MOONBOUND TO THE MERCILESS KING

THE EAST WING

SERAPHINE

They gave me a room that was larger than my entire home in Cresthaven.

I stood in the centre of it for a long time after the silent warrior — Maren, she said her name was— had left. The bed was carved mahogany with deep grey linens.

The fireplace was already lit. Three arched windows looked out over a courtyard ringed by black stone walls, and beyond them, mountains so tall their peaks disappeared into cloud.

Coldstone Keep. The seat of the Lycan King's power.

I had heard stories about it my whole life.

A fortress carved into the bones of the Vael Mountains, where the wind howled like wolves and the sun rose an hour later than anywhere else because the peaks swallowed the light.

A place where the air itself smelled different — thinner, older, like breathing the exhaled breath of something ancient.

They were right about the air.

I went to the window and pressed my palm flat against the cold glass.

Below, two warriors crossed the courtyard in silence. A third stood at the gate, still as a statue in the blue torchlight.

Even from here, I could feel the power radiating off this place. Every stone, every wall, every shadow seemed to hum with it.

My wolf pressed against the inside of my chest, restless.

"I know," I whispered to her. "I feel it too."

She had been agitated since the throne room.

Since the bond. Even now, with the King somewhere in the depths of this fortress, the pull of the mate bond was a low, constant ache — like a bruise on the inside of my ribs.

I pressed a hand to my sternum.

He had called it a mistake.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the fire.

The flames in the hearth here burned normal orange, at least. Whatever made the torches in the throne room blue, it didn't extend to the living quarters. I found that mildly comforting.

There is no bond. What you felt was a mistake.

I had two choices. I could believe him — tell myself I'd imagined it, that the stress of the last twelve hours had made me hallucinate the single most overwhelming sensation of my nineteen years, and live out whatever strange half-life awaited me here in relative peace.

Or I could trust my wolf.

She snarled at even the suggestion of the first option.

Right, then.

I lay back on the bed without undressing and stared at the ceiling. I needed to understand this place.

Needed to understand him. The Merciless King — Kael, the whispers said, though no one below Alpha rank seemed to use his name aloud — had a reputation built on blood and deliberate cruelty.

Three packs had tried to rise against him in the last decade. None of them existed anymore.

And yet.

He hadn't hurt me. Hadn't threatened me. He'd called me a guest.

I was still turning that over when a knock came at the door.

I sat up. "Come in."

Maren entered, carrying a tray. She was perhaps thirty, with close-cropped dark hair and the kind of economy of movement that marked someone who had spent years making themselves invisible.

She set the tray on the table by the window — bread, cold meat, fruit, and a small pot of something that steamed gently.

"His Majesty's orders," she said. "You're to eat."

"Does he give orders about everything?"

Maren's expression didn't shift. "Yes."

I almost laughed. "What is the tea?"

"Valerian and nightshade root. For sleep."

I stared at her. "Nightshade."

"In safe quantities. It's what his household uses." She met my eyes for the first time, and I found her gaze surprisingly direct for a woman who otherwise seemed to practice invisibility.

"You're not in Cresthaven anymore. The Lycan wolves run hot. We don't sleep well without it."

I picked up the cup. Smelled it. It was earthy and slightly sweet, and if there was anything dangerous in it, my wolf didn't react.

I drank half of it and set it back down.

"How long have you served him?" I asked.

"Twelve years."

"Is he as terrible as they say?"

Maren picked up the empty tray-cloth and folded it with neat, precise movements. "I've never been harmed," she said carefully. "I've never seen him harm anyone who didn't deserve it." She paused.

"But I've seen him destroy things. Whole structures. Whole systems. He has a thoroughness about him that can look like cruelty from the outside."

"And from the inside?"

She almost smiled. Almost. "Get some sleep, my lady. Tomorrow will be longer."

She left, and I was alone again with the fire and the mountains and the low, throbbing ache of a bond the King refused to acknowledge.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep pulled me under faster than it should have — the tea, probably. And in the dark space between waking and dreaming, I felt something that made my wolf go perfectly, breathlessly still.

Another presence. Vast and controlled and fighting, very hard, to stay away.

He was awake. Somewhere in this fortress, the King was awake, and the bond was pulling him the same direction it was pulling me.

Good, I thought, at the edge of sleep. Let him suffer it.

But when I finally dreamed, I dreamed of gold eyes in the dark, and a voice like the quiet before the earthquake, asking me something I couldn't quite hear.

I woke at three in the morning with the absolute, bone-certain knowledge that someone had been standing outside my door.

And had walked away.