Asis swayed, the last of her strength fading as the blood bond's hold on her snapped. She collapsed—only for Harald to catch her, his arms wrapping around her as he shifted back to human form. "Asis," he rasped, his voice raw. "Look at me."
She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze. The gold in his irises was dimmer now, exhaustion lining his face. But he was here. Alive.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Harald's grip tightened. "Don't." He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her lips. "You're mine. And I'm not letting you go again."
Outside, the blood moon faded, dawn bleeding into the sky.
The journey to Harald's palace passed in a haze of exhaustion and lingering magic. Asis drifted between consciousness and dreams, her body weak from the remnants of Vlad's blood bond, her mind caught between the scent of pine and the steady rhythm of Harald's heartbeat beneath her ear. He carried her without complaint through the ruins of Vlad's castle, across the moonlit forests, and finally, to the towering obsidian gates of the Lycan capital.
When she finally stirred, it was to the warmth of furs and the crackle of a hearth fire.
"Welcome home."
Harald's voice was rough with exhaustion, his golden eyes watching her from the shadows of the massive bedchamber. The room was grand but simple—stone walls lined with weapons and tapestries, a fire roaring in the hearth, and windows that looked out over a kingdom bathed in dawn light.
Asis pushed herself up on unsteady arms. "Home?"
"If you choose it."He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, as if afraid she might bolt. "The palace is yours as much as mine."
She looked away, her fingers twisting in the furs. The weight of everything that had happened—Vlad's betrayal, the blood bond, Harald's relentless pursuit—settled over her like a second skin.
"I don't know what I'm doing here," she admitted.
Harald didn't flinch. "Neither do I. But we'll figure it out."
*****
There was no uproar when Harald brought her into the throne room the next morning.
No protests. No challenges.
The elders stood in solemn silence, their gazes averted, their postures stiff with unspoken tension. The death of Elder Dain had sent a clear message—Harald Dyre's patience had limits, and those who crossed them did not live to regret it.
Asis kept her chin high as she walked beside him, her bare feet silent against the stone floor. The throne room was a place of raw power—the walls lined with weapons, the air thick with the scent of smoke and iron. At its center stood the throne itself, carved from the jawbone of the first Ingolf, the wolf-god of their bloodline.
Harald didn't sit. Instead, he turned to face the gathered Lycans, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Asis Sinha is under my protection. She is here by my will. If any take issue with that, speak now."
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Asis had expected resistance, fury, even outright rejection. But this—this-this quiet submission was somehow worse.
Because it wasn't accepted.
It was fear.
*****
That night, the dreams came. Vlad's voice slithered through her mind, his laughter echoing even in death. "You think it's over? My blood is in your veins, little witch. My legacy."
Asis woke with a gasp, her skin slick with sweat, her pulse racing. And found Harald sitting at the edge of her bed, his eyes glowing in the dark.
"You screamed," he said simply. She shuddered. "It's not gone. His magic—it's still there." Harald's jaw clenched. "Then we purge it."
"How?"
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "The old way."
The sacred grove was hidden deep in the palace gardens, a circle of ancient oaks where the moonlight pooled like liquid silver.
Asis stood in the center, her bare feet pressed to the cold earth, her body draped in a thin white shift. Around her, the pack's elders waited in silence, their faces unreadable.
Harald stepped forward, naked save for the markings painted across his chest in wolf's blood.
"This will hurt," he warned.
She lifted her chin. "Do it."
He bit her.
Not the gentle claiming of a mate—this was violence, his fangs sinking into the junction of her neck and shoulder, his grip bruising as he suckedthe poisoned blood from her veins. Asis cried out, her vision whiting out from the pain—
And then, fire.
Her witchflame erupted, not in destruction, but in purification. Golden light seared through her, burning away the last of Vlad's taint as Harald's blood mingled with hers.
When it was over, she collapsed against him, her breath ragged.
Harald cradled her close, his lips stained crimson. "Mine," he whispered. "Finally."
The world was a blur of pain and fire.
Asis drifted in and out of consciousness, her body wracked with fever, her skin burning one moment and icy the next. The bite on her neck pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache, a constant reminder of the ritual of Harald's fangs sinking into her flesh, of the venom and blood that had seared through her veins like liquid fire.
She didn't know how much time had passed. Only that every time she surfaced from the darkness, he was there.
Harald Dyre, the Alpha King, the beast who had dragged her into his world, now sat vigil at her bedside like a sentinel carved from stone. His golden eyes never left her face, his massive frame hunched in a chair too small for him, his claws flexing restlessly against his thighs.
When she moaned, her throat raw, he was there in an instant, a cool cloth pressed to her forehead.
When she thrashed, caught in nightmares of Vlad's laughter, his arms banded around her, his growl vibrating through her bones. "I'm here," he murmured, over and over, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I'm not leaving."
And he didn't.
Not when the fever spiked, her body convulsing as the last of Vlad's taint was purged.
Not when she sobbed, half-delirious, begging for a relief that wouldn't come.
Not even when the elders came, their expressions grim, suggesting that perhaps the human girl was too weak to survive the bond.
Harald had snarled at them, his Lycan form rippling beneath his skin, and they'd fled.
Now, on the fourth night, Asis finally woke—truly woke—her mind clear for the first time since the ritual.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering hearth. The bed beneath her was soft, the furs warm, but her body felt foreign, her limbs heavy and sluggish. She turned her head—and there he was.
Harald sat slumped in the chair beside her bed, his head bowed, his dark hair falling over his forehead. His shirt was rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and for the first time, he looked less like an untouchable king and more like a man. A tired, desperate man. She swallowed, her throat dry. "Harald."
His head snapped up, his golden eyes locking onto hers. For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if he couldn't believe she was truly awake. Then he was on his knees beside the bed, his hands cradling her face, his breath warm against her lips.
"Asis." Her name was a prayer on his tongue.
She leaned into his touch, too weak to resist, too exhausted to pretend she didn't crave it. "How long?"
"Four days." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "You scared the hell out of me."
A weak laugh escaped her. "I scared you?"
Harald didn't smile. His expression was raw, unguarded. "I thought I'd lost you."
The weight of his words settled over her, heavy and undeniable. This man—this beast—had fought armies for her. Had torn apart castles. Had knelt at her bedside for days, refusing to let her slip away.
And for the first time, she didn't resent it. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they traced the line of his jaw. "You didn't."
His breath hitched. Then, slowly, he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. "Never again." She didn't ask what he meant. She already knew.
Never again would she run.
Never again would he let her go.
*****
By the fifth day, Asis was strong enough to sit up, though her legs still shook when she tried to stand.
Harald had barely left her side, only stepping away to bark orders at the servants or to snarl at the healers who dared suggest she needed more rest. (She did. But she was tired of lying in bed.)
When she finally managed to swing her legs over the edge of the mattress, her nose wrinkled. She smelled like sweat and sickness, her hair tangled, her skin sticky with fever.
"I need a shower," she muttered. Harald, who had been pacing near the fireplace, stilled. "I'll call a maid."
"No." She glared at him. "I don't need a maid. I need to do this myself."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he crossed the room in three strides and scooped her into his arms before she could protest.
"Dyre—"
"You can barely stand," he growled. "Let me help."
She wanted to snap at him, to insist she didn't need his help, but the truth was—she did. Her legs trembled just from the effort of sitting up. So she bit her tongue and let him carry her into the adjoining bathroom.
The royal bathing chamber was a decadent space of black marble and gold fixtures, the shower large enough to fit five people. Harald set her down gently on the bench beside it, then turned to adjust the water, testing the temperature with his hand.
Asis watched him, her cheeks heating. She'd been naked in front of him before—had been intimate with him before—but this felt different. This wasn't passion or claiming. This was something softer. Something more vulnerable. Harald turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her face. "Can you undress yourself?"
She lifted her chin. "Yes."
He nodded, stepping back to give her space. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her nightgown, her movements clumsy with lingering weakness. Harald didn't rush her, didn't offer to help, just waited silently, his arms crossed over his chest.
When the fabric finally pooled at her waist, she hesitated.
Harald's eyes darkened, but his voice was steady. "Do you want me to leave?"
She shook her head.
Slowly, he stepped forward, his hands replacing hers, peeling the nightgown the rest of the way off. His touch was clinical, careful, but she still shivered when his fingers brushed her bare skin.
Then he lifted her again, carrying her into the shower.
The water was blissfully hot, cascading over her shoulders, washing away days of sweat and pain. Harald held her upright, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other reaching for the soap.
She expected him to be rough, efficient. But he wasn't.
His hands were gentle as they smoothed over her skin, working the soap into her arms, her back, her stomach. He washed her hair with surprising care, his fingers massaging her scalp, untangling the knots with patience she hadn't known he possessed. Asis closed her eyes, leaning into his touch.
This wasn't the Alpha King.
This was just Dyre.
And for the first time, she let herself trust him.
*****