Khorg Ironmaw had faced poison before.
Venoms brewed from crushed night-flowers.
Rotting miasma rising from cursed battlefields.
The sour reek of decay that clung to dying men.
None of them felt like this.
The moment the chamber doors slammed shut behind them, the Alpha staggered—just slightly, just enough that only those trained to watch predators would notice. His boots scraped against stone. His claws flexed again, scraping deep, involuntary grooves into the floor.
He inhaled—
—and his inner wolf screamed.
Mate.
The bond flared violently in his chest, a hot, desperate pull that tightened around his ribs like a noose. His instincts surged forward, demanding proximity, protection, claiming.
At the same time, his human stomach lurched.
The scent hit him in layers now that the ritual incense had burned away.
Sharp.
Fermented.
Wrong.
It crawled into his sinuses, burned behind his eyes, settled at the back of his throat like something corrosive. His nose twitched uncontrollably, flaring wide as his body tried—and failed—to catalog the smell.
Not decay.
Not rot.
Something… preserved.
Something sealed.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
His inner wolf howled for a mate, baring its teeth at the thought of distance.
His human body recoiled, stomach churning as if he had swallowed lye.
"Control," he growled under his breath, bracing a hand against the wall.
The corridor was narrow, stone-lined, meant for processions, not prisoners. Torches flickered as they passed, casting warped shadows across the carved reliefs of past alliances—most of which had ended in blood.
Ahead of him, Princess Veyla Aurelion walked in silence.
Two guards flanked her, tense, uncertain whether to treat her as a royal guest or an execution delayed.
Khorg's gaze dragged to her back.
She moved with careful composure, spine straight, steps measured despite the tremor he could now detect in her shoulders. The scent clung to her like a second skin, stronger without the ritual circle to contain it.
His nose twitched again.
"Damn it," he muttered.
His wolf surged forward, furious at the insult of distance, furious at the presence of guards between him and what the bond insisted was *his*.
His stomach heaved.
He turned his head sharply and spat onto the stone floor.
The guards stiffened.
Veyla did not turn around.
She heard it anyway.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
She had been aware of the effect she had on others all her life, but this—this violent contradiction—was new. She could *feel* the pull now, the invisible thread tugging at her chest, tightening whenever Khorg drew nearer, slackening painfully when he fell behind.
It was not desire.
It was gravity.
Across the corridor, Vinculus Noctaryn walked with perfect posture, his pace unhurried, his expression carved into aristocratic calm.
Inside, he was seething.
This was filth.
That was the first, ugly thought that surfaced—unbidden, unwanted, and deeply offensive to his own sensibilities.
Vampires were creatures of refinement. Of control. Of deliberate hunger shaped into art and ritual. Every scent in his world had meaning: iron for blood, musk for arousal, ash for death.
This—
This was an affront.
The girl's scent clawed at him with an intimacy he had not granted. It seeped through centuries of disciplined restraint and fouled the pristine order of his senses. It was intrusive. Indelicate.
*Common.*
His jaw tightened imperceptibly.
And yet—
His body responded.
Not with hunger.
With *need*.
His immortality curse stirred, the ancient instability in his blood reacting violently to her presence. His veins thrummed, craving the Anchor Blood he had felt stir during the ritual—blood that promised equilibrium, survival.
Control slipped again.
Just a hairline fracture.
Enough to enrage him.
How dare she?
How dare a cursed princess with fermented air clinging to her skin reduce a sovereign of the Crimson Court to this?
He wanted distance.
He wanted proximity.
Both at once.
The contradiction scraped against his mind like broken glass.
He exhaled slowly, counting the steps between them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Too close.
He stopped.
The scent intensified immediately.
His stomach twisted. His vision sharpened dangerously.
Vinculus closed his eyes for half a heartbeat and forced his body into stillness.
*This is unacceptable,* he told himself coldly.
*I will not be ruled by a biological anomaly.*
Ahead, the guards halted.
A heavy iron door loomed before them—guest chambers repurposed hastily into a holding suite.
"This will be sufficient," one of the officers said stiffly.
Khorg's growl was immediate.
"No," he snapped. "She's not a prisoner."
Vinculus's eyes opened. "She is not free either."
The guards glanced nervously between them.
Veyla turned then, slowly, deliberately.
For the first time since leaving the ritual chamber, she faced them.
Her eyes were steady.
"You may leave," she said quietly.
The guards hesitated.
Vinculus lifted one pale hand.
They fled.
The door slammed shut.
Silence crashed down again.
Khorg felt it immediately—the shift. No barriers. No witnesses. Just her.
The bond surged violently.
His wolf lunged forward.
His stomach rebelled.
He doubled over with a sharp exhale, bracing both hands on his knees.
"Damn you," he growled—not at her, not really, but at his own body.
Veyla took a step forward instinctively.
Khorg's head snapped up.
"Don't," he warned hoarsely.
She froze.
The distance between them stretched, thick with tension.
Across the room, Vinculus leaned casually against a stone pillar, watching with cold fascination.
"This is… enlightening," he murmured. "The Alpha undone by scent."
Khorg bared his teeth. "Say that again and I'll rip out your throat."
Vinculus smiled thinly. "You'll vomit first."
Veyla swallowed.
"Stop," she said.
Both of them stilled.
Her voice was quiet, but it cut cleanly through the tension.
"This is not a contest," she continued. "Whatever this is—whatever I am—it's affecting all of us."
Khorg straightened slowly, breathing hard. His nose twitched again, less violently now, as if his body were reluctantly adapting.
"Your scent," he said bluntly. "It's wrong."
"I know," Veyla replied.
"No," he corrected. "It shouldn't exist."
That landed heavier.
Before Veyla could respond, a familiar, lazy clap echoed from above.
"Gold star, Alpha," Madame Zora drawled. "You've identified the problem without stabbing anyone. Growth."
Veyla's head snapped up.
Zora sat atop the stone mantel like a lounging cat, one booted foot dangling. She looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"You could have warned us," Vinculus said coolly.
Zora shrugged. "And ruin the suspense? Never."
Khorg snarled. "What did you do to her?"
Zora's gaze flicked to Veyla.
Something unreadable passed through it.
"I saved her," she said simply.
Veyla's breath caught.
"Saved me from what?" she asked.
Zora hopped down lightly, landing between them without concern for personal space.
"From being eaten," she said cheerfully. "By things that don't care how pretty you are."
Khorg's nostrils flared.
Vinculus stiffened.
"That's not funny," Veyla said.
Zora tilted her head. "I didn't say it was."
She turned to Khorg, eyes sharp.
"Your wolf wants to claim her," she said. "Your body wants to reject her. Congratulations—you're experiencing cognitive dissonance at a biological level."
Khorg growled low.
Zora pivoted smoothly to Vinculus.
"And you," she continued, "are offended because for once, something touches you without your permission."
Vinculus's smile vanished.
Zora clapped her hands once. "Perfect. Everyone's miserable. That means the seal is working."
Veyla's heart pounded.
"Seal," she repeated.
Zora met her gaze.
"Rest," the witch said softly. "You'll need it."
Then, with a sharp glance at the two immortals, she added with savage cheer—
"And try not to kill each other. I'd hate to redo the paperwork."