I kiss her.
Right there in the courtyard, in front of my soldiers and the gods and anyone else who might be watching. Hard and claiming and absolutely shameless.
Telling everyone who sees exactly what she is to me.
Mine.
When I pull back, she's flushed and breathless and smiling.
Behind me, I hear movement.
I turn.
My men are kneeling.
All of them. Two hundred soldiers dropping to one knee in perfect unison. Rurik. The veterans. The young ones who just joined last season.
Not bowing to the crown.
Not bowing to duty or law or ancient compacts.
Bowing to their lord and the woman who chose him.
My throat goes tight.
Annora's hand finds mine—small and warm and still carrying that gentle golden light just under the surface.
"My lord." Rurik stands, and the others follow. "Your orders?"
I look at my captain. My soldiers. My mate.
The war's coming whether I want it or not.
Might as well make them earn it.
"Prepare for siege," I say. "Send word to the other cursed lords—anyone who refused to return their bride. We stand together or we fall alone."
"And if the king sends his full army?"
I bare my teeth. "Then we make him regret it."
Rurik salutes and moves off, already organizing, already planning.
I start to follow when Annora tugs my hand.
"Vorak."
I look down at her.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"For what?"
"For choosing me back."
Something in my chest cracks open. Something that's been frozen and buried for ten years under curse and duty and the belief that I'd die alone.
I cup her face, careful with the claws.
