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SIXTEEN

KAEL

K ael couldn’t breathe.

Not in the war room. Not in the hall. Not in the fucking memory of her body pressed against his—back arched, mouth open, hands in his hair like she’d wanted him.

Not because of the sex.

Because it hadn’t been just sex. It had been something else. Something real. And now every damn breath he took felt like betrayal. Of her . Of himself .

Of the thing he wasn’t ready to name.

He’d kissed her like she was his. Taken her like he had a right to. And then he’d left—because if he stayed, if he said anything in that moment, he would’ve ruined it.

Because what the hell could he say?

“By the way, we’re being paraded in front of the court in seven days for a public bonding ritual that’ll mark you forever and give the old blood a reason to stop aiming daggers at your back?”

Yeah.

No fucking way.

She’d think he used her. Claimed her. That the moment had been about territory, not need. That he’d taken what was promised instead of what was offered.

He couldn’t let her think that.

Because Selene wasn’t a trophy. She wasn’t a means to an end. Not anymore. And she wasn’t Elara.

Elara, who had died because someone wanted him dead and she got in the way. He didn’t deserve someone who should love him. Who should bleed for him.

His hands curled into fists.

And just like that, the moment he’d left Selene behind shattered—replaced by fire and bone and the scent of old betrayal.

Because the trail hadn’t ended with the dead assassin.

It had finally led him somewhere .

To Varyn.

The first crack came from one of Nyra’s runners—an unassuming stable girl with a sharp tongue and a knack for going unseen. Nyra had built a network of spies so deeply embedded in the undercurrent of Fenrir’s court they could breathe its rot before it surfaced.

Kael had gone to Nyra that morning, needing distraction from the storm in his own veins.

He hadn’t expected her to hand him a sealed envelope.

“One of mine intercepted this,” Nyra had said, tone flat. “It was buried inside a border report routed through one of Varyn’s scribes.”

The courier hadn’t known what she carried. Or maybe she had and knew better than to ask.

The outer document had been nothing more than a report—dry, routine, the kind of thing everyone ignored.

But the envelope hidden beneath ?

Different.

Smaller.

Older.

The wax was black. The sigil—a looped fang coiled in silk—was almost too faint to make out. But Kael knew it instantly. He’d memorized it in blood.

Duskthorn.

It hadn’t been used openly since the last shadow war. Since the night Elara bled out in his arms while Varyn’s uncle vanished into the dark with half his men still breathing. Since Kael had almost torn out a noble’s throat in full view of the court.

That seal hadn’t graced a letter since Ruarc banished every trace of the traitor blood from the mountain’s high council.

And now it was here.

On Kael’s desk.

A ghost. A curse reborn.

He’d cracked it open with a blade, careful not to damage the parchment.

The script was thin and slanted, coded in phrasing not unfamiliar to court correspondence but laced with implications too precise to ignore:

The asset is bonded, not yet sealed by rite. Her bloodline remains viable. We must act before the ceremony. Coordination from within remains essential. Her proximity to the heir makes this sensitive. If we delay, her value may be lost or compromised by the Mark’s binding.

Ensure discretion. Passage arranged at Veilbreak. Human contact will confirm once terms are met.

Selene.

Her blood. Her ancestry. Her power —whatever it was that pulsed inside her, tangled with prophecy and the Mark that burned on both their skin.

They meant to take her.

To extract her before the public rite bound her completely. Before she became fully one of them. While she was still something they could claim .

Kael gripped the letter tighter, and the parchment crackled under his fingers.

Varyn.

It all pointed to Varyn.

His rise through the ranks, his calculated charm, the way he watched Selene with that thin-lipped interest that looked more like assessment than desire. It all made sense now.

Varyn hadn’t come for diplomacy.

He’d come to finish what his uncle started.

To use Kael’s bond to get close.

To steal everything.

Kael’s jaw ached from how hard he clenched it.

Why the hell was this bastard still under his roof?

Why did his father—Ruarc, who had once sentenced an entire minor house to exile for lesser schemes—still entertain the presence of a Duskthorn?

Because that’s what Ruarc did.

He tolerated Varyn, the same way a general tolerates a venomous viper coiled at the edge of the battlefield.

Keep your enemies close. Ruarc’s voice echoed through his memory like gravel over steel. The most dangerous enemy is the one you see. Better that than the knife you don’t.

But this wasn’t politics anymore.

This wasn’t a game of veiled threats and alliances.

This was Selene.

Her face. Her skin. Her voice still whispering across the inside of Kael’s skull like a flame he couldn’t put out.

This was his mate—no matter how much he tried to deny it It had become obvious after he kissed her, even more so after he had taken her. Acknowledging it was one thing. Saying it was another, but she was Kael’s. His to protect.

And Varyn had her in his sights.

Kael didn’t care what tradition said. What his father permitted.

If Varyn made one move, he’d gut the bastard before the court could draw breath to object.

Even if it meant igniting the war Ruarc had spent decades avoiding.

Because Kael had already lost one woman to a Duskthorn blade.

He wouldn’t lose another.

He stood now in the far gallery, the winter air biting at his skin, the parchment still in hand. Snow swirled beyond the pillars. The moons were rising, fat and full and cold.

The bond burned low in his chest, steady and constant. A heartbeat that wasn’t just his.

Was she curled up in that damn bed, wondering why he left? Cursing him? Did she think it was powerplay? Claiming?

He didn’t deserve the truth in her kiss. Didn’t deserve her fury, either.

He wanted to see her. To explain. But he didn’t have the words. Didn’t know how to make her believe that what had happened between them wasn’t about prophecy or fate or the Mark that seared them together.

It was about her .

The fire in her voice. The way she never bowed, never yielded. The way she made him feel alive again—terrifying and furious and real.

Now there was Varyn. The public union. A court full of traitors.

And a girl with bloodline secrets the entire Dominion wanted to exploit.

Kael’s head fell back against the stone wall behind him. Eyes shut. Breathing ragged.

He had no idea how to save her without breaking her trust. But he knew one thing for sure. He’d kill anyone who tried to touch her again.

Even if it meant turning on every last House in this cursed mountain.