The first thing I notice when we step into his chambers is the silence.
Not just the absence of sound—though the thick stone walls of the Aerie swallow noise like a tomb—but the kind of silence that hums. The quiet of power held in check. Of breath withheld. Of a predator who doesn’t need to roar to be feared.
Kaelen Dain’s private suite is a study in controlled austerity. No gilded fae tapestries, no vampire decadence, no witch sigils glowing in the dark. Just blackened timber beams, slate floors, and furniture carved from ironwood so dense it looks petrified. A single hearth glows low in the corner, casting long shadows that stretch like claws across the floor. The air smells of pine, ash, and something deeper—musky, wild, *male*.
His scent.
It hits me the second the door seals shut behind us, and I stiffen. My skin prickles. My pulse stutters. My magic, usually a slow thrum beneath my ribs, surges like a storm front rolling in.
No. Not now.
I press a hand to my chest, fingers brushing the still-tender edges of the fated bond sigil. It pulses faintly, warm and insistent, like a second heartbeat. I can feel him—his presence, his proximity, the quiet hum of his wolf just beneath the surface of his skin. We’re bound by magic, law, and pain. Ten paces or less. Soulfire if we disobey.
But this? This heat crawling up my thighs, this tightness in my stomach, this *ache*—this isn’t the bond.
This is something worse.
“You’ll sleep here,” he says, voice flat, gesturing to a door on the far side of the room. “The bed is warded. No spells. No weapons. And no running.”
I don’t move. My back is to him, my spine rigid. I’m counting my breaths. In. Out. Steady. Calm. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him *smell* it.
But he does.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I turn slowly. He hasn’t taken off his jacket. Still immaculate, still composed, still the fucking High Alpha who signed my mother’s death warrant. But his eyes—those winter-gold eyes—are narrowed, scanning me. Assessing. And beneath the control, I see it: the flicker of his wolf, nostrils flaring, pupils dilating.
He smells it too.
Heat.
My heat.
Half-witch, half-fae hybrids don’t have regular cycles. Our bodies respond to magic, emotion, *proximity*. And right now, every instinct in my blood is screaming that the male I’m bound to is dominant, dangerous, and *mine*.
Which is why I have to kill him.
“It’s nothing,” I say, stepping toward the bedroom door. “Just the bond settling.”
“Bullshit.”
He moves fast.
One second he’s across the room. The next, he’s in front of me, blocking my path, his body a wall of heat and muscle. I stumble back, but he catches my arm, fingers digging into my bicep. The contact sends a jolt through me—sharp, electric—and I gasp.
His head tilts. “Your pulse is racing.”
“Let go of me.”
“You’re in heat.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Cold. Clinical. Like he’s diagnosing a disease.
My face burns. “And if I am? It’s none of your business.”
“It is when you’re bound to me.” His voice drops, rougher now. “When your scent is flooding my chambers. When my wolf is *snarling* to claim you.”
I freeze.
So does he.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air between us crackles. My breath comes faster. His chest rises and falls, slow, controlled, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against my arm. He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t mean to admit it.
But he did.
And I use it.
“Is that what this is?” I step closer, tilting my chin up, forcing him to look into my eyes. “You’re not angry because I tried to kill you. You’re angry because your *wolf* wants me. Because for the first time in centuries, you’re not in control.”
His grip tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I press forward, my body almost touching his. “You can smell me, can’t you? Taste it in the air? That’s not just the bond. That’s *you*. That’s your beast, howling for me. And you’re terrified.”
“Enough.”
He spins me, shoves me back against the wall—hard. My head snaps back, but I don’t cry out. My hands fly up, bracing against the stone, but he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, his body pressing into mine, caging me in.
And then I feel it.
The shift.
His canines lengthen, sharp and white, glinting in the firelight. His pupils narrow to slits. A low growl rumbles in his chest, so deep it vibrates through my bones. His breath is hot against my neck, his scent overwhelming now—pine, smoke, wildness.
He’s not fully shifted. Not yet. But he’s close.
And his mouth is at my throat.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he snarls, lips brushing the pulse point beneath my jaw. “You think this changes anything? You came here to kill me. You’re a threat. A *tainted* bloodline. And I don’t give in to instinct.”
“No,” I whisper, my voice trembling—not from fear, but from something darker, hotter. “You just pin hybrids to walls and growl at their throats. Very professional.”
He stills.
Then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are feral, gold bleeding into black, but there’s something else there—conflict. A war between the Alpha and the animal.
And then I see it.
A flicker. A crack in the ice.
Because I’m not the only one trembling.
His hand, the one pinning my wrists, is shaking.
And his breath—ragged, uneven—hitches when I lick my lips.
“You’re not in control,” I say again, softer now. “You’re not untouchable. You *want* me. And it scares you.”
His jaw clenches. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” I arch into him, just slightly, testing. Feeling the hard line of his body against mine. “Then why haven’t you let go?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he leans in, his mouth hovering over my neck, his fangs grazing my skin—just enough to sting, to tease. A warning. A promise.
And then, so softly I almost miss it, he says, “You tremble.”
My breath catches.
“Not from fear,” he murmurs. “From *want*.”
I don’t deny it.
I can’t.
Because he’s right.
I *am* trembling. Not from the bond. Not from fear.
From need.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
He *feels* it.
Through the bond, through the heat, through the raw, unspoken truth between us: our bodies know each other. They *remember*.
And for the first time since I walked into this gala with a knife in my hand, I feel something that terrifies me more than failure.
Doubt.
Because what if I’m not the only one lying?
What if he’s not just the monster who killed my mother?
What if he’s something else?
Something I can’t kill?
He releases me suddenly, stepping back so fast it’s like I’ve burned him. His chest heaves, his fangs retract, his eyes slowly shift back to gold. He turns away, running a hand over his face, his shoulders tense.
“Get in the room,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”
I don’t move.
“You’re not the only one who’s bled for this Council,” he says, still not looking at me. “But you’re the only one who’s stupid enough to think revenge will fill the hole it left.”
My breath hitches.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
I push off the wall, walking past him toward the bedroom. My legs are unsteady. My skin is too tight. My heart is a war drum.
But I don’t look back.
I close the door behind me.
The room is small, sparse—just a bed, a wardrobe, and a basin of water on a stand. No windows. No escape. The warding hums faintly against my magic, a low, insistent pressure that makes my teeth ache.
I strip off the gown, tossing it aside, and sink onto the bed in my underthings. My skin is fever-hot. My blood sings. The bond pulses in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of him—of his touch, his voice, the way his fangs felt against my neck.
I press my fingers to my throat, where his mouth was.
And I hate myself for how much I want it again.
I don’t sleep.
I can’t.
Hours pass. The fire in the main chamber dies to embers. The silence stretches, broken only by the occasional creak of the Aerie shifting in the wind.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Controlled. But unmistakable.
Footsteps.
He’s outside the door.
I sit up, heart pounding. The bond hums, warm and insistent. I can feel him—close, so close—on the other side of the wood.
Then, silence.
And then—
A hand on the door.
Not turning the handle. Just resting there. As if he’s fighting himself.
As if he’s wondering what would happen if he opened it.
As if he’s remembering the way I trembled.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
And then—
The hand drops.
Footsteps retreat.
And I’m alone again.
But I’m not.
Because I can still feel him.
In my blood.
In my bones.
In the quiet, traitorous part of my heart that whispers—
You came here to kill him.
But what if you’re already falling for him?