Broken Bond, Burning Vow

chapter 8:Red

(Kaelen)

I stand in front of the mirror longer than I should, fingers tracing the neckline of the dress. Blood red. Low enough that one wrong breath might spill everything. The silk clings to my hips like it was poured on, slit up one thigh just enough to make walking a dare. Dorian used to hate it. Said it made me look desperate. Cheap. Like I was begging for attention I didn’t deserve.

Perfect.

My hands shake a little as I smooth it down. Not nerves. Not exactly. It’s the memory of Theron’s mouth on mine at the waterfall, the way my body had melted against the rock like it had been waiting for him. I’d spent half the night replaying it, hating how good it felt. Hating how safe.

Tonight I’m done waiting for him to make the next move. Thirty days is a countdown, and I need Dorian to hear my name wrapped around his father’s. I need Theron looking at me like he can’t breathe unless I let him. I need control back.

I leave my hair loose, dark waves against the red. No jewelry. Just skin and intention.

When I step into the hall for the pack’s monthly gathering, the noise dips for half a second. Then surges louder. Whispers. I keep my chin up, shoulders back, but my stomach twists. Theron is already there, standing near the head table in a black button-down, sleeves rolled, talking to one of his betas. He hasn’t seen me yet.

I make my way through the crowd, slow. Deliberate. Letting the dress do what it’s supposed to. A few males glance too long. One young enforcer actually stops mid-sentence. I ignore them all.

Theron turns.

His eyes drag over me once. Slow. Thorough. Then back to my face. No flare of heat. No clenched jaw. Nothing. He just nods once, like I’m wearing gray sweats again, and goes back to his conversation.

My steps falter. Heat crawls up my neck. Bastard.

I reach the table and sit without waiting for an invitation. My wolf is restless, brushing against my ribs like she’s trying to get closer to him. I tell her to heel.

He finishes whatever he was saying and drops into the chair beside me. Close. His knee brushes mine under the table and stays there. Solid. Warm. I cross my legs away from him, but the slit in the dress rides higher and his gaze flicks down for a fraction of a second.

Still nothing.

“You’re quiet tonight,” I say, reaching for my wine. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

“Busy.” He shrugs, but his hand settles on the back of my chair, thumb resting just behind my shoulder. Not quite touching. “You look like you’re trying to start a war.”

My pulse kicks. “Maybe I am.”

He huffs a low sound that might be amusement. Doesn’t take the bait. Just signals for more food like this is any other night and I’m not sitting here half-naked in the color of fresh blood.

Frustration simmers under my skin. I lean in closer, letting my arm brush his. Let the neckline dip when I reach for bread. His scent—pine and smoke and something darker—wraps around me, and my body reacts before I can stop it. Warmth low in my belly. A traitorous ache.

He still doesn’t look.

I want to scream.

(Theron)

She’s killing me.

That dress should be illegal. The way it hugs every curve, the way the red makes her skin glow like she’s lit from within. I’ve been half-hard since she walked in, and every male in this room who stared too long is going to remember exactly who she belongs to before the night ends.

But I don’t give her the reaction she’s fishing for. Not here. Not with half the pack watching her like fresh meat. She wants me off-balance. Wants me panting and stupid so she can keep telling herself this is still her game.

I let my thumb graze the back of her neck instead. Once. Light. She stiffens, then tries to hide it by taking another sip of wine. Her knuckles are white around the glass.

Cute.

Conversation flows around us—harvest reports, border patrols, some bullshit about a rogue sighting last week. I keep one ear on it, the other tuned to the way her breathing changes every time my fingers shift against her chair. She’s pushing tonight. Testing. The revenge dress. The way she’s angled her body toward me like an offering.

I know exactly what she’s doing. And it’s working on her more than it’s working on me.

When the plates are cleared and music starts up—low, steady drums and strings for the younger wolves to dance—I stand and offer my hand. She takes it after a beat, eyes wary.

We don’t make it to the dance floor.

I steer her left instead, through the side door, down a narrow hallway lined with storage. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. Her pulse is hammering; I can feel it in her wrist. The red silk whispers against her thighs with every step.

I push open the supply closet door—linens, spare chairs, cleaning s**t—and pull her inside. Close it behind us. The space is tight. Dark except for the thin strip of light under the door. Her back hits the wall first.

“Theron—” she starts, voice already breathy.

I catch both her wrists in one hand and pin them above her head. Not rough. Firm. Enough that she feels it. Her chest rises fast against mine. The dress shifts, and I feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.

She smells like wine and want and that sharp edge of frustration.

I lean in until my mouth is at her ear. “You wore this for me?”

Her breath hitches. She doesn’t answer.

I press closer. Let her feel exactly what the dress is doing to me. One slow grind of my hips against hers—hard, deliberate. She makes a soft, choked sound and her thighs part just a fraction. My free hand grips her waist, thumb pressing into the dip above her hipbone.

Fuck, she feels good. Too good.

I hold there for three heartbeats, letting the heat build, letting her feel how badly I want to rip that silk off and take what’s already mine. Her head tips back against the wall. Lips parted. Eyes half-closed.

Then I stop.

Pull back just enough that only our breathing touches.

“You’re trying to seduce me,” I whisper against her mouth. “Stop. I’m already yours.”

Her eyes fly open. Wide. Furious. Hungry.

I release her wrists. Step back. My c**k is throbbing, my wolf snarling at me to finish what I started, but I turn toward the door anyway.

“Theron,” she says, raw. Almost a growl.

I pause with my hand on the knob. Look back at her—flushed, dress rumpled, wrists still raised like she forgot to lower them. Beautiful. Mine.

“Fix your dress before you come out,” I tell her quietly. “And Kaelen? Next time you want to play games, remember I’ve been playing them longer.”

I slip out and close the door behind me. The hallway air feels cold after the heat of that closet. I adjust myself, roll my shoulders, and head back to the hall like nothing happened.

But my hands are still shaking with the effort it took not to keep her there.

(Kaelen)

I stand there in the dark for what feels like forever, chest heaving, skin burning where he touched me. My wrists tingle. My core aches so bad I have to press my thighs together to ease it. The dress feels ridiculous now. Cheap. Like a costume that didn’t fool anyone.

Especially not him.

You’re trying to seduce me. Stop. I’m already yours.

The words loop in my head, low and rough and so damn certain. I hate how they settle inside me. How my wolf stretches and preens like he just gave her exactly what she wanted.

I slide down the wall until I’m crouched, arms wrapped around my knees. The silk pools around me like spilled blood. My body is screaming for more—for his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pinning me properly. And my head… my head is a mess of frustration and shame and this unwanted, terrifying pull toward him.

I came here to break a man. To make Dorian watch while I took everything from him. Instead I’m hiding in a supply closet because his father touched me for thirty seconds and I nearly came undone.

A bitter laugh escapes me. Short. Ugly. I press my forehead to my knees and breathe through it.

Eventually I stand. Smooth the dress down with trembling hands. Wipe under my eyes even though I didn’t cry. When I step back into the hallway, the noise from the gathering hits me again. Laughter. Music. Normal pack life moving on while I feel like I’ve been cracked open.

Theron is back at the table. Watching the door. Watching for me.

Our eyes meet across the room. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look smug. Just steady. Like he’s waiting for me to figure it out.

I walk toward him on legs that still feel weak. The slit in the dress flashes with every step. Heads turn again, but I don’t care anymore. Let them look. Let Dorian hear about the red dress and the way his father dragged me off somewhere private.

None of it matters the way it should.

Because when I sit down beside Theron again, he rests his hand on my thigh under the table. Heavy. Possessive. Right over the bare skin where the slit splits open. His thumb strokes once, slow.

I don’t push him away.

I pick up my wine with my other hand and take a long drink, trying to drown the confusing storm inside me. Want. Rage. Longing. Shame. It all tangles together until I can’t tell which is which.

He leans in slightly, voice for me alone. “Breathe, Kaelen.”

I exhale shakily. His hand stays there the rest of the night.

And I let it.

(Theron)

She’s quiet the rest of the evening. Not sulking. Processing. I keep my hand on her thigh because I need the contact as much as she does, even if she won’t admit it. Every so often her muscle tenses under my palm, then relaxes again. Like she’s fighting herself and losing.

Good.

When the gathering starts to wind down, I stand and offer her my arm. She takes it without hesitation this time. We walk out together under the eyes of the entire pack. Her dress catches the light one last time, but the war she tried to start in it never quite landed.

Later, alone in my room, I can still taste the moment in that closet. The way she arched into me. The little sound she made when I ground against her. I fist my hands and force myself to be patient.

She’s close. So f*****g close to cracking.

And when she does, it won’t be for revenge.

It’ll be for me.