I didn’t sleep.
Not that I could, not with the ghost of his hand still burning on my lower back, his breath still hot on my neck, the memory of his arousal pressed against me during that dance seared into my skin. The gala had ended hours ago, but my body still hummed with the echo of his touch, my magic still thrumming with the pulse of the bond. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—Kaelen, tall and dangerous in his black coat, silver thorn embroidery glinting under the chandeliers, his pale gold eyes locked onto mine as he pulled me close, as he whispered, You’re mine, Vera. And I’m yours.
And worse—I believed him.
Not because I wanted to. Not because I trusted him.
But because my body did.
I sat on the edge of his bed—his bed, in his chambers, in his godforsaken Citadel—and pressed two fingers to my lips, still swollen from the near-kiss at the end of the dance. Still warm. Still marked. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly, its vines creeping lower now, curling toward my sternum like roots seeking soil. I traced it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t just a mark anymore. It was a presence. A weight. A hunger.
I hated that I hadn’t pulled away.
I hated that I’d let him touch me.
I hated most of all that I hadn’t wanted to.
A knock at the door.
I didn’t look up. “Come in.”
The door opened. Not Kaelen. Not Lira.
Dain.
The werewolf Beta stood in the threshold, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me. He looked grim. “They’re circulating it,” he said.
My breath caught. “Circulating what?”
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and handed me a folded piece of parchment. “A glamour-image. Taken at the gala. From a high angle. It shows—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I unfolded it.
And my blood turned to ice.
It was a photograph—not mortal, but fae glamour, captured in silver mist. Me, in the midnight silk gown, the fabric torn at my hip, the glowing thorn sigil exposed. And Kaelen, his hand splayed possessively over the mark, his head bent close to mine, his lips hovering just above my neck—like he was about to bite me.
Like he already had.
And just below the image, a single line of text, written in blood-red ink:
The High Warden’s Mate Bears His Mark.
“It’s fake,” I said, my voice shaking. “The bite—it’s not real. I’d know if he’d bitten me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dain said quietly. “It’s convincing. And it’s already spreading. The Blood Houses are whispering. The Council is watching. And if they start to believe you’ve already been claimed—”
“Then they’ll think the bond is consummated,” I said, my stomach dropping. “They’ll think we’ve already—”
“They’ll think you’re his,” he said. “Completely. Irrevocably. And if you deny it, if you say it’s forged—”
“They’ll say I’m lying,” I finished. “That I’m ashamed. That I’m trying to hide the truth.”
Dain nodded. “And if they believe it, they’ll expect it. They’ll expect you to act like his mate. To obey him. To submit.”
I crumpled the photo in my fist. “I don’t submit to anyone.”
“Then you’ll have to prove it,” he said. “Before they do.”
He turned to leave.
“Dain,” I said, my voice breaking.
He stopped.
“What do I do?”
He looked back at me, his eyes filled with pity. “You go to him. Not as a weapon. Not as a rebel. But as the woman who wants him. Because if you don’t—”
“What?”
“Then she wins.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there, the crumpled photo in my fist, the sigil burning on my skin, the bond screaming in my veins.
Elowen thought she could break me.
She thought she could take him.
She thought I was weak.
She was wrong.
I wasn’t weak.
I was angry.
And anger, I knew, was a far more powerful magic than love.
I turned to the door.
And I walked.
Not to hide.
Not to run.
But to claim what was mine.
Because if Kaelen D’Rae belonged to anyone—
It was me.
—
He was in the war room.
Of course he was.
Where else would the High Warden be at this hour? Not in his chambers. Not in the Moon Garden. Not anywhere soft, or quiet, or safe.
Here.
Where the maps of Aetheria’s realms were etched into the obsidian table, where the scent of iron and old blood clung to the air, where the shadows were thickest and the silence heaviest.
He stood at the far end of the chamber, his back to me, arms crossed, his silhouette sharp against the faint glow of the city beyond the arched windows. His coat was gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars. His ink-black hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it. And I could feel him—feel the shift in the air, the pulse of his magic, the way his blood quickened when I entered.
“You’re here,” he said, not turning. His voice was low, rough. “I felt you coming.”
“You always do,” I said, stepping forward. “Like a damn leech on my spine.”
He turned then, slow, deliberate. His eyes—pale gold, feral—locked onto mine. “You’re angry.”
“You think?” I snapped, throwing the crumpled photo at him. It unfurled in midair, the glamour-image catching the light. “You think I wouldn’t be? That I’d just stand by while they spread lies about us? That I’d let them say you’ve marked me like some feral beast?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at the photo as it fluttered to the floor. “It’s not a lie.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“The bond,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s real. The mark is real. The way I feel when I’m near you—that’s real. And if they think I’ve claimed you—”
“You haven’t,” I said, stepping into him. “You haven’t bitten me. You haven’t taken me. You haven’t—”
“I will,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “When you’re ready. When you stop fighting it. When you stop pretending you don’t want me.”
My breath hitched.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he asked, one hand lifting, thumb brushing the pulse at my throat. “The bond. The pull. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body arches when I’m near—like it’s starving for me.”
“I’m not starving for you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re trembling. Your sigil’s spreading. Your magic’s fraying. You need me, Vera. And not just to survive.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You do,” he said, his other hand sliding to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “You need my touch. My mouth. My fangs on your skin. You need to feel me inside you, claiming you, ruining you.”
My breath caught.
My thighs clenched.
“And I need you,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. Not as a means to an end. I need you because you’re the only thing that’s ever made my blood still. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m a monster—and made me want to be one.”
My heart hammered.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re strong. I know you’ve spent your life fighting for people no one else cares about. And I know you’re not a terrorist.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a revolution,” he said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at me—his eyes gold, his fangs bared, his breath hot—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not violent this time.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands slid from my waist, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back.
Not because I wanted to use him.
Not because I wanted to destroy him.
But because I couldn’t not.
His breath hitched. His fangs grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He broke the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I gasped. My head fell back. My hands gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I breathed.
He bit down—just enough to sting. I cried out. My back arched. My magic exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he didn’t walk away.
This time, he just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath caught.
“And you,” he said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stayed where I was, my body still trembling, my skin still burning, my heart still pounding.
I hated him.
I wanted to kill him.
And I wanted him to come back.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
And that terrified me more than anything.
—
I didn’t go back to his chambers.
Not after what had happened. Not after he’d kissed me like I was his, like I belonged to him, like I’d already been claimed. I couldn’t face that room. Couldn’t face the bed where I’d sat, trembling, waiting for him. Couldn’t face the mirror where I’d seen the truth in my own eyes.
So I went to the Moon Garden instead.
The silver moss was cool beneath my bare feet, the black roses heavy with scent, the ancient thorn trees whispering in the wind. Moonlight spilled through the canopy, painting the ground in fractured light. The air was thick with magic, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth.
I sat on the moss, my back against a tree, my arms wrapped around my knees. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed—hot, angry, hurting. Thorns of power curled down my chest, across my ribs, tightening like a cage.
I pressed my forehead to my knees.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To burn.
But I didn’t.
I just stayed there, trembling, broken, starving.
And then—
I felt it.
A shift in the air.
A pulse of magic.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Familiar.
I didn’t look up.
“You’re here,” Kaelen said, his voice low, rough.
“You always find me,” I whispered.
“Because you’re mine,” he said, crouching beside me. “And I’m yours. No matter how much you fight it.”
I lifted my head. His eyes were gold, feral, but there was something else in them now.
Not hunger.
Not possession.
Fear.
“They’re saying it’s real,” I said. “The bite mark. They think you’ve claimed me.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I will. When you’re ready. When you stop pretending you don’t want me.”
My breath caught.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he asked, one hand lifting, thumb brushing the pulse at my throat. “The bond. The pull. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body arches when I’m near—like it’s starving for me.”
“I’m not starving for you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re trembling. Your sigil’s spreading. Your magic’s fraying. You need me, Vera. And not just to survive.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You do,” he said, his other hand sliding to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “You need my touch. My mouth. My fangs on your skin. You need to feel me inside you, claiming you, ruining you.”
My breath caught.
My thighs clenched.
“And I need you,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. Not as a means to an end. I need you because you’re the only thing that’s ever made my blood still. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m a monster—and made me want to be one.”
My heart hammered.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re strong. I know you’ve spent your life fighting for people no one else cares about. And I know you’re not a terrorist.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a revolution,” he said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at me—his eyes gold, his fangs bared, his breath hot—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not violent this time.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands slid from my waist, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back.
Not because I wanted to use him.
Not because I wanted to destroy him.
But because I couldn’t not.
His breath hitched. His fangs grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He broke the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I gasped. My head fell back. My hands gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I breathed.
He bit down—just enough to sting. I cried out. My back arched. My magic exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he didn’t walk away.
This time, he just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath caught.
“And you,” he said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he turned and left, vanishing into the shadows of the Moon Garden.
I stayed where I was, my body still trembling, my skin still burning, my heart still pounding.
I hated him.
I wanted to kill him.
And I wanted him to come back.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
And that terrified me more than anything.