I trace Callum through our tether—steady but distant. No proximity yet.
Whatever Faelan wants from this marriage, he orchestrated my sister’s murder, manipulated tribunal members—and my own father—and risked war between realms to achieve it.
And then, standing motionless while they drape me in binding magic, the answer finally surfaces.
If he’d kidnapped me, I’d be a victim.Ash Hollow would rally. The pack bonds would tighten against a common enemy. But watching me comply with the legal summons, honor the political obligation, walk away from Callum through my own choice? That proves everything Faelan believes. That chosen bonds shatter under pressure. That love loses to politics. That Ash Hollow’s philosophy is naive and unsustainable.
He’s not just taking me from Callum. He’s making me prove him right.
The final outer robe settles over my shoulders, the weight of it pressing down like a physical burden. Silver and moonstone blue, the colors of Gleann na Sidhe Court’s most sacred ceremonies. The fabric cascades in precise folds that took generations of seamstresses to perfect.
The attendants step back, their work complete for now. They exchange glances.
“The necklace and tiara still need preparation,” one murmurs. “We’ll return shortly.”
They file out with synchronized efficiency, leaving me briefly alone in the silent chamber. I exhale slowly, testing the weight of the enchanted layers against my skin.
I try, experimentally, to loosen the belt at my waist. The moonstone burns cold against my fingers, and the clasp refuses to budge. The fabric itself seems to tighten when I pull at it—not painful, but insistent. A warning.
These garments aren’t just ceremonial. They’re part of the binding magic, designed to be worn until the ceremony completes them. I couldn’t remove them now if I tried.
The hooks press against my core.
I move to the window, studying the guard rotations below with fresh urgency. Morning sun glints off armor as patrols shiftpositions. The pattern holds—predictable, routine. They don’t expect resistance from within.
I close my eyes, reaching out to Callum—distant but steady, a reminder that—
The bond EXPLODES.
Every nerve in my body ignites at once, my knees nearly buckling beneath the sudden onslaught. My hand flies to my chest as the connection blazes white-hot, no longer distant but immediate—vivid—present.
Callum.
He’s here. In the palace.
The dimensional distance has collapsed. The sensation is unmistakable; his energy signature burning through whatever connects us like wildfire. My breath catches, lungs refusing to work properly as emotions cascade through me faster than I can name them.
Relief washes through me in waves so powerful that my hands tremble against the dresser. He came. Of course, he came—I never doubted—but feeling him here, real and close and alive, steadies something in me that’s been unmoored since the moment I learned of Caelynn’s death.
Then fear crashes in, sharp and cold. He’shere. In the heart of Faelan’s trap, surrounded by guards who knew he was coming. The palace wards are designed to kill intruders. If he falls—if they capture him—
I force the fear down. Callum is a Guardian. A warrior. He didn’t come here to die.
Pride follows, fierce and hot behind my ribs. He crossed realms. Breached palace wards. Brought a rescue force through dimensional barriers that should have been impenetrable. My wolf surges, refusing to accept the impossible.
Love surges next—not the gentle warmth I’ve felt through our connection before, but something wild and all-consuming thatmakes my throat tight and my eyes burn. The kind of love that wages war against kingdoms. That burns through centuries-old political machinations like they’re made of paper.
And beneath it all, gratitude so fierce it nearly breaks me. He’s risking everything—his pack, his position, potentially his life. For me.
I grip the dresser edge to steady myself, the cool marble anchoring me as the bond pulses with proximity.
The palace wards shimmer visibly now, rippling across the crystalline walls like disturbed water. The defensive magic pulses with intrusion alerts—someone has breached the castle.
Not someone. Callum. And likely others.
I straighten, forcing my breathing to even out as I school my features back to neutral. I can almost trace his movement—east wing, moving with purpose toward the central palace complex.
Voices erupt in the corridor outside my chamber—guards shouting orders; boots pounding against marble floors as security forces mobilize. The alertness in their tone betrays genuine concern. This isn’t a drill or false alarm.
