Ian Thorne entered the throne hall on his feet.

That disappointed everyone who had paid to watch him crawl.

Blood darkened the torn side of his white combat shirt. Black-silver chains bound his wrists, and thirty armed wolves lined the aisle leading to Eric Voss’s throne. Ian counted every rifle, every silver blade, and every frightened heartbeat beneath the music of the full-moon drums.

He had survived worse odds.

He had simply never survived them while wearing a collar made to kill his wolf.

“Kneel,” the guard behind him ordered.

Ian spat blood onto the polished black floor.

“Make me.”

The guard kicked the back of his knee. Ian twisted before the blow landed, caught the man’s ankle between his chained hands, and pulled. Armor struck marble hard enough to crack it.

Several rifles rose.

Ian smiled at them. “Who’s next?”

The Nightfall court had gathered beneath a ceiling of dark glass. Council members occupied the balconies. Officers in black uniforms stood below them. At the far end of the chamber, a man in a perfectly cut black suit watched from a throne carved out of a single block of obsidian.

Eric Voss did not move.

He did not need to.

At thirty-eight, Eric ruled the strongest wolf territory in North America. Human newspapers called him the private owner of Voss Energy and three million acres of protected Wyoming forest. Wolves called him the king who had ended six rebellions without losing a night’s sleep.

Ian called him a well-dressed disease.

Four years ago, they had fought beside the Moonwell until both of them bled into its ancient stone. Two years ago, they had met again on opposite sides of the Ironfang border. Ian’s people had been surrounded. He had surrendered himself in exchange for their lives.

Eric had kept the bargain.

He had also kept Ian.

“Leave Captain Rusk on the floor,” Eric said.

His voice was quiet. The entire hall obeyed it.

The fallen guard crawled away with murder in his eyes.

Ian walked forward until the chain between his wrists tightened against the pole carried by two soldiers.

Eric studied the bruises on his face. “You attacked three guards on the way here.”

“Four.”

“The fourth was a medic.”

“He tried to cut off my shirt.”

“You are wearing half a shirt.”

“Then imagine how attached I am to it.”

A few younger soldiers failed to hide their reactions. Eric’s gaze moved toward them. Their amusement vanished.

Ian lifted his chin. “Is this the famous full-moon judgment? I expected more fire. Maybe screaming. Your people made expensive bets.”

“They believe I will remove your claws.”

“Are they wrong?”

Eric rose.

He was taller than Ian remembered, or perhaps captivity had made every free man seem larger. Silver-gray hair was brushed back from a severe face. His pale eyes held no anger. Eric’s anger had never been loud. It was a locked door with bodies behind it.

He descended the steps without looking at the council.

“Ian Thorne,” declared Silas Voss from the highest balcony, “former war commander of Ironfang, you violated the surrender terms by attempting escape, assaulting royal officers, and entering the restricted eastern wing.”

“The window was open.”

“It was six floors above the ground.”

“Your architecture lacks imagination.”

Silas’s mouth tightened. He was Eric’s uncle, chairman of the council, and the only man in the room whose suit cost more than his loyalty.

“The law permits the king to strip a captured Alpha of his claws and rank,” Silas continued. “Do you deny the charges?”

“I deny your right to ask.”

The council erupted. Eric stopped an arm’s length from Ian.

Their gazes locked.

Ian’s wolf surged against the poison in the collar. It hated Eric. It remembered teeth, blood, and the impossible moment at the Moonwell when Eric had chosen to pull Ian out of a collapsing temple instead of finishing him.

Ian had spent four years pretending that memory meant nothing.

Eric reached for his bound hands.

Ian snapped the chain upward. Eric caught it before the links struck his face.

For one suspended second, they stood chest to chest, both gripping the same chain.

“Still dreaming about me?” Ian asked.

Eric’s expression did not change. “Usually, you are quieter.”

“Then they aren’t dreams.”

The air shifted.

Eric pulled Ian forward. Ian drove his shoulder into Eric’s chest, but two years of lockstone in his blood slowed him. Eric turned the impact, forced him against the first step of the throne, and pinned both chained wrists behind his back.

The court leaned closer.

“Kneel,” Eric said near his ear.

“Bite me.”

Something hot and dangerous passed through Eric’s eyes.

Ian felt it, then hated himself for feeling it.

Silas brought forward the claw blade, a narrow ceremonial weapon designed to sever the tendons that allowed a wolf to shift. Eric accepted it.

Ian’s heartbeat remained steady.

“Do it,” Ian said. “But when Ironfang comes for my body, remember that you promised them I would live.”

“You will live.”

“Without my wolf.”

Eric placed the blade against Ian’s wrist.

Ian stared at him. “Coward.”

The word reached the balconies.

Eric’s jaw hardened.

“You hide behind laws written by dead men,” Ian continued. “You call yourself a king because frightened wolves bow. But you know what happened every time we fought without an army between us.”

“You lost.”

“You let me live.”

“That was my mistake.”

“Then correct it.”

Ian opened his throat to him, exposing the vulnerable line beneath his jaw.

The challenge was unmistakable.

Kill me yourself.

Eric’s nostrils flared.

The collar had torn Ian’s shirt during the march. Eric reached for the remaining fabric, perhaps to expose the old Ironfang brand at his shoulder. His fingers closed around the collar and ripped it open.

Cold air touched Ian’s skin.

Then the world changed.

A scent rolled through the hall—cedar split by lightning, winter smoke, and something wild enough to make every wolf present lower its head.

Ian’s breath stopped.

It came from him.

A second scent answered: black pine, steel, and the charged air before a storm.

Eric.

The two scents struck each other above the throne and twisted together.

The ceremonial blade fell from Eric’s hand.

“No,” Ian whispered.

Heat burned beneath his ribs. His wolf slammed awake with such force that the black-silver chains rang. Across his chest, an ancient mark appeared in lines of pale blue fire.

The same mark ignited beneath Eric’s white shirt.

Gasps broke across the court.

Silas stood so abruptly that his chair overturned.

“Separate them!” he shouted.

No one moved fast enough.

Eric’s pupils flooded red.

The throne hall disappeared beneath the roar of his wolf.

He caught Ian around the waist, lifted him off the floor, and drove him back against the obsidian throne. Ian’s chains cracked against the armrest.

“Get off me!”

Eric buried his face against Ian’s throat. His breath scorched the exposed skin, and his teeth touched the pulse beneath Ian’s jaw.

Ian’s body betrayed him with a violent shudder.

“I’m an Alpha,” he snarled. “And I’m straight.”

Eric’s fingers tightened at his waist.

“Your wolf doesn’t seem confused.”

“My wolf wants to tear your throat out.”

“So does mine.”

Eric’s teeth pressed harder.

The mark across Ian’s chest blazed white. Every window in the throne hall vibrated. Wolves dropped to one knee, not by order but by instinct, as two dominant bloodlines recognized each other.

“Your Majesty?” a soldier whispered.

Eric lifted his head.

He no longer looked entirely human.

“Everyone out.”

Silas gripped the balcony rail. “Eric, the prisoner must be contained.”

Eric looked up at his uncle while keeping Ian pinned to the throne.

“He is contained.”

His hand spread possessively over Ian’s ribs.

“The prisoner stays with me.”