The Aerie is quiet again.
Not the hush of aftermath, not the silence of exhaustion—but the stillness before the storm. The kind of quiet that presses against your skin, that hums in your bones, that tells you the world is holding its breath, waiting for the next explosion. I feel it in the air, in the way the wards flicker faintly at the edges of perception, in the way my magic flares at the slightest provocation. It’s not just the soulfire. Not just the bond. Not even the truth I finally spoke.
It’s *him*.
Cassian.
He knows.
That I know.
That I saw it in Rhys’s memory. That I felt it in the echo of his voice, in the weight of his lies, in the way my blood sings when he’s near. He knows I know he’s my father. That he forged the decree. That he sentenced my mother to the Veil while Kaelen stood in the shadows, powerless to stop it. And he won’t let me live with that truth.
He’ll kill me first.
And Kaelen—
Kaelen won’t let that happen.
So we walk. Side by side. Through the shifting corridors of the Aerie, his hand in mine, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just keeps his gold eyes scanning the shadows, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his fangs pressing against his gums. He’s not just my mate. He’s my shield. My weapon. My war.
And I’m his.
Not because of fate.
Not because of magic.
But because I *chose* it.
“You’re tense,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t answer. Just tightens his grip on my hand, his thumb brushing the bond sigil on my wrist. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”
“Neither are you.”
“I’m not the one who nearly died from soulfire last night.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
I *did* nearly die.
Not from Cassian. Not from Rhys. Not even from my own choices.
From *him*.
From the bond. From the truth. From the moment I realized I loved him—and tried to run anyway.
And he followed.
He burned with me.
And now?
Now he won’t let me out of his sight.
“I’m not fragile,” I say, stepping closer, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “I’m not glass. I’m not some delicate mate who needs shielding. I’m a storm. And you know it.”
He stops.
Turns to me.
His gold eyes burn in the dim light, narrow, slitted, the wolf close. “You’re *mine*.”
“And you’re mine.” I step into him, my body pressing against his, my magic flaring beneath my skin. “But that doesn’t mean you get to make my choices for me.”
His jaw clenches.
“You don’t understand what he’ll do.”
“I understand *exactly* what he’ll do.” I tilt my chin up, my fingers brushing the scar on his ribs—the one from a silver blade, the one from a battle I wasn’t there to see. “He’ll try to break us. He’ll use lies. He’ll use blood. He’ll use *me*. But he won’t win.”
“Because?”
“Because I’m not just his daughter.” I press my palm flat against his chest, over the bond sigil. “I’m the woman who’s bled for this Council. Who’s fought for it. Who’s died for it. And if he thinks he can destroy me—” My voice drops. “Then he’s forgotten what storms do to castles.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lip. “You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my *queen*.”
And for the first time, I believe it.
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—copper and pine and wildness—the feel of him—hard and hot and *mine*—the *need*.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at me, his gold eyes searching mine. “Stay close,” he says, voice low. “No matter what happens.”
I don’t answer.
Just nod.
Because I know what’s coming.
And I know I won’t obey.
—
We’re in the eastern wing—the oldest part of the Aerie, where the stone is black with age, where the air hums with ancient magic, where the corridors twist like veins beneath the skin of the mountain. This is where the Veil’s records are kept. Where the hybrid tribunals were held. Where my mother was tried.
And where Cassian will make his move.
Kaelen leads the way, his presence a storm in stillness, his senses sharp, his body coiled tight. I follow, my storm-gray dress whispering against the stone, my magic coiled beneath my skin, 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.
And then—
We hear it.
A whisper.
Not from the shadows.
Not from the walls.
But from the *air*.
Like silk tearing. Like a blade unsheathing. Like a voice too old to name.
“Torrent.”
My breath stops.
Because I know that voice.
It’s not Cassian.
It’s *her*.
My mother.
But that’s impossible.
She’s in the Veil.
Trapped. Forgotten. Stripped of identity.
And yet—
There it is again.
“Torrent… help me…”
My magic flares.
Not in response.
But in *recognition*.
Because it’s not just her voice.
It’s her *magic*.
Weak. Flickering. Like a candle in a storm.
But *real*.
“Kaelen—” I whisper, grabbing his arm.
He freezes.
Turns to me, his gold eyes burning. “What?”
“I hear her.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just pulls me back, his body a wall between me and the corridor ahead. “It’s a trap.”
“It’s not—”
“It *is*.” His voice is rough, guttural. “Cassian’s using her. He’s using *you*. And if you go to her—” His grip tightens. “You’ll walk into a blade.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
But he’s not right either.
Because I *know* that voice.
And it’s not just a memory.
It’s a *call*.
“I have to go,” I say, stepping back.
“No.” He grabs my wrist, his grip burning like a brand. “You don’t.”
“I do.” I yank my arm free, stepping toward the corridor. “She’s *alive*. She’s *calling* me. And if I don’t answer—” My voice breaks. “Then I’m no better than the monster who left her to die.”
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.
Because he knows.
That I’m not just talking about Cassian.
Or Kaelen.
Or even me.
I’m talking about *him*.
About the night he turned away.
And the guilt that’s eaten him alive ever since.
“Then I’m going with you,” he says, voice low.
“You can’t.” I step back, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “This is *my* fight. *My* blood. *My* mother. And if I let you walk into this—” My voice drops. “Then I’m not saving her. I’m burying you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his gold eyes burning, his fangs bared.
And then—
He nods.
“One minute,” he says, voice rough. “If you’re not back in one minute, I’m coming in.”
“You won’t have to.” I step toward the corridor. “I’ll be back.”
And then—
I run.
Not fast.
Not silent.
But *reckless*.
Because I know it’s a trap.
And I don’t care.
The corridor twists, the stone slick with age, the air thick with magic. I don’t slow. Don’t hesitate. Just follow the voice—faint, flickering, but *real*—until I reach a door. Old. Iron. Sealed with fae runes that pulse faintly in the dark.
And then—
It opens.
Not by my hand.
But by *hers*.
“Torrent,” the voice whispers. “Come to me.”
I step inside.
The chamber is small. Cold. Lit by a single silver lantern, its light casting long shadows across the floor. And there—
Chained to the wall.
Her fae glow dim.
Her eyes wide with fear.
My mother.
But it’s not her.
Not really.
Because her eyes—
They’re *silver*.
Cassian’s eyes.
“You’re not her,” I say, stepping back.
And then—
She smiles.
Not her smile.
But *his*.
“Clever girl,” Cassian says, his voice smooth, cold. “But too late.”
And then—
The walls explode.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
But with *blades*.
Silver. Gleaming. Dozens of them, erupting from the stone like fangs, slashing toward me, cutting the air, missing me by inches. I dive, rolling, my magic flaring in jagged bursts, storm-blue lightning crackling at my fingertips.
And then—
He’s there.
Cassian.
Not in the chains.
Not behind the glamour.
But standing in the doorway, his silver robes gleaming, his face cold, his voice like ice. “You should have stayed with your Alpha, little storm. You should have let him protect you.”
“I don’t need protection,” I snarl, rising, my magic flaring. “I need *justice*.”
“And you’ll get it.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “In the Veil. Where your mother belongs. Where *you* belong.”
My magic flares.
But before I can move—
He’s faster.
A blade in his hand. Silver. Gleaming. And then—
He lunges.
Not at me.
But at the door.
Where Kaelen stands.
“No!” I scream, throwing myself forward.
But I’m too slow.
The blade flashes.
Silver.
Deadly.
And then—
I move.
Not with magic.
Not with speed.
But with *love*.
I throw myself in front of him.
The blade sinks into my side.
Deep.
Sharp.
Agony.
But I don’t fall.
Just stand there, my body a wall between him and the blade, my storm-colored eyes locking on Cassian’s. “You wanted to kill him,” I say, voice breaking. “But you’ll have to go through *me* first.”
Cassian 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.
Because he knows.
That I’m not just his daughter.
That I’m not just a weapon.
That I’m not just a lie.
I’m the truth.
And the truth *hurts*.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers.
“Neither are you,” I say, blood dripping from my side, my magic flaring in jagged bursts. “But here we are.”
And then—
Kaelen 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.