The mark on my shoulder still hums.
Not with pain. Not with magic. But with memory.
Every time I touch it—just a brush of my fingers against the raised skin, still warm from his fangs—the bond flares, white-hot and electric, syncing my pulse with his, my breath with his, my magic with the deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the Aerie whenever he’s near.
It’s not just a bite.
It’s a promise.
And it’s driving me insane.
I stand in front of the mirror in Kaelen’s chambers, my storm-gray dress pooled at my feet, my back bare, the mark glowing faintly in the dim light. I don’t look away. Don’t flinch. Just stare at it—this proof that he finally broke. That he finally took. That he finally stopped pretending he didn’t want me.
And God help me—I wanted it.
Not the pain. Not the submission. Not even the claiming.
But the truth.
The raw, unfiltered need in his eyes when his fangs pierced my skin. The way his body trembled when he tasted my blood. The way he whispered, “You’re not just my mate. You’re my storm.” Like I was something more than vengeance. More than a weapon. More than the woman who came to kill him.
Like I was his.
And that’s the problem.
Because I don’t hate him anymore.
And if I don’t hate him—
Then what am I even fighting for?
“You’re staring at it.”
I don’t turn. Don’t react. Just feel him behind me—his heat, his presence, the way the bond hums between us, warm and alive. He’s not in the mirror. Doesn’t need to be. I can feel him in my bones, in my blood, in the way my magic flares when he steps closer.
“It’s not going to disappear,” I say, voice low.
“Good.” His hands slide around my waist, slow, deliberate, his thumbs brushing the edge of the mark. “It’s supposed to stay.”
My breath hitches.
“You didn’t mean to do it.”
“No.” He presses his lips to my shoulder, just above the bite, his breath hot against my skin. “I meant to wait. To make it a choice. To do it right.”
“And this wasn’t right?”
“It was real.” He turns me, his gold eyes burning. “That’s why it matters.”
I don’t answer.
Just look at him—his sharp jaw, his storm-dark hair, the scars crisscrossing his chest from battles I wasn’t there to see. And then—
I touch the bond sigil over his heart.
Not in challenge.
Not in defiance.
But in recognition.
“You’ve been fighting this since the beginning,” I say, voice low. “The bond. The need. The way your wolf howls for me. And now—” I step closer, my fingers brushing his lips. “You’ve stopped.”
His breath catches.
“I’m not fighting anymore.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Choosing.” He catches my wrist, pressing my palm flat against his chest, over the sigil. “This isn’t just fate. It’s not just magic. It’s us. And I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
My pulse hammers.
“Then prove it.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard. Desperate. A collision of teeth and tongue and fury. His hands fly to my hair, pulling me closer, his body pressing into mine, his cock thickening beneath me, a ridge of heat against my core. I moan into his mouth, my hands sliding up his chest, my nails digging into his skin.
The bond flares—white-hot, electric. Our pulses sync. Our breaths tangle. The world narrows to the taste of him—copper and pine and wildness—the feel of him—hard and hot and mine—the need.
And then—
I push him.
Not away.
But back.
Until he’s against the wall, his gold eyes blazing, his fangs bared, his breath coming fast. I don’t speak. Don’t tease. Just step between his legs, my hands braced on his chest, my body pressing into his.
“Next time,” I whisper, “don’t stop.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” I tilt my chin up, my storm-colored eyes locked on his. “I want to feel it. I want to know it. I want to be yours in every way—body, blood, soul. And if that scares you—” My fingers trail down his chest, slow, deliberate. “Then maybe you’re not as strong as you think.”
His wolf snarls.
His body tenses.
And then—
He moves.
Fast. Relentless. He spins me, pressing me into the wall, his hands caging me in, his body a wall of heat and muscle. One hand grips my hip, the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. His fangs brush my neck, sharp and sudden, and I gasp, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
“You want me to claim you?” he growls, voice rough. “You want me to bite? To taste? To own?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you’re mine.”
My breath hitches.
“I’m not—”
“Say it.” His fangs press into my skin, just enough to sting. “Or I walk away.”
I don’t answer.
Just tilt my head, baring my throat, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. And then—
I whisper it.
“I’m yours.”
He groans, low and deep, and then—
He bites.
Not on the shoulder.
Not in warning.
But on the neck—just above the pulse, where the bond sigil glows faintly beneath my skin. His fangs pierce my flesh, sharp and deep, and I cry out, my body arching, my magic flaring in a blinding burst of storm-blue light.
But I don’t pull away.
Just gasp, my hands fisting in his coat, my head thrown back, my storm-colored eyes blazing. “Kaelen—”
And then—
I taste him.
Not blood.
Not pain.
But magic—raw, untamed, electric—flooding my mouth, my veins, my soul. It’s not just his blood. It’s his essence—his fire, his fury, his need—pouring into me, syncing with my storm, with my bond, with my very being.
And I moan.
Low. Deep. Primal.
Because this—this right here—is what I’ve been fighting.
What I’ve been denying.
What I’ve been starving for.
And it’s not just being claimed.
It’s becoming him.
And then—
He pulls back.
Slow. Reluctant.
His fangs retract. His breath comes fast. His body trembles. And I look down at the mark—two perfect punctures, already sealing, already glowing faintly with the same storm-blue light as the bond sigil.
It’s not just a bite.
It’s a claiming.
And it’s binding.
I touch it—just a brush of my fingers—and the bond flares, white-hot and electric, syncing my pulse with his, my breath with his, my magic with the deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the Aerie.
And then—
I smile.
Slow. Dangerous.
“You marked me,” I whisper.
“I claimed you,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not just my mate. You’re my queen.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He’s meaning it.
And that—
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.
—
We don’t speak.
Not about Cassian. Not about Maeve. Not about the Council or the lies or the war that’s coming.
Just stand there, pressed together, the bond humming between us, warm and alive, our breaths tangled, our hearts synced. His hands slide down my back, slow, reverent, his fingers brushing the edge of the mark on my shoulder, the new one on my neck. I shiver, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my ear.
“It’s nothing.”
“Liar.” He pulls back, just enough to look at me, his gold eyes searching mine. “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 steps back, just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers work the buttons, one by one, his gold eyes never leaving mine. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch as the fabric falls away, revealing the scars—crisscrossing his chest, his shoulders, his abdomen—each one a story I wasn’t there to hear.
And then—
I touch them.
Not in pity.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
My fingers brush the old wound on his ribs, the one from a silver blade. The jagged scar across his collarbone, from a fae dagger. The deep gash on his abdomen, from a vampire’s claws. And then—
I press my palm flat against his chest, over the bond sigil.
“You’re not just the High Alpha,” I say, voice low. “You’re the man who’s bled for this Council. Who’s fought for it. Who’s died for it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his breath coming fast, his body tense.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft. Slow. True.
My lips move over his, gentle, reverent, like I’m afraid he’ll break. His hands rise, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me 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 push him.
Not away.
But toward the bed.
He doesn’t resist. Just lets me guide him, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his breath hot against my neck. I don’t speak. Don’t tease. Just push him down, straddling him, my hands braced on his chest, my body pressing into his.
“You said you wouldn’t stop next time,” I whisper, tilting my chin up. “So don’t.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “I want to feel it. I want to know it. I want to be yours in every way—body, blood, soul. And if that scares you—” My fingers trail down his chest, slow, deliberate. “Then maybe you’re not as strong as you think.”
His wolf snarls.
His body tenses.
And then—
He flips me.
Fast. Relentless. One second I’m on top, the next I’m beneath him, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his gold eyes burning. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t tease. Just pins my wrists above my head, his fangs bared, his breath hot against my neck.
“You want me to claim you?” he growls, voice rough. “You want me to bite? To taste? To own?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you’re mine.”
My breath hitches.
“I’m not—”
“Say it.” His fangs press into my skin, just enough to sting. “Or I walk away.”
I don’t answer.
Just tilt my head, baring my throat, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. And then—
I whisper it.
“I’m yours.”
He groans, low and deep, and then—
He bites.
Not on the neck.
Not in warning.
But on the pulse—deep, claiming, final. His fangs pierce my flesh, sharp and deep, and I cry out, my body arching, my magic flaring in a blinding burst of storm-blue light.
But I don’t pull away.
Just gasp, my hands fisting in his coat, my head thrown back, my storm-colored eyes blazing. “Kaelen—”
And then—
I taste him.
Not blood.
Not pain.
But magic—raw, untamed, electric—flooding my mouth, my veins, my soul. It’s not just his blood. It’s his essence—his fire, his fury, his need—pouring into me, syncing with my storm, with my bond, with my very being.
And I moan.
Low. Deep. Primal.
Because this—this right here—is what I’ve been fighting.
What I’ve been denying.
What I’ve been starving for.
And it’s not just being claimed.
It’s becoming him.
And then—
He pulls back.
Slow. Reluctant.
His fangs retract. His breath comes fast. His body trembles. And I look down at the mark—two perfect punctures, already sealing, already glowing faintly with the same storm-blue light as the bond sigil.
It’s not just a bite.
It’s a claiming.
And it’s binding.
I touch it—just a brush of my fingers—and the bond flares, white-hot and electric, syncing my pulse with his, my breath with his, my magic with the deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the Aerie.
And then—
I smile.
Slow. Dangerous.
“You marked me,” I whisper.
“I claimed you,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not just my mate. You’re my queen.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He’s meaning it.
And that—
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.