Blood stained the courtyard stones.
Lucian stood over the fallen traitors, his chest heaving, his claws dripping red.
His pack had gathered — a ring of rogues with wild eyes and wary stances.
Not one dared step close.
Not one dared question the king they'd just seen rip his own men apart.
I stayed back too, clutching the poisoned arrow in my hand like a lifeline.
Lucian's head turned slowly toward me, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.
"Who gave you that?" he asked, voice lethal.
I held it up, shaking but steady.
"Found it in the training fields," I lied smoothly.
His jaw ticked.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
Someone had tried to assassinate me.
And someone he trusted had helped.
Lucian turned on the gathered rogues, his voice a whipcrack in the cold night air.
"Find the traitor. Rip apart every den if you have to."
The rogues scattered like crows at a gunshot.
Only Lucian and I remained.
Only the monster and his reluctant queen.
He stalked toward me, and instinct made me brace, ready for fury, for punishment.
Instead, he stopped inches away.
"You need to be stronger," Lucian said, low and guttural. "You need to be fast enough to survive a blade in the dark."
I swallowed.
His gaze dropped to my blood-smeared knuckles, to my torn feet.
"You'll never survive like this," he said roughly.
Then he yanked off his leather jacket and tossed it at me.
"Come," he ordered.
No chains this time.
No guards.
Just him.
And me.
And the sharp, aching bond crackling between us.
Lucian dragged me deep into the rogue kingdom — into the old ruins that smelled of ash and ghost battles.
Training grounds.
Real ones.
This wasn't the pretty little combat the Alphas taught.
This was survival.
Lucian grabbed two dulled blades and tossed one at my feet.
"Pick it up," he said.
I hesitated.
He raised a brow, a silent challenge.
I picked up the blade.
Lucian didn't waste time.
He lunged.
I barely blocked, stumbling back under the sheer brutal force of him.
He pressed harder, blade locked with mine, his breath hot against my cheek.
"Fight me," he snarled. "Or die."
I fought.
God, I fought — teeth gritted, muscles screaming, every furious ounce of hate and heartbreak poured into my strikes.
Lucian knocked the blade from my hand with a brutal twist and slammed me against a pillar.
His hand wrapped around my throat — again, not choking, just holding.
Always holding.
"You're too soft," he growled against my mouth.
I kneed him in the thigh, hard enough to make him grunt.
"Good," he breathed. "More."
We clashed again.
Slammed into the stones.
Rolled in the dirt and blood.
And somewhere between the rage and the violence, something shifted.
Something dark and undeniable snapped tight between us.
Lucian pinned me to the ground, breathing hard, his body pressing into mine.
His face hovered over mine, so close, too close.
I could feel the pounding of his heart.
I could taste the rage on his lips.
My wolf surged up, wild and wanting.
Lucian's gaze dropped to my mouth — a feral, hungry look.
"You hate me," he rasped.
"I do," I gasped, writhing beneath him.
"Good," he growled, voice cracking. "Hate is stronger than love."
He dipped his head lower — his mouth brushing mine — almost.
The bond between us snapped taut, electric, blistering.
One more breath. One more heartbeat.
And we would shatter.
But Lucian pulled back with a guttural curse, shoving himself off me like it burned him.
"Training's over," he said hoarsely.
He turned away, fists clenched at his sides.
I lay there, shaking with fury and a sick, desperate hunger I couldn't kill.
Not for him.
Not for the enemy who broke me.
Later that night, alone in the shattered barracks, I stared at the stolen arrow in my hands.
Someone still wanted me dead.
Lucian had saved me — but for how long?
Because if he kept looking at me like that…
If I kept wanting him like that…
The biggest threat to my survival wouldn't be the traitors.
It would be Lucian himself.
Or worse —
Me.