Chapter 5: Mate

The word echoed through Kael's soul like a bell tolling the end of the world.

*Mate.*

Not a whisper. Not a suggestion. A *roar* that originated somewhere deeper than bone, older than blood, rising from the very foundation of what he was. Every cell in his body recognized her. Every instinct demanded he close the distance between them, claim her, *protect* her with a ferocity that made his previous understanding of violence seem like a child's game.

The mate bond wasn't gentle. It didn't ask permission. It simply *was*—absolute, inevitable, undeniable as gravity.

And it was destroying every carefully constructed wall Kael had built around himself since birth.

He'd been taught control before he could walk. Discipline before he could shift. Duty before desire, always, *always* duty before desire. The crown came first. The kingdom came first. His own wants were irrelevant compared to the weight of responsibility he'd been born to carry.

But the bond didn't care about duty.

The bond cared about *her*.

"Your Highness," Duke Blackmoor said carefully, taking a step forward with his hands visible and non-threatening. He was wise enough to recognize danger when he saw it, even if he didn't understand the source. "Perhaps we should discuss this in private. I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding—"

"There's no misunderstanding." Kael's voice was barely human, roughened by the wolf that was clawing its way up his throat. His eyes never left Lyra. "Everyone leaves. Now."

"The girl is merchandise," Grayson protested, his greed overriding his survival instinct. "A legal auction, Your Highness. If you wish to bid, certainly, but—"

"*Now*."

The word came out as a growl that rattled the chains on the walls. Kael felt his control slipping like water through his fingers. His bones ached with the need to shift, to let his wolf out, to show these *insects* exactly what stood between them and his mate.

The crowd needed no further encouragement. They scattered toward the exits like mice fleeing a cat, expensive clothes and noble bearing forgotten in their desperation to escape. Even the guards backed away, weapons drawn but hands shaking.

Only Duke Blackmoor remained, his amber eyes calculating. "Kael," he said, dropping the formality in favor of the familiarity that came from knowing someone since childhood. "Think about what you're doing. Your father sent you here for a reason. If you interfere with that mission—"

"My father," Kael interrupted, his gaze finally breaking from Lyra to pin the Duke with a look that promised death, "can go to hell."

Blackmoor's face went pale. To speak of the King that way was treason. To say it in front of witnesses—even witnesses who were fleeing for their lives—was suicide.

But Kael didn't care. Couldn't care. Because every second he stood here talking was another second his mate suffered in silver and gold, bleeding and dying while he did *nothing*.

*Unacceptable.*

"Leave," he told Blackmoor. "Tell my father whatever you want. Tell him I've gone mad. Tell him I'm a traitor. Tell him—" His voice cracked, something raw and desperate bleeding through. "Tell him I found my mate and I chose her over his crown."

Understanding dawned in the Duke's eyes, followed immediately by horror. "Gods above. The Vale girl? Kael, you can't possibly—she's the target! Your father wants her dead!"

"Then my father will be disappointed."

"He'll see this as treason!"

"*I don't care*." The words came out as a roar that shook dust from the ceiling. Kael's form shimmered, bones beginning to crack and reshape. He was seconds from losing control entirely, from shifting in this enclosed space and tearing apart anyone who remained between him and Lyra.

Blackmoor must have seen it in his eyes—the absolute certainty that he would kill anyone, *anyone*, who kept him from his mate. The Duke backed toward the door, hands raised in surrender.

"This is a mistake," he said quietly. "A mistake that will cost you everything."

"She's worth it."

Three words. Simple. True. Kael felt them settle into his bones with the weight of an oath.

Blackmoor shook his head, equal parts pity and disbelief in his expression, then turned and fled.

The chamber emptied rapidly after that. Grayson was one of the last to run, abandoning his prize in favor of his life. Smart man. If he'd stayed even a moment longer, Kael would have torn out his throat for touching her, for *selling* her, for daring to put that collar around her neck.

Then they were alone.

Just Kael and Lyra and the sound of chains rattling as she swayed on the platform.

He moved.

One moment he was by the entrance, the next he was at the platform's edge, having crossed the space faster than human eyes could follow. His wolf had surged forward, lending him speed and strength, desperate to reach her.

Up close, she was even more devastating.

Her scent hit him like a physical blow—beneath the blood and fear and silver, she smelled like *home*. Like pine forests after rain and woodsmoke and something uniquely *her* that made his wolf whine with recognition and need. His mate. His *fated* mate. The one person in all the realms created specifically for him.

And she was dying.

"Lyra," he said, and his voice cracked on her name. "Lyra, look at me."

Those grey eyes focused on him with obvious effort. Up close, he could see the silver poisoning had progressed further than he'd feared. Her pupils were dilated unevenly, her skin had taken on a greyish pallor, and when she tried to speak, her words slurred.

"You're... not here to... buy me?" Her voice was raw, probably from screaming, though the thought of her screaming made him want to burn the world.

"No." He reached for her wrists, careful not to touch the silver yet. "I'm here to take you home."

"Home," she repeated, and laughed—that same broken sound from before. "Don't have... one of those."

"You do now." The words were a vow. "I swear to you, on my life, on my crown, on everything I am—you'll never be in chains again."

She blinked at him slowly, confusion and disbelief warring in her expression. "Who... are you?"

"Kael." He couldn't bring himself to add his titles, his position. Those things didn't matter here. She didn't need the Crown Prince. She needed her mate. "My name is Kael, and you're my—"

The word stuck in his throat. She was dying. Bleeding out in front of him. And he was standing here making declarations when he should be *acting*.

He reached for the manacles.

"Don't!" She tried to jerk away, but she was too weak. "Silver. It'll burn—"

"I know." He looked into her eyes, letting her see the gold bleeding through his own, letting her see the wolf. "I know it will. Hold still."

He grasped the first manacle with both hands.

Agony exploded up his arms.

Silver was poison to wolves, anathema to everything they were. Touching it was like plunging his hands into acid, into fire, into a pain so pure and absolute that his vision whited out. He felt the skin of his palms blister and burn, felt the metal resist him with supernatural strength.

His wolf *howled*.

But he didn't let go. Couldn't let go. Not when she was staring at him with those wide grey eyes, not when he could feel her pulse fluttering weakly against his wrists, not when every instinct he possessed was screaming that she had *minutes*, not hours.

The manacle resisted. Silver was strong, forged to hold wolves, enchanted to remain unbreakable.

But Kael was the Crown Prince. The alpha heir. And the male standing between his mate and death.

He *pulled*.

The manacle shrieked—metal tearing, magic breaking, chains snapping. The silver came apart in his hands, taking skin and blood with it. He threw the pieces aside and immediately reached for the second one.

"Stop," Lyra gasped. "You're hurting yourself—"

"Doesn't matter." The second manacle was tighter, crueler, the metal embedded in infected flesh. He had to be careful not to tear her wrists open completely. "Nothing matters except you."

She stared at him like he'd spoken a foreign language. Like the concept of someone hurting themselves to help her was so alien she couldn't process it.

*What did they do to you?* his wolf whimpered. *How long have you been alone?*

The second manacle broke. Then the ankle chains. Each one cost him—the pain was extraordinary, even for a wolf—but he didn't hesitate. Didn't slow. Ripped apart the silver like tissue paper, his own blood mixing with hers on the platform.

Finally, only the collar remained.

The golden collar with its binding magic and death curse.

Kael reached for it, and Lyra's hand shot up, catching his wrist with surprising strength. "No. The binding. It'll kill me if you—"

"I know." He covered her hand with his unburned one, feeling the tremor in her fingers. "Trust me."

"I don't know you."

"Yes," he said softly, "you do."

Their eyes met, and in that moment, he felt it—the bond between them, gossamer-thin but *there*, waiting to be acknowledged. Recognition flared in her expression. Not understanding, not yet, but *knowing*. The same knowing that had called to him from the moment he'd entered this cursed place.

"Trust me," he repeated.

Slowly, trembling, she lowered her hand.

Kael examined the collar carefully. Binding magic was complex, requiring specific conditions to break. Usually blood from the one who'd forged the bond, or death, or—

Or the claim of something stronger than the binding itself.

His wolf *knew* what to do. Had known from the moment he'd seen her. The beast pushed forward, urgent and insistent, showing him ancient instincts older than kingdoms.

*Claim her. Mark her. Make her OURS before the collar tries to kill her.*

But that required her consent, and she was in no state to give it. Claiming a mate without consent was unconscionable, unthinkable—

She was dying.

The thought cut through his paralysis like a blade. She was dying *right now*, and he was standing here worrying about protocol and propriety while silver poisoning and blood loss dragged her toward the grave.

"Lyra," he said urgently, cupping her face with his ruined hands. "Listen to me. I can remove the collar, but I need to mark you first. I need to—" Gods, how did he explain this? "I need to bite you. Claim you as my mate. It's the only way to override the binding magic."

She blinked at him slowly, processing. "You're... wolf?"

"Yes."

"And you want... to claim me? Why?"

"Because you're mine." The words came from somewhere primal, undeniable. "You're my mate. My *fated* mate. And I won't let you die in this place wearing another man's collar."

She studied his face for a long moment, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Couldn't tell if she believed him or thought him mad. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to the side, baring the unmarked side of her throat.

"Do it," she whispered. "Whatever it takes. Just... make it stop hurting."

The trust in that gesture—the sheer, desperate *trust*—nearly broke him.

"I will," he promised. "I swear it. No more pain. No more chains. Never again."

He leaned in, and his wolf surged forward with a triumphant roar.

*MINE. OURS. MATE.*

His canines lengthened fully, and in the moment before he bit down, he sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that this would work.

Then he claimed her.

And the world exploded into fire.