The throne room had been rebuilt overnight.
Black velvet banners lined the cracked stone walls. Blood had been scrubbed from the floor—though the scent still lingered. The crown of the Rogue King sat heavy on the obsidian dais, but Lucian wasn't on the throne.
Seraphina was.
Bare-legged, draped in a sheer crimson robe, silver hair wild down her back, skin still marked from Lucian's bite the night before—she didn't look like a Queen.
She looked like a curse.
A prophecy in the flesh.
And every wolf in the room knew it.
Lucian stood before her, shirtless, wearing the wounds of battle like medals. His eyes burned gold as he looked at her, every inch of him claiming her without a word.
But she didn't look at him.
She looked at them.
The remaining rogues, the elders, the exiled alphas who had followed Lucian through blood and fire. Now they bowed… not to him.
But to her.
"You sit where no Luna has ever dared," one of the elders hissed. "You bear no mate mark, no bloodline—"
"I bear the power of a thousand silenced females," Seraphina said coldly, standing up. "And if you question me again, Elder Graye, you'll bear my claws across your throat."
The room fell into a silence thick with heat.
Lucian smirked. "My savage Queen."
She stepped down from the throne, every movement calculated. Sexy. Deadly.
"I am not your Luna," she whispered to him. "And I don't want to be."
Lucian grabbed her chin, rough and possessive. "No. You're my crown."
Outside, smoke curled over the mountains. A messenger arrived—bloody, shaking.
"They know," he gasped. "The Council knows she broke the bond. That she's unmarked and still alive. They're sending the High Bloodline Pack."
Lucian's jaw tensed. "They're sending the Executioners."
Seraphina didn't flinch.
"Let them come," she whispered. "I want them to see what their rejection made."
Nightfall.
Lucian pulled her into his war room. Alone.
"You think you're untouchable now?" he growled.
She pressed a claw to his chest. "You touched me."
"I claimed you. That's different."
Seraphina laughed bitterly. "You think because you marked me, I'm yours?"
Lucian's face darkened. He grabbed her waist, slammed her into the ancient map table. "No," he growled, "I think because I love you, I'll destroy anyone who tries to take you."
Her breath hitched.
Love?
She hadn't heard that word since before the rejection.
Since before the pain.
"You don't love," she whispered.
He leaned down, lips against her throat. "No. But I bleed for you. Does that count?"
Then his mouth was on hers again. Hard. Starved.
She tore at his belt, fangs grazing his jaw.
"I want you," she growled. "But I won't be your weakness."
"You're my fucking war, Seraphina."
And then he took her—on that war table, maps crumbling beneath them, as the wolves howled outside and fire burned in her belly hotter than any claim.
When it was over, when their bodies lay tangled and raw, Lucian traced his fingers down her back.
"You still wear his scar," he said, voice low.
She turned, slowly. "Then mark me again. Make it yours."
Lucian's eyes glowed, fangs bared—but he paused.
"The second mark isn't for claiming," he said. "It's for binding. To my kingdom. To my soul. Once I do it… there's no undoing us."
Her voice was a whisper.
"Then do it."