The pain doesn’t stop.
Not really.
Even after Kaelen rips the blade from my side, even after his hands press against the wound, sealing it with a surge of alpha magic, even after the silver’s poison is burned from my blood—there’s still a hollow ache, deep in my ribs, like something vital has been carved out and not yet replaced. It’s not just the wound. It’s the truth.
I took a blade for him.
Not in battle. Not in duty.
But in *love*.
And that terrifies me more than any ambush ever could.
He carries me through the Aerie like I weigh nothing, his arms locked around me, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his breath warm against my neck. I don’t fight. Don’t protest. Just let him hold me, my head resting against his chest, my fingers brushing the bond sigil over his heart. The mark still hums—warm, pulsing, *needy*—but now it’s different. Not just a claiming. Not just a bond.
It’s a *promise*.
And I don’t know if I’m ready to keep it.
“You’re not dying,” he says, voice rough, like he’s trying to convince himself.
“Didn’t plan on it.” My voice is weak, but I force a smirk. “Not when I’ve got so much unfinished business.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just tightens his grip, his gold eyes burning in the dim light of the corridor. “You should’ve let me take it.”
“And you should’ve stayed behind me.” I tilt my chin up, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “But we both know how this goes. You protect. I fight. And somehow, we end up bleeding for each other anyway.”
His breath hitches.
Because I’m not wrong.
And he knows it.
“You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice low. “You’re my *queen*.”
And for the first time, I don’t flinch.
Don’t question it.
Just believe it.
—
The sacred spring is deep within the Aerie’s heart—a chamber of white stone and silver veins, its waters fed by ancient ley lines, its air thick with the scent of ozone and old magic. It’s said the water can heal any wound, mend any soul, if the heart is true. I’ve never believed in fairy tales.
Until now.
Kaelen sets me down on the edge of the pool, his hands gentle, his touch careful. The water glows faintly, pulsing with energy, its surface rippling like liquid starlight. I don’t move. Just watch him—his sharp jaw, his storm-dark hair, the scars crisscrossing his chest from battles I wasn’t there to see. And then—
He starts to undress.
Not slow. Not teasing.
Just methodical. His fingers work the buttons of his coat, one by one, his gold eyes never leaving mine. The fabric falls away, revealing the black shirt beneath. Then that. Then the boots. The belt. The pants. Until he’s standing before me, bare, his body a map of power and pain, his fangs pressing against his gums, his presence a storm in stillness.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice low.
“Healing you.” He steps into the water, the glow rising to his knees, then his waist. “The spring responds to touch. To trust. To *truth*.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I *do*.” He reaches for me, his hand warm, steady. “You took a blade meant for me. You bled for me. And if this is the only way to make sure you live—” His voice cracks. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not just talking about the spring.
He’s talking about *us*.
And that—
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.
I let him undress me.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I need him.
But because I *want* to.
His fingers brush the hem of my storm-gray dress, slow, deliberate, his touch warm against my skin. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t pull. Just works the fabric up, inch by inch, revealing my legs, my hips, my waist. And then—
He stops.
Just for a second.
His breath catches.
Because he sees it.
The wound.
Not just the fresh one from Cassian’s blade—though it’s still raw, still weeping silver-tinged blood. But the old ones. The scars. The marks from a childhood spent running, hiding, fighting. The ones on my ribs. The ones across my back. The ones no one has ever touched.
And then—
He kneels.
Not in submission.
Not in ritual.
But in *reverence*.
His fingers brush the oldest scar—the one from a silver dagger, the one that nearly killed me when I was sixteen. “You’ve bled so much,” he whispers, voice rough. “For a Council that didn’t protect you. For a world that hunted you. For a mother they stole from you.”
My breath hitches.
“And now?”
“Now,” he says, lifting his gaze to mine, “you bleed for *me*.”
And I don’t deny it.
Just nod.
Because it’s true.
And he knows it.
He helps me into the water.
Not fast. Not rough.
Just steady. His arm around my waist, his hand supporting my back, his body a wall of heat and muscle. The water is warm—too warm, almost burning—but it doesn’t hurt. Just pulses, syncing with my magic, with my bond, with the slow, steady beat of my heart.
And then—
He washes me.
Not with magic.
Not with power.
But with *hands*.
His palms glide over my skin—slow, deliberate, reverent. Starting at my shoulders, then down my arms, my back, my sides. His fingers trace the edge of the wound, careful, gentle, his touch sending sparks through my nerves. I don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. Just let him touch me, my breath coming fast, my magic flaring in jagged bursts.
And then—
He reaches the scar on my ribs.
The one from the silver blade.
And he *stops*.
Just freezes, his hand hovering over the raised skin, his breath coming fast, his gold eyes burning. “This one,” he says, voice low. “This one nearly killed you.”
“It didn’t.”
“Because you’re stronger than they thought.” He leans in, his lips brushing the scar, his breath hot against my skin. “Because you *survived*.”
My breath hitches.
Because no one has ever kissed my scars before.
No one has ever *honored* them.
And then—
He moves lower.
His hands glide over my hips, my thighs, my legs, his touch slow, deliberate, *reverent*. And then—
He stops.
At the new wound.
The one from Cassian’s blade.
His fingers brush the edge, careful, gentle, his touch sending a jolt through my nerves. “This one,” he says, voice rough. “This one was meant for me.”
“And I took it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.” I tilt my chin up, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “And no one gets to kill you but me.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lip. “You’re not just my mate,” he says, voice low. “You’re my *queen*.”
And this 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. “The water’s working,” he says, voice rough. “I can feel it. The poison’s gone. The wound’s closing.”
I touch the scar—just a faint line now, already fading. “It’s not just the spring.”
“No.” He presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips. “It’s *us*.”
And I don’t argue.
Just believe it.
—
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 water glowing around 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 scar on my ribs, the new one on my side. 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 edge of the pool.
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.
—
We don’t go back to the chambers.
Not yet.
Instead, we walk—through the corridors, through the silence, through the Aerie that breathes like a living thing, his hand in mine, the bond humming between us, warm and alive. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just walks beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his breath warm against my neck.
And I don’t let go.
Not when the guards glance at us, their eyes sharp. Not when the witches lower their voices in the library. Not when the wind howls through the mountain passes like a warning.
I hold his hand.
And I let them see.
Because the truth is out.
She’s not just his fated mate.
She’s not just the woman who came to kill him.
She’s the queen.
Strong. Fierce. Unbreakable.
And she’s his.
When we reach the war room, Silas is waiting.
Not surprised. Not shocked.
Just… knowing.
“The Council will hear,” he says, stepping aside. “The spring. The healing. The truth.”
“Let them hear,” I say, pulling Kaelen into the room, closing the door behind us. “Let them see.”
He studies us—my sharp jaw, my defiant eyes, the fire in my blood. And for the first time, I see it too.
Not just the avenger.
Not just the assassin.
But the queen.
“Cassian will move,” Silas says. “And Maeve—”
“Won’t stop,” I finish, stepping forward. “But neither will we.”
Kaelen steps behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Because we’re not just bound by magic.”
“We’re bound by choice,” I whisper.
And then—
I turn in his arms, my storm-colored eyes locking on his.
“Next time,” I say, voice low, “don’t stop.”
His breath hitches.
“Next time,” he says, voice rough, “I won’t.”
And I believe him.
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.
And this time—
He doesn’t stop.