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CHAPTER 13

LUCAS

T he frost hasn’t burned off the ground yet when Max and I hit the southern patrol line. I’m amazed at the Ironclaw warrior’s ability to recover from whatever was done to him in that horrible place. The sun’s not even up, just a dim glow brushing the mountains behind us, and the air tastes like ash and rain. Something’s coming. Every instinct I have says so.

Max doesn’t talk much, not anymore. But he walks beside me like a shadow, his gait steadier each day. He still flinches when the wind kicks too hard, and his eyes go distant every time a bird call sounds too close to the frequency of the lab alarms. But when his boots hit the dirt, he’s a soldier again. Not whole. But enough.

He pauses at the ridge line, gaze narrowing. “You smell that?”

I nod. Copper and sulfur. Wrongness baked into the bark of the trees ahead. We move in tandem, cutting through a thicket that’s thicker than it should be. Brambles snag at my arms. Max pushes ahead, crouching low, and I follow until we reach the edge of the clearing.

The body’s there—twisted, like it fell from the sky instead of being torn apart on the ground. Young. One of ours. Barely past his first run as a scout.

My stomach turns. Not just from the wounds—though they’re bad. Too clean in some places, too savage in others—but because of what’s carved into the tree above him.

The Nightshade crest, inverted. The lines are the same. The flame. The tower. The sigils meant to signify balance and protection. But someone distorted them. Bent inward. A new glyph added to the center—something older, rougher. Something that burns into my vision even after I look away.

“This is for you,” Max says, voice low.

“I know.”

Cain’s message isn’t subtle. He wants us to see what happens when we let our guard down. He’s not only threatening the pack. He’s threatening me, Ryder’s leadership, our bloodline, and maybe more than that.

Back at the lodge, Ryder’s already waiting. I barely step into the war room before he’s tossing me a data slate with a grim nod.

“We caught a Crimson Claw wolf on the northeast ridge this morning. Not alone, either. We took out the other two. He surrendered.”

“Convenient,” I mutter, scanning the intel.

“He’s caged. Wants to talk.” Ryder looks up. “With you.”

Perfect.

We head downstairs, past the lower corridors, to a reinforced room that used to be a root cellar, before Ryder turned it into what it is now. Interrogation-ready. Soundproof. Reinforced doors. No magic channels.

The Crimson Claw wolf is inside—young, lanky, sinewy. He paces in a tight circle before sitting on his haunches in the corner. His coat is patchy, riddled with faint scars and burns, but it’s the eyes that stop me. Too calm. Too empty. The kind of void that comes from surrendering everything, including your name.

He lifts his head when I enter. Ears twitch. Then he bares his teeth in what passes for a grin. “Lucas Stone,” he says, voice gravel-coated and too casual. “The one Lina calls marked.”

I don’t answer. I shut the door behind me, step forward, and lean against the far wall. Ryder takes the opposite corner, arms crossed, boots planted. No table. No false civility.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The wolf snorts. “Names are for the living. Mine burned when I gave myself to her.”

“Then let’s talk about Cain.”

That gets a twitch. Not fear—he doesn’t have enough soul left for that—but there’s something. A flicker of reaction in the way his claws flex against the concrete floor.

“He’s not in charge anymore,” the wolf says. “You think he’s leading this? He was just the doorframe. Not the storm blowing through it.”

“Then who is?” Ryder demands.

The wolf turns his head toward me. “You already know. You’ve felt her.”

My jaw tightens. “Lina.”

He dips his muzzle in a mock bow. “She doesn’t whisper to the wind like your Windriders. She commands it. Tells it where to scream.”

I take a step forward, slowly. Deliberately. “Why Sophia?”

“She doesn’t want her,” the wolf says. His voice drops low, almost reverent. “She needs her. Lina’s blood’s not strong enough to hold the gate alone. But Sophia’s bond? Your marked blood tangled with hers?”

The bottom drops in my gut.

“She’s going to use the ritual,” I say, more statement than question.

The wolf bares his teeth again. “You don’t even know what you’re carrying, do you?”

I move before I realize it—slamming my palm into the wall above his head, crowding into his space. My other hand fists in the thick fur along his neck, yanking him close. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make sure he understands this isn’t a game.

“Tell me what she’s planning. Or I swear to whatever ancient rot you worship, you won’t leave this room with your bones intact.”

His pupils dilate. But he laughs. A low, broken sound that scrapes down my spine.

“She’s going to finish what the Elders were too afraid to complete,” he breathes. “She’s going to bind your power and Sophia’s. Permanently. No separation. No turning back.”

I tighten my grip, claws pricking through my restraint, but Ryder is already moving—pulling me back by the arm, voice sharp.

“Enough.”

I let go. Barely.

The wolf stays crouched, tongue lolling like he’s pleased with himself.

“She’s not just opening the gate,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She’s making sure it never closes again.”

I don’t bother knocking on Sophia’s door. I storm in, blade still sheathed on my hip, the operative’s words still burning under my skin. She’s at the map table, poring over a series of glyph sketches. Her head snaps up, and the second she sees my face, she straightens.

“What happened?”

“Lina’s using us. She needs your bloodline. Our bond. That’s what this has all been about.”

Sophia folds her arms. “You want to tell me what this is about or keep pacing like a pissed-off jaguar?”

I stop. My voice drops. “The ritual. The one your father tried to destroy. What is it?”

She goes still. Then moves slowly to the window. Her silence is answer enough.

“I need the truth, Sophia.”

Finally, she turns. “Lina believed she could create a permanent conduit. Not a link. A fusion. Two bloodlines, fused by the gate, anchored through stormblood. She called it the Binding. My father found her research. He tried to burn it.”

“And you have it.”

“I have the parts she didn’t find,” she says, lifting her chin. “But even then, it’s incomplete.”

I stalk toward her, close the distance. “But it could work.”

Her gaze flickers. “If the bond is strong enough.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were already unraveling!” she snaps. “Because the moment we step over that line, there’s no going back. This isn’t just about magic or power. This is forever. Every part of you and me fused into something the world hasn’t seen since the gates were first sealed.”

“You don’t trust me with that?”

“I wasn’t sure you trusted yourself.”

My power surges, unbidden. I feel it under my skin—my wolf clawing, snarling, slamming against the walls of my control. She sees it, doesn’t back up. Doesn’t even flinch.

“You want to lead me through this?” she asks, stepping closer, chest against mine. “Fine, but stop trying to carry me. I’m not something you protect. I’m something you fight beside. You want this to work? Then trust all of me. Including the storm.”

I grab her wrist, press it to my chest. “Then let’s burn the damn sky together.”

She grins. “Not until you survive me first.”

SOPHIA

The sparring ground is quiet. No one watching now except Isabella, leaning against the gatepost like she’s cataloguing every movement we make.

I circle him, blade loose in one hand, eyes on his every shift. He moves with caution—tight, coiled. Like something inside him is too close to the edge. I see it in the way his jaw sets, the way his shoulders twitch. That same pressure behind my ribs answers his tension, something wild and old, begging to be unchained.

He strikes first. Fast, clean. I block it with a twist, step inside, and aim for his shoulder. He pivots, slams into my hip, and I hit the ground. Hard. But I roll into a crouch, eyes locked on him.

I lunge. He ducks. We trade blows—elbow, wrist, knee, blade. My guard rattles with each hit. His knuckles split against it. My boot catches his ribs.

Then I see the opening. I step through his stance and drop him with a spin that knocks the air from his lungs. Knee to his chest. Blade to his throat.

He grins up at me, panting. “I yield.”

My smile is slow. Dangerous. “I know.”

But we both feel it—this isn’t just about the fight. It’s everything we haven’t said. Everything we’re becoming.

I don’t move the blade. His chest rises and falls under me, steady but fast. A thin line of blood trickles from where I caught him last. It’s not deep, but it marks him. I don’t look away. Neither does he.

He said ‘yield,’ but I see it in his eyes—he hasn’t given up. He’s given something else. Something quieter. Trust.

I lean in, just enough that my breath brushes his lips. “You fight like you’re trying to silence a war.”

He gives a low grunt, something between a laugh and a sigh. “And you fight like you’re trying to start one.”

“Maybe I am.”

He lifts a hand, slow, and brushes my hair back from my face. There’s a crack in him tonight. Not one I made with a blade. Something deeper. Older than pain. Sharper than fear.

I sheath my knife and crawl off him. My knees sting. My hands ache. There’s a scrape on my ribs where I hit the post. I don’t care. He watches me like I’m the only thing holding him together as I turn toward the lodge.

He stands slowly. Brushes off his hands. Reaches for mine.

I don’t resist.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

He leads me to his room. It’s much larger than the guest room I’ve been in. Grander. The attached bath is enormous. The shower could host an orgy—I try not to ask myself if it ever has.

The tile is cold under my feet. The water, scalding. Steam coils around us, thick and ghostly, hiding everything but each other. He steps into the spray, slow. Blood still clings to his jawline. His knuckles are raw. He doesn’t look at me right away. Just stands under the water, eyes closed, arms slack. Heavy. Haunted.

I move toward him, every step measured. I trail my fingers over his chest, then his side—skin warm and bruising beneath my touch. I press a kiss to the darkening spot. Look into his face.

“Don’t hold back with me.”

His eyes open. Wild, golden, and too bright. “I don’t know how to be soft with you,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Then don’t be soft,” I whisper. “Just be here.”

I take his hand and guide it to my hip. His thumb brushes the curve of my waist, tentative. I lead him higher, along my ribs. My grip tightens as I press his hand beneath my breast—clear. Demanding.

He follows.

His mouth moves from my collarbone to my jaw, slow and reverent. I push him against the tile wall, pin his wrists above his head. He doesn’t fight it. Just watches me, eyes narrowed slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“This is what you want?” he murmurs.

“I want all of you,” I say, voice steady. “But this... this is mine.”

He exhales like he’s letting go of something buried deep. “Then take.”

And I do.

I take with a kiss that feels like a whispered prayer interlaced with a fervent claim—a sensual communion of longing and desire. His lips, coarse from the high mountain air, carry a surprising warmth and an intimate familiarity, as if both nature and shared memories sculpted them. My fingers trail insistently down his chiseled chest, the scratch of my nails leaving subtle, burning marks that echo the intensity of our passion. Slowly, deliberately, I lower myself to my knees, my eyes tracing every shift in his expression.

I do not hurry this moment. I watch him with rapt attention—his head tilts back, eyes closing in surrender, and his jaw clenches in a mix of anticipation and pleasure. His fingers grasp the ledge behind him so tightly that they render the space almost sacred with their silent plea. I move in sync with the rise and fall of his breath, attuned to the subtle tremors of his body as it strains against a delicious, restrained force. In the delicate pause of his movement, I see his vulnerability in the trembling of his thighs and the nearly silent gasp that slips past his lips.

Kneeling before him, Lucas smiles down at me with a mix of mischief and longing, and, emboldened by his look, I continue my exploration. I free his rigid erection, a proud, throbbing declaration of his arousal, and let my tongue swirl around it in languid, skilled circles, savoring the raw, intoxicating taste of desire and anticipation.

My hand finds its way along his thick, commanding shaft—from the base of the plum-like tip where his passion begins, down towards the dense balls that speak of his need. I lower my mouth, enveloping him gently at first in soft, teasing suction that blooms into more insistent, determined strokes as his quiet moans turn into stifled, pleasure-filled gasps. His hand, light as a caress, runs through my hair, guiding me up and down his length while each pulse of his veins under my tongue becomes a rhythm in our shared dance of lust. I circle the head with reverence, tasting him deeply as if each drop carried the essence of his inner fire. His fingers nestle into my hair, holding me in a tender grip even as the rhythm of his shallow thrusts into my mouth intensifies.

The taste of him is a heady blend of raw power and simmering desire—a flavor so addictive it drives my hunger higher. Even as I pleasure him, my own desire flares palpably; the throbbing ache of my body hints at the promise of what awaits, a silent longing for the moment we become one again in every sense. The rough fabric of his jeans grazes my cheek as he grows ever more insistent in my mouth, urging me to welcome every part of him. His grunts of ecstasy meld into soft groans of yearning when I pause, only to meet his arousal with slow, demanding kisses that speak of shared impatience.

Hovering above him, I guide his throbbing desire toward the warm, inviting entrance of my core. Anchoring myself by gripping his hips firmly, I allow him to steady me as I take him within me once more. In that sacred alignment, he lets me set the pace, and our mutual desire leads us into a slow, hypnotic rhythm where our breaths merge into a single, primal cadence. My head falls softly against his shoulder while he presses his face into the tender hollow of my neck, his warm, trembling breath sending shivers of delight across my skin.

No words pass between us. We converse only through the language of movement—complementary and unspoken, free from the desire to fight or dominate. Instead, we are simply together, our bodies entwined in a delicate balance of need and reverence. His hands cradle my hips as if I were a rare treasure, and my fingers navigate the soft terrain of his hair while my lips linger on the warmth of his shoulder. Every thrust, every shallow gasp, every meeting of skin against skin builds slowly into a crescendo that transcends mere physical release.

When our passion finally peaks, it is not an explosive burst, but an all-encompassing flood—an overwhelming cascade that consumes us. In that ultimate surrender, my nails dig deeply into him as I shatter into fragments of ecstasy. He groans against my skin, his arms wrapping around me with a desperate, protective strength, as if in that embrace we were the last bastions of solidity in a world on the brink of collapse.

Later, when I slide off him, my body hits the cold tile. He settles beside me, one hand under my chin, the other drawing slow shapes on my stomach.

“We’re not breaking,” I whisper. “We’re bending toward each other.”

His voice is rough, but sure. “Then let’s break the rest of the world first.”