Page 37 of Blood Marked

“Don’t say it was a mistake,” she said softly.

Kael didn’t speak. He just looked at her with his bright blue eyes, like he wanted to say more, on the verge of coming undone all over again. But instead, he took a sharp breath, nodded and just left.

And Selene, alone in that shadowed room, pulled her tunic back into place and leaned against the wall—jaw clenched, eyes burning.

Because she didn’t regret a damn thing.

But it felt like she’d just carved herself open for someone who still didn’t know how to bleed.

SIXTEEN

KAEL

Kael couldn’t breathe.

Not in the war room. Not in the hall. Not in the fucking memory of her body pressed against his—back arched, mouth open, hands in his hair like she’dwantedhim.

Not because of the sex.

Because it hadn’t been just sex. It had been something else. Something real. And now every damn breath he took felt like betrayal. Ofher. Ofhimself.

Of the thing he wasn’t ready to name.

He’d kissed her like she was his. Taken her like he had a right to. And then he’d left—because if he stayed, if hesaid anythingin that moment, he would’ve ruined it.

Because what the hell could he say?

“By the way, we’re being paraded in front of the court in seven days for a public bonding ritual that’ll mark you forever and give the old blood a reason to stop aiming daggers at your back?”

Yeah.

No fucking way.

She’d think he used her. Claimed her. That the moment had been about territory, not need. That he’d taken what waspromisedinstead of what was offered.

He couldn’t let her think that.

Because Selene wasn’t a trophy. She wasn’t a means to an end. Not anymore. And she wasn’tElara.

Elara, who had died because someone wanted him dead and she got in the way. He didn’t deserve someone who should love him. Who should bleed for him.

His hands curled into fists.

And just like that, the moment he’d left Selene behind shattered—replaced by fire and bone and the scent of old betrayal.

Because the trail hadn’t ended with the dead assassin.

It had finally led himsomewhere.

To Varyn.

The first crack came from one of Nyra’s runners—an unassuming stable girl with a sharp tongue and a knack for going unseen. Nyra had built a network of spies so deeply embedded in the undercurrent of Fenrir’s court they could breathe its rot before it surfaced.

Kael had gone to Nyra that morning, needing distraction from the storm in his own veins.

He hadn’t expected her to hand him a sealed envelope.

“One of mine intercepted this,” Nyra had said, tone flat. “It was buried inside a border report routed through one of Varyn’s scribes.”

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