The skies cracked above the Rogue Kingdom — ash and lightning choking the air as if the gods themselves had come to bear witness.
Seraphina stood at the center of it all, drenched in blood that wasn't hers, a broken mating mark on her collarbone glowing faintly beneath her torn crimson dress. Her silver hair clung to her skin, streaked with soot, and her eyes shimmered — not blue, not violet… but something ancient and unholy.
Lucian approached behind her, shirt ripped from battle, golden eyes blazing. The crown he wore was cracked. His claws still dripped from the last body he tore apart. And yet, as he looked at her… he was the one falling to his knees.
"You shouldn't have done that," he growled, voice wrecked with rage. "You called the curse."
She didn't blink. "I am the curse."
It started hours earlier.
The high walls of Lucian's Rogue Fortress shook with the force of a pack invasion. Shifters loyal to the Council had found their trail. The damned wolves Seraphina once called her own — including him.
Damien.
Her ex-mate.
The one who had rejected her, thrown her to the dirt in front of the whole Silvermist Pack, and left her for dead.
He was here. Leading them.
Lucian had told her to stay hidden. Had tried to lock her in the throne chamber.
But Seraphina no longer obeyed anyone.
She stepped out onto the battlefield with her hair loose and her soul burning. The moment Damien saw her—his wolf whimpered. Weak. Guilty. Late.
"Seraphina," he breathed.
She spat blood at his feet. "You're five deaths too late."
Behind her, Lucian watched her unravel — not with fear, but hunger. She wasn't his little rebellion anymore. She was war.
When the fighting started, Seraphina didn't shift.
She didn't need to.
She screamed.
And the scream cracked the sky open.
Wolves dropped to their knees as something ancient stirred inside her — a banshee wail fused with alpha magic, turning into a death call that ripped through bones and broke mating bonds in one breath.
The battlefield went still.
Lucian's eyes widened. "You've awakened it."
She turned to him. "You said you wanted a Queen."
He reached for her then, pulling her against him, his claws gentle now, reverent. "Not like this."
But she wasn't listening.
Because Damien was on his knees, gasping, his own wolf fighting to stay shifted — and Seraphina felt nothing.
No ache.
No longing.
No mate pull.
She had severed it. Burned the thread herself.
And in its place, another bond had started to bleed — one forged with smoke, lust, and rage.
Lucian.
That night, when the flames died down and their enemies lay in ruins, Lucian dragged her into the ruined throne room.
"You broke every law," he snarled. "You took a power you don't understand."
She shoved him. "And you brought me to a war I didn't ask for!"
He grabbed her wrist, slamming her against the cold stone wall, breath heavy with blood and hunger.
"You're not the same girl I stole from that cursed pack."
She smiled, feral. "Good. Because she was too easy to break."
His hand found her throat — not to harm, but to ground her. "You're dangerous."
"I'm yours."
That's when he kissed her — hard, wild, filthy.
Her legs wrapped around his waist as he pressed her into the wall, crown falling from his head as his mouth traced down her neck, fangs dragging over the mark he would soon make permanent.
"I'll ruin you," he whispered against her skin.
She bit his shoulder in return. "Then do it properly."
By dawn, they lay tangled in sheets stained with blood and magic.
Lucian stared at the cracked ceiling. "You were supposed to be my weapon."
Seraphina traced a claw down his chest. "And now?"
He turned his head slowly. "Now you're the only thing I fear."