The palace gardens smell like rain and growing things, which is almost enough to make me forget I'm still a prisoner.
Almost.
Kael walks beside me with his hands clasped behind his back, moving with that infuriating grace that makes even casual strolling look like a performance. Three weeks since my failed escape attempt. Three weeks of what he calls "earned privileges"—freedom within the palace grounds, access to the library, supervised meals in the common areas instead of my room. It's a golden cage instead of an iron one, which somehow feels worse.
"The gardens are part of our history," he's saying, gesturing toward a cluster of white flowering trees that look like they've been here since before I was born. "Most shifter families maintain them. They're not just decorative—they're grounding. Something about the earth, the growing cycles. It helps with the animal side."
I'm only half-listening. My attention is fixed on the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt, the way the late afternoon light catches the golden threads in his dark hair. It's infuriating how aware I am of him. Every cell in my body has apparently decided to stage a mutiny.
"So you're telling me that gardening is basically therapy for werewolves," I say, because sarcasm is my armor and I'm not about to drop it now. "Have you considered just talking to someone about your feelings instead?"
He glances at me, that barely-there smile playing at his mouth. The one that makes my stomach do something complicated.
"I talk to you."
The words land differently than they should. I pull my gaze away, focusing intently on a particularly unremarkable stone in the path.
"That's because I'm contractually obligated to listen. It's not the same as genuine human connection."
"Is that what you think this is?" His voice is careful, measured. "An obligation?"
Don't answer that honestly. Don't.
"I think you're a king who's bored with his duties and I'm a novelty. My blood is rare, I'm not immediately trying to stab you, and I have a mediocre sense of humor. I'm basically catnip for lonely royalty."
The lie tastes like copper.
He's quiet for a long moment, and I hate that I can't read him. His face is a masterclass in control—something I've learned he's had to cultivate over years of leadership. Nothing bleeds through unless he wants it to.
"Come with me," he finally says. "I want to show you something."
---
The training grounds are on the far edge of the palace property, hidden behind a grove of ancient oaks that seem to swallow sound. There's a clearing here, grass worn smooth from years of use, surrounded by high stone walls that I assume are for privacy.
"What are we doing?" I ask, even though I'm already moving toward the center of the clearing.
"I want to show you what I am," Kael says. "Not the king. Not the diplomat. Just... what I am."
Something flutters in my chest that feels dangerously close to hope. I've been with him for weeks and I've never seen him shift. Never seen the wolf form that all the guards whisper about, the golden fur that supposedly marks him as royalty.
"Is this a trap?" I ask, because paranoia is also part of my armor. "Are you about to eat me? Because I should warn you, I'm probably toxic. My blood, I mean. Might give you indigestion."
"Only one way to find out," he says, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now.
He starts to undress with methodical efficiency—pulling his shirt over his head, unbuckling his belt. I should look away. I should absolutely look away. Instead, I watch his chest come into view, the way his muscles shift beneath golden skin, the faint scars that map his history like a geography of survival.
Jesus, Iris. Get it together.
"You're staring," he observes, not unkindly.
"You're undressing in front of me," I counter. "What did you expect?"
He shucks off his pants with the unselfconsciousness of someone who's never had to be ashamed of his body, and I'm treated to the full, devastating view. I very deliberately focus on his face.
"The shift is going to be fast," he says. "It might look like it hurts. It doesn't. Not anymore. I've been doing this since I was a child."
"Comforting," I mutter.
Then he shifts.
It's not what I expected. I thought it would be violent, grotesque—something out of a horror film. Instead, it's beautiful in a way that makes my throat tight. His body flows like water, bones restructuring, skin rippling, golden fur emerging like he's always been this way and was just wearing a human disguise. Within seconds, where Kael stood is now a massive wolf, bigger than any natural wolf has any right to be, with fur the exact color of molten honey in the fading sunlight.
He's magnificent.
His eyes—still that same amber, still distinctly him—find mine.
"Hi," I whisper, because I'm apparently incapable of normal reactions.
He makes a low sound, something between a huff and a laugh, and takes a step toward me. Another. He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that I can smell that scent that's always been part of him—wild honey, cedarwood, something ancient and primal that makes the hindbrain part of my brain recognize him as apex predator.
My instinct is to run.
My instinct is also to touch him.
Guess which one I choose.
My hand moves before my brain can veto it, reaching out, fingers sinking into the fur along his neck. It's softer than I expected, thick and warm, and the moment my skin makes contact with him, something electric shoots through me. It's not painful. It's worse than pain—it's good in a way that terrifies me.
Kael goes very still.
I should pull away. The smart play is to pull away, make a joke, pretend this didn't just happen. Instead, I sink my fingers deeper, running my hand along the curve of his shoulder, his side. His fur ripples under my touch like water, and I realize he's shaking slightly.
"Is this okay?" I ask, because apparently I've developed a conscience about touching large predatory animals.
He makes a sound that I think is affirmative, pressing his head against my hand like a cat. Like he's asking for more.
I give it to him.
I run my hands over his back, his flanks, marveling at the sheer power contained in this form. This is what he is underneath the suits and the diplomatic words and the careful control. This is the thing that makes grown men nervous and guards snap to attention. This is what he trusts me enough to show.
My chest feels like it's too small for my heart.
He shifts his weight, turning to face me fully, and I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. How his head is level with mine, how I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to, how one swipe of his paw could end me and yet I'm not afraid.
That's the terrifying part. I'm not afraid.
His nose touches mine, and it's such a human gesture from this inhuman form that something breaks inside me. Something I've been holding together with duct tape and spite and carefully maintained distance.
"Kael," I breathe.
He pulls back, and I watch as the shift reverses—bones restructuring, fur receding, body flowing back into human form. It's faster this time, like he can't bear to be separated from me by the animal form anymore. Within seconds, he's standing in front of me, completely naked, completely human, completely devastating.
"Hi," he says, and there's that smile again, the one that kills me.
I should step back. I should make a joke. I should do literally anything except what I'm about to do.
I don't do any of those things.
"Is this—" he starts, but I'm already moving, already closing the distance between us, my hands finding his chest and feeling his heart racing beneath my palms like it's trying to escape his ribs.
"Permission," I say, because I learned somewhere that consent matters, that you don't just take what you want from people. "I'm asking permission."
His hands come up to my face, cupping my cheeks with a gentleness that makes my eyes burn.
"Yes," he says. "God, yes."
When he kisses me, it's like touching his wolf form all over again—electric and terrifying and so good it hurts. His mouth is warm and tasting of honey and cedarwood, and he's kissing me like I'm something precious, something he's been afraid to break. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I'm drowning in him, in the scent of him, in the sheer overwhelming reality of him.
I've kissed people before. It's never felt like this.
It's never felt like coming home and losing everything in the same moment.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine.
"Tell me you want this," he says, and his voice is rough, desperate. "Tell me this is real."
"It's real," I confirm, and it is—the weight of him against me, the feel of his heart under my hands, the way my body is vibrating with want and fear in equal measure. "This is real."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I'm pressing against him, my fingers digging into his back, trying to get closer, trying to merge into him. His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me against him, and I can feel how much he wants this, how much he wants me, and it's intoxicating and terrifying.
This is a threshold.
I can feel it. The moment where we cross from whatever this was—complicated and dangerous and complicated—into something that can't be undone. Something that will change the fundamental architecture of this entire situation.
"Wait," I say, and he immediately pulls back, his eyes dark with concern.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. That's the problem." I'm breathing hard, and my hands are shaking, and I feel more exposed right now than I did when I was trying to escape. "If we do this—if we actually do this—everything changes."
He's quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my waist.
"Everything already changed," he says softly. "The moment you walked into the medical wing with your blood work and your scars and your absolutely infuriating attitude toward authority. I've been trying to pretend otherwise, but I can't anymore. Not when you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you see me," he says. "Not the crown. Not the bloodline. Not the symbol. Just me."
The words lodge in my throat because it's true. Somewhere between the escape attempts and the library sessions and the careful conversations, I started seeing him. The lonely man underneath the golden fur. The person who was never given a choice about his own life. The king who's so tired of carrying the weight alone.
"This is insane," I say, but I'm still holding him.
"Completely insane," he agrees, and he's smiling that smile again, the one that's going to destroy me if I'm not careful. "But I'm tired of being careful. I'm tired of doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm tired of pretending that you're just another political consideration."
He kisses me again, and I let him, because I'm tired too. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of keeping my walls so high that nothing can touch me. His hands slide up my shirt, and I should stop him, should remember that this is dangerous, that this is exactly the kind of vulnerability that gets you hurt.
Instead, I pull my shirt over my head and let him see all of me—the scars, the bruises that are finally fading, the body that's been a weapon and a prison and never, ever belonged to someone else.
He looks at me like I'm made of starlight.
"You're beautiful," he says, and I almost believe him.
We sink to the ground together, and he's kissing me everywhere—my neck, my shoulders, the scars on my ribs that I've spent years trying to forget. He's treating my damage like it's sacred, like each mark is a story he wants to understand.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against my collarbone.
"Don't stop," I say, and I mean it in every possible way.
We don't have sex—not quite. But we have something, tangled together in the grass as the sun sets, his hands on my skin and my hands in his hair, our mouths learning each other like we have all the time in the world. He's patient and reverent and absolutely devastating, and I'm falling, falling, falling into him.
When we finally pull apart, the stars are coming out overhead and I'm shaking with the magnitude of what just happened.
"Stay with me," he says, and it's not a question. "Not just here. With me. I know I have no right to ask, I know you didn't choose this, but—"
"Kael."
He stops, searching my face.
"I don't know how to do this," I say quietly. "I don't know how to let someone in. I've spent my entire life making sure I never needed anyone."
"I know."
"And I'm probably going to hurt you. I'm probably going to sabotage this because I'm terrified."
"I know that too," he says, and he's still smiling, still patient, still looking at me like I'm worth the risk.
"But you want me to stay anyway?"
"More than I've ever wanted anything," he says. "More than the crown. More than the pack. Just you. Just this."
I should say no. I should be smarter than this. I should remember that I'm a prisoner here, that this is exactly how they get you—with tenderness and touch and the promise of belonging.
Instead, I pull him back down and kiss him again, because I'm tired of being smart.
I'm tired of being alone.
The problem is, I can feel Sylas before I see him.
It's a prickling at the back of my neck, a shift in the air that makes every survival instinct I have scream a warning. Kael goes rigid against me, his head snapping toward the edge of the clearing where the shadows are deepest.
"That would be me," a familiar voice says, smooth as silk wrapped around broken glass.
Sylas steps into the moonlight, and his smile is absolutely lethal.
"Apologies for the interruption," he continues, his obsidian eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. "But we have a situation. Dr. Voss just arrived from the Council. She's demanding to see the asset immediately."
Asset.
The word lands like a slap, pulling me back to reality with brutal efficiency.
Kael stands, pulling me up with him, his body immediately positioning itself between me and Sylas in a gesture that's both protective and possessive.
"Tell her it can wait until morning," Kael says, and his voice has shifted—back to the king, back to the diplomat. The moment we had is already dissolving.
"I'm afraid it can't," Sylas says, and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach twist. Something that looks like satisfaction. "Apparently, the Council has concerns about the genetic compatibility. They want to run some additional tests. They're very insistent."
I feel Kael's hand tighten around mine.
"Iris stays with me tonight," he says firmly.
Sylas's smile doesn't waver, but his eyes flash with something dangerous.
"Of course," he says smoothly. "But we both know how this works, don't we? The Council doesn't make requests. They make demands. And if you refuse..." He lets the implication hang in the air like a threat. "Well, let's just say there are other ways to acquire what they need."
The words settle over me like ice water.
I've been so focused on Kael, on the way he makes me feel, that I forgot the fundamental truth of my situation: I'm valuable. I'm a commodity. And no matter how good his kiss tastes, I'm still a prisoner.
"We'll be ready in ten minutes," I hear myself say, and I'm already reaching for my clothes.
Kael grabs my arm.
"Iris—"
"It's fine," I say, and I'm lying through my teeth, pulling my armor back on piece by piece. "We knew this couldn't last. We knew—"
"I'm not letting them take you," he says, and there's a desperation in his voice that almost breaks me.
"You don't have a choice," I say quietly. "And neither do I."
As I dress, I catch Sylas's eye across the clearing. His expression is one of pure triumph, and I realize with sickening clarity that he orchestrated this. That he's been watching us. That he saw exactly how vulnerable I'd become and used it against us both.
The kiss tasted like coming home.
It's starting to taste like a trap.
