Page 66 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

His mouth finds the tender curve of my throat once more, and this time, he bites down with feral intensity. The pain is instantaneous—a sharp, searing flash of white—but beneath the surface, a pleasure ignites, burning hot, brutal, and achingly perfect. His teeth sink into the hollow of my neck, and I understand the gravity of this moment. What it signifies.

I cry out, my body convulsing around him as the bond snaps into existence, like a chain forged in fire and tempered by longing. Something deep within me shatters, a fracture that feels like release. And yet, something else fuses together, sealing us irrevocably.

This is not magic. It is not a ritual. It is us—two souls claiming what has already been etched into our beings by blood, storm, and fire.

He pulls back, his lips glistening with the sheen of my blood, eyes ablaze with a wild, ravenous hunger that is tempered by an even more perilous emotion—devotion. My breath stutters in my chest, trapped like a frantic bird caught in a cage.

With a swift, unchecked surge of energy, I propel myself forward. My teeth sink into his shoulder with fierce, deliberate intensity—not to inflict harm, but to mark him with my presence, an imprint that cannot fade. I savor him deeply; the sharp tang of salt mingles with the searing warmth of his skin, and the raw, metallic essence of blood lingers on my tongue.

In that instant, we forge an indelible connection, an unspoken bond crystallizing between us. Words becomesuperfluous. The understanding is implicit, unspoken, yet profoundly clear. He exhales a sharp gasp against my mouth, driving into me once more with a force that is both conclusive and earth-shattering. Together, we unravel, consumed in the most primal and profound union imaginable.

When it’s over, we stay like that for a long moment—pressed to stone. Breathing hard. Still burning.

Lucas cups my jaw, forehead resting against mine. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s forever.”

My throat’s too tight to answer, so I nod. One hand curls around the back of his neck, grounding us both.

Outside the warded room, the mountain groans again.

The gate is still watching. But now? Now it’s watching a mated pair.

The scent of him is still on me—smoke and blood and something wild I’ll never have words for. The bite matches the ache between my thighs, only at my throat, a perfect echo of the mark I left on his shoulder. It throbs, not from pain, but from permanence. The claiming is done.

And it wasn’t a ritual—at least not the kind Lina would have used. Not the way my father would have taught. This was ours.

Lucas pulls me close, slipping my sweater back over my head, his fingers dragging slowly across my bare skin, as if grounding himself with the contact. He doesn’t speak, just leans in, breathing against my hair, hands resting heavy on my hips. There’s no gentleness in him, but there’s something steadier—fierce calm, like he’s already made his choice and dares the world to question it.

Behind us, the chamber stays quiet. Kylie’s breathing has evened out. Max and Oscar haven’t spoken since we sealed theward. The pulse of the gate has gone low and slow again, like it’s waiting for something… or someone.

I lean into Lucas for one more beat, my hand over his heart. Then I pull away and we rejoin the others. Sleep drags me under before I even hit the ground. I don’t remember curling onto the floor. Just the cold stone. His hand on my ankle. The sound of distant wind, humming like it’s echoing through a long hallway I haven’t seen yet.

And then?—

I’m dreaming.

But it doesn’t feel like a dream.

The mountain’s darker here. Hollow. Alive in the way old places sometimes are—full of things buried too deep to rot. I see her first—Lina—kneeling at the foot of the gate. Her arms are slick with blood, glyphs still glowing faintly, some carved into her skin so deep the muscle shines beneath. She’s sobbing.

But not in pain.

It’s rage.

She claws at her own chest, dragging her nails across old scars and whispering things that sound like prayers until her voice fractures. Cain stands behind her. Watching. Not speaking. His eyes are silver now. Wrong. Too still.

“Lina,” I whisper.

She looks up—and it’s my face.

Not similar. Not close.

Mine.

Hair streaked with sweat and blood. Eyes glowing too bright. Glyphs burned down my arms in curling, Windwoven script. The gate pulses behind me—her—once. Then twice.

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