Page 12 of Blood Marked

KAEL

Kael stood at the foot of the throne dais, fists clenched behind his back, the burn of the Mark under his skin still flaring like a damn brand.

The high court of Fenrir stretched out before him—stone archways clawed toward the sky, fur-lined banners billowing with each gust of wind that hissed through the open columns. The throne room was carved straight from the bones of the mountain itself. Cold. Cracked. Watching.

Just like the wolves who filled it.

Shifters lined both sides of the chamber—House advisors, war captains, noble families in ceremonial armor and ink-dyed silks. And all of them, every last one, turned toward the entrance at the sound of heavy doors creaking open.

And there she was.

Selene walked like a storm bottled in a girl’s frame—quiet until it wasn’t. Raven-black hair braided back from her face, silver-threaded cloak whispering over the flagstones. She wore the court’s colors—crimson and bone—but somehow still managed to look like a rebellion dressed for supper.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t falter.

Didn’t smile.

And damn it if Kael didn’t respect the hell out of that.

Still, respect didn’t make the Mark throb any less. Didn’t stop the way the whole damn room seemed to lean forward when she passed, like predators sniffing out the blood they knew had already been spilled.

Kael descended the steps as she approached.

“You’re late,” he said under his breath, voice low enough that only she could hear.

“I’mfashionably hostile,” Selene muttered, not missing a beat.

His jaw ticked. “Remember the part where we have tolookunited?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fantastic at pretending.”

She gave him a dazzling, false smile right as they stepped onto the central dais together. The court murmured in approval.

Kael didn’t smile back.

He stood just a breath behind her, his hand ghosting near the small of her back as dictated by custom. Not touching. Just near enough tosuggestconnection.

It made his skin crawl.

It made something in himache.

And he hated it.

“Welcome,” Ruarc's voice rang out from the throne behind them, heavy and rich with command. “The Mark has spoken. The blood has bound. And in its binding, the path ahead begins.”

More murmurs. Some reverent. Others wary. A few openly skeptical.

Kael’s eyes drifted to the edge of the gathering, to Lord Varyn Duskthorn—a sleek bastard with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Velvet coat. Black-gloved hands clasped like a prayer. Watching Selene like he was the one with a claim on her, not him.

Kael’s wolf snarled inside his chest.

After the ceremony’s initial speeches and the blood-oath recitation that followed—thankfully more theater than magic—they were ushered out of the great hall to a quieter chamber reserved for the bonded pair to “reflect.”

Kael didn’t wait for the guards to close the door before he snapped, “You could’ve tried a little harder not to antagonize every noble in the room.”

Selene wheeled on him, jaw sharp, eyes flashing like a storm at sea.

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