The storm doesn’t stop.
It’s been three days since Kaelen marked me—three days since his fangs sank into my neck and the bond flared like a supernova, three days since I whispered, “I’m yours,” and meant it—and the sky above the Aerie hasn’t cleared once. Thunder rolls across the Black Sea like war drums, lightning splits the clouds in jagged veins of white, and the wind howls through the mountain passes like a warning. But it’s not just the weather.
It’s the bond.
It’s *alive*.
And it’s driving me insane.
I stand at the window of Kaelen’s chambers, my bare feet on the cold stone, my storm-gray dress clinging to my skin from the humidity, my hair unbound and tangled from restless nights. The mark on my neck still hums—warm, pulsing, *needy*—and every time I touch it, the bond flares, 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 claiming.
It’s a *hunger*.
And it’s getting worse.
“You’re not sleeping,” Kaelen says from behind me.
I don’t turn. Don’t react. Just feel him—his heat, his presence, the way the bond hums between us, warm and alive. He’s been watching me. Tracking me. *Feeling* me. I can sense it in the way his pulse stutters when I shift, in the way his wolf stirs beneath his skin when I breathe too fast, in the way his voice drops when he says my name.
“Neither are you,” I say, voice low.
He steps closer, his hands sliding around my waist, slow, deliberate, his thumbs brushing the edge of the mark on my shoulder, the one from the training yard. “You’re pushing it. The bond. Your magic. Your body.”
“I’m not pushing anything.”
“Liar.” He presses his lips to my neck, just above the new bite, his breath hot against my skin. “I can feel it. The heat. The need. The way your magic flares when I touch you.”
My breath hitches.
“It’s not me.”
“It’s the bond-heat.”
I freeze.
“What?”
He turns me, his gold eyes burning. “It’s a supernatural surge. Rare. Uncontrollable. It happens when a fated bond reaches critical intensity—when the magic, the emotion, the *need* becomes too much. The body demands release. The soul demands union.”
My pulse hammers.
“And if we don’t…?”
“Then the soulfire starts.” He cups my face, his voice rough. “Not the tether pain. Not the separation agony. This is deeper. It burns from the inside. And it doesn’t stop until the bond is sated.”
My breath stops.
“You’re saying we have to—”
“I’m saying we *do*.” He steps closer, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot against my neck. “No more fighting. No more pretending. No more running. The bond won’t allow it. And if we resist—” His hands slide down my back, slow, reverent. “We’ll burn.”
I don’t answer.
Just stare at him—his sharp jaw, his storm-dark hair, the scars crisscrossing his chest from battles I wasn’t there to hear. 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.
“Then let it burn,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” I tilt my chin up, my storm-colored eyes locked on his. “You think I don’t feel it too? The way my magic flares when you’re near? The way my body *knows* you? The way my blood sings when you touch me?” My fingers trail down his chest, slow, deliberate. “You think I don’t *want* you?”
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 deep. Not claiming.
But sharp. *Testing*.
His fangs pierce my skin, just enough to draw blood, and I cry out, my body arching, my magic flaring in a jagged 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.
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.
But it’s not enough.
The hunger is still there. The need. The *fire*.
“You see?” he says, voice rough. “It’s not just me. It’s the bond. And it won’t stop until we give in.”
“Then don’t stop.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
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—
The door bursts open.
Not guards. Not Silas. Not even Cassian.
The wards.
The entire Aerie shudders—stone groaning, glass cracking, containment fields flickering—as the storm outside peaks, lightning splitting the sky in a blinding flash, thunder shaking the foundations. And then—
The power fails.
Darkness.
Not just in the chambers.
Everywhere.
The Aerie is blind.
And the bond—
It *snaps*.
Not the tether.
Not the magic.
But the *control*.
“Kaelen—” I gasp, my magic flaring in jagged bursts, my body trembling, my skin too tight.
“I feel it,” he growls, his voice rough, guttural. “The bond-heat. It’s not just rising. It’s *taking over*.”
And then—
He moves.
Not toward the door.
Not toward the war room.
But toward me.
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 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.
—
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.