[Kira’s POV]
The composure lasted exactly as long as it took for my chamber door to close behind me.
"They want to sell me again." The words ripped out of me with a violence that surprised even myself, and I paced the length of the room with Malik watching me intently.
"The portraits, the delegation, the proper consort rhetoric—it's the same thing it's always been, Malik. I'm property. A body to be bartered for borders and alliances and whatever political advantage they can squeeze from my bloodline."
And Damon—the ache of what my brother had confessed over those ashes sat beneath my fury like a bruise pressed against bone.
Malik stood by the training room door, arms crossed, watching me unravel with that steady, infuriating patience of his.
"You're the Queen now, Kira. They can pressure you—maneuver and suggest and fill every council session with hand-wringing about tradition. But they cannot force your hand. That power belongs to you, and no delegation changes that."
"You don't understand how this works," I shot back, and the sharpness in my voice was unfair but the fear behind it wouldn't let me soften.
"Refusing every candidate doesn't make me look strong. It makes me look unstable, and there's a razor-thin distance between unstable and unfit in the minds of wolves who already believe a servant girl has no business wearing a crown.”
“They'll whisper that I need guidance, that I'm too emotional, too inexperienced, too recently elevated to make decisions about the realm's future."
My voice cracked on the last word, fury and fear braiding together until I couldn't tell them apart. "I didn't survive everything just to be diminished by a council that thinks my value begins and ends with who shares my bed."
Malik said nothing to that, which told me he knew I was right. His silence sat between us, and the anger in my chest wound tighter until I couldn't breathe through it.
"Spar with me," I said. "Before I set something on fire."
The training hall was empty. We took up practice blades, and I was different now—faster, sharper, instinct honed into skill.
The wolfless girl who couldn't defend herself was gone, replaced by something forged in necessity and refusal. Between strikes, the truth spilled out.
"I want to declare you publicly. My mate, my consort, my king. I'm done hiding."
Malik caught my blade mid-swing and held it still. For one unguarded second, his face broke open—raw shock, naked want, and a desperate, blazing hope that flared so bright it stole my breath.
I saw the future he wanted, flash across his features like lightning illuminating a landscape: him beside me, publicly, permanently, without apology.
Then the hope guttered, and I watched him kill it deliberately, watched the Commander reassemble himself over the man underneath with a control that made my heart crack.
"The court would never accept it, Kira." His voice was low, steady, but I'd seen the wound beneath the steadiness now, and I couldn't unsee it.
"I'm omega-born. No noble blood, no political advantage. It's not the world we deserve—but it's the one we're standing in."
"You're the man I love. That should be enough."
Something cracked behind his eyes. "It's enough for me. But not for them."
He pulled me close, practice blades clattering to the stone, and neither of us said what we both knew—that eventually we'd have to choose between love and duty, and no version of that choice would leave us whole.
Then I lifted my head, and our eyes locked, and everything shifted.
The sparring had stripped us both raw. We were breathing hard, our bodies still humming with the kinetic energy of the fight, and the space between us had gone from charged to combustible.
His chest pressed against mine with every heavy breath, and I felt him harden against my hip through the leather of our training clothes—undeniable, immediate, and the wanting that flooded through me in response burned hotter than any anger I'd carried into this room.
"We should stop," he murmured, but his hands told a different story, tightening on my waist, pulling me closer instead of letting go.
"We should," I agreed, and kissed him.
There was nothing slow about it. His mouth opened against mine, hot and desperate, and the taste of him—salt and need and something dark and wanting—sent heat cascading down my spine.
I fisted the front of his training leathers and pulled him backward toward the mats, and he followed without breaking the kiss, his hands already working at the laces of my vest, tugging them loose with the focused urgency of a man who'd stopped pretending patience.
My back hit the training mat and he was over me, his weight braced on one arm while the other hand peeled leather away from my skin with a roughness that made me gasp.
I arched into him, dragging his shirt over his head, needing to feel the heat of him against me without barriers.
When our bare chests pressed together, the sensation was electric—his skin fever-warm against mine, the hard planes of his body fitting against my curves like we'd been carved to interlock.
He kissed down my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive hollow where my pulse hammered, and I moaned—loud, unguarded, a sound I'd never have made outside these walls.
His mouth traced lower, lips and tongue mapping the swell of my breasts, and when he took one nipple between his teeth and tugged gently, my back bowed off the mat and my fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Malik—" His name came out broken, half plea, half demand, and the sound of it seemed to snap something loose inside him.
He growled against my skin—a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through my ribs—and his hands found the waistband of my training leathers, pulling them down my hips with an impatience that made the leather burn against my thighs.
I returned the favor, shoving his pants down with clumsy, desperate hands, and when he settled between my legs with nothing left between us, the press of him—hard, hot, straining against the slick heat of me—made us both groan.
He held there, forehead against mine, breathing ragged, dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my chest ache.
“You’re soaked.” He whimpered against me, eyes never leaving.
Then he pushed his fingers into me, and I shattered.