the bond.”
“Then let it burn.”
And I walk out.
—
I don’t go far.
Just to the eastern balcony—a narrow ledge carved into the Aerie’s outer shell, overlooking the churning sea below. The wind bites at my skin, sharp and cold, the storm clouds rolling in fast. I lean against the railing, my hands gripping the stone, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
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.
“You’re going to catch cold.”
I don’t turn.
Just feel him behind me—his heat, his presence, the way the bond hums between us, warm and alive. He doesn’t touch me. Just stands there, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck, his body a wall of heat and muscle.
“Then leave,” I say, voice low.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re mine.”
My breath hitches.
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “Because it’s true? Because you *feel* it? Because every time you run, I follow? Every time you fight, I stay? Every time you push, I *pull*?”
“You don’t get to claim me.”
“I don’t *claim* you.” He turns me, his hands on my shoulders, his gold eyes burning. “I *know* you. I know the fire in your blood. I know the storm in your magic. I know the way you hide your pain behind fury. And I know—” His voice breaks. “I know you don’t hate me anymore.”
My breath stops.
“And what if I don’t?” I whisper. “What if I *want* you? What if I *need* you? What if I’m standing here, trembling, not from the cold, but from the way your hands feel on me, the way your voice sounds in the dark, the way your wolf *knows* me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms.
Not to kiss. Not to claim.
Just 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.
And then—
He pulls back.
Looks down at me.
And I see it—the crack in the ice. The flicker of something softer, hotter, more dangerous.
Love.
“You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice low. “You’re my *storm*.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because of the way he says it—like it’s a vow, like it’s truth, like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft. Slow. *True*.
His lips move over mine, gentle, reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll break. My hands rise, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. 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 bite him.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Sharp. A collision of teeth and fury. My teeth sink into his lower lip, drawing blood—hot, coppery, *real*. He groans, his body arching into mine, his hands tightening on my hips.
I pull back, breathing hard, his blood on my lips, my storm-colored eyes locked on his.
“You taste like lies,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t flinch.
Just licks the blood from his lip, his gold eyes blazing.
“And you taste like storm,” he says.
And then—
He kisses me again.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Hard. Desperate. A collision of teeth and tongue and fury.
And this time, I don’t stop.
And this time, neither does he.