The Aerie breathes like a living thing.
Not in rhythm—never that—but in pulses. Shifts. Moments of silence so thick they press against the skull, followed by bursts of sound: the clink of silverware in the dining hall, the low growl of a wolf in the training yard, the whisper of silk on stone as a Councilor passes. I’ve learned to listen to it. To feel its moods. To track the way the wards hum when Kaelen walks by, the way the air crackles when my magic flares, the way the very stones seem to lean in when we’re near each other.
But tonight?
Tonight, the Aerie is holding its breath.
I stand in the shadows of the eastern wing, my storm-gray dress clinging to my skin from the lingering humidity of the storm, my hair pulled back in a tight braid, my fingers brushing the new mark on my neck—still warm, still humming with the echo of his fangs, of his blood, of the claiming that wasn’t just magic, but surrender. I can feel him, even now. Not just through the bond—though it thrums between us like a second heartbeat—but in the way my body tenses when he’s near, the way my breath catches when he speaks, the way my magic flares when he looks at me.
He’s in the war room.
Working.
Again.
Since the false pregnancy, since the blood test, since the vampire elder’s death, he’s been relentless. Mapping Cassian’s alliances. Tracing the leaks. Hunting for the final piece—the one that will bring the Council to its knees. And I’ve been silent. Letting him. Watching him. Because I know what he’s doing.
He’s trying to protect me.
And it’s driving me insane.
“You’re not supposed to be here alone,” Silas says from behind me.
I don’t turn. Don’t flinch. Just keep watching the corridor ahead—where the Council’s intelligence liaison, a half-fae diplomat named Rhys, is slipping into a private chamber. His steps are too light. His scent too sharp. He’s nervous.
“I’m not alone,” I say, voice low.
“The bond’s not the same as company.”
“It’s better.” I finally turn, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “It’s *truth*.”
Silas doesn’t answer.
Just studies me—his dark eyes sharp, his half-vampire scent laced with something I can’t name. Concern? Respect? Both? He’s not just Kaelen’s Beta. He’s his conscience. And now, he’s mine too.
“You’re going after Rhys,” he says, voice flat.
“He’s feeding Cassian.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I *feel* it.” I press my palm flat against the bond sigil on my chest. “The magic. The lies. The way his voice echoes when he speaks. He’s not just a diplomat. He’s a spy. And he knows something—something about the Veil. About my mother.”
Silas’s jaw tightens. “And you think seducing him will get you the truth?”
“I think *using* him will.” I step forward, my voice dropping. “You think I don’t know how this game is played? I’ve seen vampires trade in whispers. I’ve seen fae bargain with touch. I’ve seen witches bleed for secrets. And if I have to use my body to get the truth—” My fingers trail down my neck, slow, deliberate. “Then I will.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just watches me, his voice rough. “And what if Kaelen finds out?”
“Then he’ll understand.”
“You think so?”
“I *know* so.” I step past him, my boots silent on the stone. “Because he’s not the only one who bleeds for this Council.”
—
The chamber is small. Private. Lit by a single silver lantern, its light casting long shadows across the floor. Rhys is seated at a low table, a glass of blood-wine in his hand, his silver hair pulled back, his fae features sharp, his eyes too bright. He doesn’t look up when I enter. Just keeps sipping, his fingers tapping against the glass.
“Torrent,” he says, voice smooth. “I didn’t expect you here.”
“You didn’t expect me at all.” I close the door behind me, the lock clicking into place. “You thought I was just the High Alpha’s pet. The hybrid who came to kill him. The woman who bites and runs.”
He finally looks up.
His eyes narrow. “And you’re not?”
“I’m the woman who’s still standing.” I step forward, slow, deliberate, my dress whispering against the stone. “The woman who survived the blood test. The woman who watched Maeve fall. The woman who *knew* about the elder before Kaelen did.”
His breath hitches.
“And what do you want?”
“Truth.” I take the seat across from him, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “About the Veil. About my mother. About the night she died.”
He laughs. Short. Bitter. “You think I’d tell you?”
“I think you already have.” I lean forward, my voice dropping. “Your scent changes when you lie. Your voice echoes. Your fingers tap. And right now—” I reach across the table, my fingers brushing his wrist. “You’re afraid.”
He doesn’t pull away.
Just stares at me, his breath coming fast. “You think touch will make me talk?”
“I think *this* will.” I slide my hand up his arm, slow, deliberate, my magic flaring beneath my skin, warm, inviting. “I know what you are, Rhys. Half-fae. Outcast. Used by Cassian, discarded by the Courts. And I know what you want.” My fingers trail up to his neck, brushing the pulse. “To be seen. To be *wanted*.”
His breath hitches.
“And you can give that to me?”
“I can give you *truth*.” I lean in, my lips brushing his ear. “Tell me what you know. About the Veil. About the trial. About the man who signed the decree.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just turns, his hands flying to my waist, pulling me onto his lap, his mouth crashing into mine—hard, desperate, hungry. I don’t resist. Just kiss him back, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body arching into his, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
And then—
I feel it.
The truth.
Not in words. Not in whispers.
But in *memory*.
My bloodline gift—latent, untrained, but *alive*—flares, syncing with his touch, with his scent, with the pulse beneath my fingers. And I see it—
A room. Cold stone. Silver chains. My mother, chained to the wall, her fae glow dim, her eyes wide with fear. Cassian standing before her, his silver robes gleaming, his voice cold. “You will be silenced. You will be forgotten. And your daughter will never know the truth.”
And then—
Kaelen. Watching from the shadows. His gold eyes burning. His hand clenched at his side. And then—
He turns away.
I gasp, pulling back, my storm-colored eyes wide, my breath coming fast. Rhys doesn’t stop. Just kisses me harder, his hands sliding up my dress, his fangs grazing my neck.
“Tell me,” I whisper, voice rough. “Tell me what you know.”
“I know you’re not just his mate,” he says, voice low. “I know you’re a weapon. And I know Cassian wants you broken.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not just hybrid.” He bites my neck, sharp, sudden, and I cry out, my magic flaring. “You’re *his*.”
“Whose?”
“Cassian’s.” His hands tighten on my hips. “He’s your father.”
The room goes still.
Not from shock.
Not from betrayal.
But from *recognition*.
Because I’ve known it.
Since the ring. Since the echo in his voice. Since the way my blood hums when he’s near.
And now?
Now I have proof.
“And Kaelen?” I ask, voice low. “What does he know?”
Rhys laughs. Soft. Cold. “He knows nothing. He thinks he saved her. He thinks he voted for mercy. But Cassian forged the decree. And Kaelen—” His fingers trail down my neck. “He walked away.”
My breath stops.
Because it’s not a lie.
It’s the truth.
And it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard.
—
I don’t stay.
Don’t finish what I started.
Just stand, my dress whispering against the stone, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “Thank you, Rhys.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his breath coming fast, his hands clenched at his sides.
And then—
I leave.
Not running.
Not retreating.
Just walking—through the corridors, through the silence, through the Aerie that breathes like a living thing. I don’t think. Don’t feel. Just move, my hand pressed to the bond sigil on my chest, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
And then—
I feel him.
Not through the bond.
Not through magic.
But through *sound*.
A low, guttural growl—like thunder cracking across the Black Sea. Like a wolf on the edge of control. And then—
He’s there.
Kaelen.
Standing in the archway, his black coat soaked through, his gold eyes burning, his fangs bared, his body a wall of heat and muscle. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, his breath coming fast, his pulse hammering in his throat.
And then—
He sees my neck.
The bite.
Fresh. Red. *His*.
“You used your body,” he snarls, stepping forward, his voice rough, guttural. “You *seduced* him.”
I don’t flinch.
Just hold his gaze, my storm-colored eyes locked on his. “I got the truth.”
“At what cost?” He grabs my wrist, his grip burning like a brand. “You let him *touch* you. You let him *kiss* you. You let him—”
“I used him,” I say, voice low. “Like you use your power. Like Silas uses his loyalty. Like Cassian uses lies. And if you think I’m going to stand back while you carry this alone—” I yank my arm free, stepping back. “Then you don’t know me at all.”
His breath hitches.
“You think I don’t *protect* you?”
“I think you’re *hiding* from me.” I step closer, my voice dropping. “You think I don’t feel it? The way you pull away. The way you lock yourself in the war room. The way you look at me like I’m something fragile. I’m not glass, Kaelen. I’m not your pet. I’m your *mate*. And if you can’t see that—” 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 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—
He stops.
Just like that.
Pulls back, his gold eyes burning, his breath coming fast. “You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He cups my face, his voice rough. “I can feel it. The way your magic flares. The way your pulse hammers. The way you *taste*.” His thumb brushes my lip. “You didn’t just get intel. You gave something too.”
My breath stops.
Because he’s right.
And I can’t lie to him.
Not anymore.
“I saw it,” I whisper, voice breaking. “In his memory. My mother. Chained. Cassian. And you—” I look into his eyes. “You were there. You turned away.”
He freezes.
Just for a second.
But I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his breath hitches, the way his body tenses like a coiled spring.
“I couldn’t save her,” he says, voice low. “The vote was lost. The decree was signed. And if I’d fought—”
“You would’ve died,” I finish.
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his breath warm against my neck. I don’t resist. Don’t pull away. Just let him hold me, my hands fisting in his coat, my face buried in his shoulder.
“You used your body,” he says, voice rough. “Was I just another mission?”
My breath hitches.
Because that’s the question.
The one that cuts deeper than any blade.
And I don’t know the answer.
Not yet.
“No,” I whisper, pulling back, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “You’re not a mission. You’re not a target. You’re not even just my mate.” I touch the bond sigil on my chest. “You’re the man who tried to save her. And if I let myself love you—” My voice breaks. “Then I’ll never be the woman who came to kill him.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
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 pull back.
“If Cassian is my father,” I say, voice low, “then everything I’ve fought for—everything I’ve *been*—is a lie.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just holds my gaze, his gold eyes burning. “Then burn the lie. And build something true.”
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 finally ready to stop running.
And start choosing.