“Yes.” The word was barely a breath. “If that’s what you choose, I’ll find another way. I’ll burn down every tradition in this fortress before I let them use you as a pawn.”
The bond pulsed with the truth of it—his willingness to destroy his own kingdom’s foundations if she asked him to. His absolute, terrifying commitment to whatever she decided.
Elsa reached up and covered his paw with hers.
“You said the ritual proves you can control yourself.” She held his gaze. “But you’ve already proven that. To me. Every time you’ve had the chance to hurt me and didn’t. Every time you’ve given me a choice when you could have just taken.”
“The Blood Moon is different—”
“Then show them.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Show your court, your priests, your challengers. Run me down under the red moon and prove that the beast they’re so afraid of answers to you.”
Sylas stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Through the bond, she felt a cascade of emotions too tangled to separate—disbelief, hope, something fierce and wanting that made her skin prickle with awareness.
“You’d do that.” Not a question. “You’d let me hunt you.”
“I’d let you catch me.” She turned her face into his palm, pressing her lips to the pad of his thumb, feeling the slight roughness of fur against her mouth. “That’s what the ritual’s really about, isn’t it? Not whether you can chase. Whether I’m willing to be caught.”
His breath shuddered out.
Then his hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, and he pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers the way he had last night, sharing breath and heat and the steady thrum of their bond.
“No one touches you.” The words vibrated against her skin, rough and absolute. “No one takes you. Not even tradition.” His grip tightened, possessive and protective and something else—something that felt like a vow. “You run tomorrow, little human. Run hard. Run fast. Make me earn every step.”
“And when you catch me?”
His answer was a low sound that rumbled through his chest and into hers—not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something between.
“When I catch you,” he said, “you’ll be Luna. Mine. And anyone who challenges that will learn exactly how gentle I’m capable of being when my mate isn’t in danger.”
The promise hung between them, weighted with everything he wasn’t saying.
Tomorrow night, she would run.
Tomorrow night, he would hunt.
And whatever happened after—whatever the Blood Moon demanded of them both—they would face it together.
Chosen.
33
Sylas
The war chamber felt smaller with three males who wanted to tear each other’s throats out.
Sylas stood at the head of the obsidian table, claws pressed into stone that had witnessed a thousand arguments and twice as many threats. Ryxin prowled the perimeter like he couldn’t decide whether to sit or start a fight. Yarx occupied the far corner, datapad clutched against his chest like a shield, amber eyes tracking every shift in tension. And Oran—Acting High Priest Oran, with his patient gaze and careful words—sat perfectly composed in the chair Vask had once claimed as his own.
The audacity of it clawed at something primal in Sylas’s chest. That seat. That position. The power vacuum Vask’s death had left gaped like an open wound, and the priesthood had rushed to fill it before the blood dried.
Oran had been Vask’s subordinate once. Quiet. Patient. Always three steps behind the High Priest, learning which levers moved which systems, which threats kept which lords andcommanders in line. Now he sat where his former master had commanded, wearing humility like armor while his ambitions reshaped themselves to fill the space.
Through the bond, he felt Elsa’s distant presence—warm, steady, a grounding tether at the edge of his awareness. She was in his chambers, resting at his command. The Blood Moon rose tomorrow, and she would need every scrap of strength she possessed.
So would he.
But first—this. Politics before passion. Strategy before instinct. The king before the mate.
“We’re here to discuss the humans.” Sylas kept his voice flat, controlled, the Alpha King wearing his authority like armor. “All of them. Before the court goes feral with opportunity.”