The dreams came again that night.
Not of my mother’s death—though that horror lived behind my eyelids like a brand—but of *him*. Vex. Not as the monster I’d sworn to destroy, but as something else. A man with fire in his eyes and pain in his voice. A man who knelt beside me when I burned, who whispered my name like it was sacred, who held me when I broke.
I woke in a sweat, heart hammering, the sheets tangled around my legs. The room was dark, the only light the faint pulse of runes along the obsidian pillars. Vex lay beside me, on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his breathing slow and even. He hadn’t touched me since the collapse. Not in the way I’d wanted. Not in the way my body still ached for.
After I’d whispered *“Don’t stop,”* he’d gone still. Too still. Like I’d said the one thing that terrified him more than death. He’d pressed a kiss to my neck—soft, reverent—then pulled back, turning away without a word.
And now, three days later, the silence between us was worse than any fight.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded to the bathing chamber. The water was cold, lifeless. I didn’t care. I needed to wash the scent of him off my skin, the memory of his touch out of my bones. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, it didn’t work. His smell clung to me—smoke, iron, that dark sweetness—like a second skin.
I dressed in the crimson robes laid out for me, the fabric heavy with Fae embroidery, the weight of my false identity pressing down on my shoulders. Lira Vexis. Diplomat. Consort. Liar.
None of it was me.
And yet, as I stared at my reflection—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, lips still swollen from his kisses—I didn’t see Avalanche either.
I saw someone fractured. Torn between vengeance and something I couldn’t name.
And I hated it.
I needed to remember why I was here. Needed to feel the fire of my mission again, not the slow, insidious burn of desire.
So I did the only thing I could.
I went to see the Crown.
The relic vault was deep beneath the Spire, accessible only to the king and his inner circle. But I wasn’t just his consort. I was a witch. A Veilborn. And if the Crown of Thorns was truly mine—if it had been stolen from my bloodline—then it would *know* me.
It would *speak* to me.
I waited until the hour before dawn, when the Spire was quiet, the guards changing shifts, the corridors shadowed and still. I moved fast, silent, my training guiding me—footsteps light, breath controlled, senses sharp. I avoided the main halls, slipping through servant passages and forgotten stairwells, the air growing colder, heavier, the deeper I went.
And then I saw it.
The vault door.
Massive. Black iron. Sealed with Fae runes and vampire blood sigils, the symbols pulsing faintly in the dark. The lock wasn’t mechanical. It was *alive*—a sentient ward that would scream if breached without permission.
But I had another way.
I pressed my palm to the door, whispering the blood-rune my mother had taught me—the one for silence, for stillness, for passage through what should not be crossed. The sigil on my palm flared, crimson light bleeding into the iron, the runes on the door dimming, retreating. The ward didn’t scream. It *slept*.
The door groaned open.
I stepped inside.
The vault was small, circular, the walls lined with shelves of ancient artifacts—vampire fangs set in silver, Fae mirrors that showed only lies, werewolf pelts still dripping with moonlight. But at the center, on a pedestal of black stone, was the Crown.
The Crown of Thorns.
It was smaller than I’d imagined. Delicate, almost fragile-looking, a circlet of twisted silver and black iron, studded with shards of obsidian that caught the dim light like stars. But it *pulsed*—not with magic, but with *life*. A slow, rhythmic throb, like a heartbeat. And when I looked at it, my blood answered.
My sigils flared.
Heat surged through me, sudden and sharp, my breath catching. The Crown *knew* me. It recognized my blood, my magic, the vow carved into my spine. And it *called* to me.
Take me.
Claim me.
Finish what was begun.
I stepped forward, my hand reaching out—
And then the door slammed shut behind me.
I spun, heart pounding, but it was too late.
Vex stood in the doorway, his golden eyes glowing in the dark, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t followed me. He’d *known*.
“I wondered how long it would take,” he said, his voice low, calm. “How long before you came for it.”
I didn’t deny it. Didn’t back down. “It’s mine.”
“Is it?” he asked, stepping closer. “Or is it just the thing you think will make you whole?”
“It was stolen from my mother,” I said, my voice tight. “From my coven. You have no right to it.”
“And you do?” he asked. “Just because your blood sings for it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Because it *does*. Because it’s part of me. Because it was *meant* for me.”
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze dropping to the Crown, then back to me. “You think I don’t know what it is? What it does? I’ve carried it for fifty years, Avalanche. I’ve felt its hunger. Its *price*.”
“Then you know it belongs to me,” I said. “Not you. Not the Fae. *Me*.”
“And what will you do with it?” he asked. “Once you have it? Will you use it to destroy me? To avenge your mother? To burn the Spire to the ground?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But that’s my choice. Not yours.”
He stepped closer. “You don’t understand. The Crown doesn’t just amplify power. It *demands* sacrifice. Blood. Breath. *Life*. Every time you use it, it takes something from you. And if you’re not strong enough—”
“I’m strong enough,” I snapped.
“Are you?” he asked, his voice dropping. “Because right now, you’re trembling. Not from rage. Not from power. From *need*. The bond-heat is rising. I can smell it on you. I can *feel* it.”
And he was right.
The heat was building—slow, insidious, coiling in my gut, spreading through my limbs. My sigils glowed beneath my skin, pulsing in time with the Crown’s heartbeat. My breath came faster. My thighs pressed together. And between them—*God*—a deep, insistent throb, a need so sharp it bordered on pain.
But I wouldn’t let him see it.
Wouldn’t let him *use* it.
“I don’t need you,” I said, lifting my chin. “I don’t need your warnings. I don’t need your protection. I just need the Crown.”
He stepped closer. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll take it,” I said. “By force, if I have to.”
He laughed—short, dark. “You think you can beat me?”
“I think I can try.”
And then I moved.
Fast. Hard. My dagger—forged from my mother’s bones—slid into my hand, and I lunged, aiming for his throat.
But he was faster.
He caught my wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the blade clattered to the floor. Then he slammed me back against the wall, his body pinning mine, his free hand gripping my throat—not tight, not enough to choke, but enough to *claim*.
My breath hitched.
His golden eyes burned into mine, the gold bleeding into red, his fangs pressing against his lip. His scent—smoke, iron, that dark sweetness—flooded my senses, wrapping around me like a vice.
And the bond *flared*.
Heat tore through me, white-hot, my sigils blazing crimson, my back arching off the wall. My thighs pressed together, a moan catching in my throat. My pulse jumped under his thumb as he brushed it against the side of my neck.
“You feel it,” he murmured, his voice a growl that vibrated through my bones. “The bond. It knows you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying,” I gasped. “I *hate* you.”
“Do you?” he asked. “Then why does your body arch into mine? Why does your pulse race when I touch you? Why does your breath hitch when I say your name?”
He leaned down, his fangs grazing the shell of my ear. “You don’t want the Crown, Avalanche. You want *me*.”
“No,” I whispered, but my hips jerked forward, pressing against his stomach, betraying me.
“Liar,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re not here to kill me. You’re here to *survive* me. And the only way to do that—” he pressed closer, his thigh sliding between mine—“is to stop fighting what you really want.”
My breath came in ragged gasps. My skin burned. My core ached. And worst of all—my body *welcomed* his touch. Craved it. *Needed* it.
“Let me go,” I said, but my voice was weak. Broken.
“Not yet,” he said. “Not until you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you want me,” he said. “That you *need* me. That you’re not just a weapon. Not just a mission. You’re a woman. And you *burn* for me.”
“I don’t—”
His thumb pressed against my lower lip, silencing me. “Say it. Just once. Just to see if the bond will believe you.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding.
And then, softly, barely a breath—
“I want you.”
The moment the words left my lips, the bond *exploded*.
Heat tore through me, white-hot, my sigils blazing crimson, my back arching, a moan ripping from my throat. Vex caught me as I stumbled, his arms locking around me, his mouth crashing down on mine.
And this time, I didn’t fight.
This time, I kissed him back.
Desperate. Furious. *Hungry.*
Because the truth?
It wasn’t just the bond.
It wasn’t just the magic.
It was *me*.
I wanted him.
And if I was going to die tonight—
Then I’d die wanting him.
But not before I made him want me too.
My hands fisted in his coat, yanking him closer, my tongue tangling with his, my body pressing against his, every inch of me screaming for more.
And when he lifted me, carrying me to the floor, I didn’t resist.
Because survival wasn’t just about staying alive.
It was about staying *me*.
And right now?
The only way to do that—
Was to stop lying.
To myself.
And to him.
His mouth moved to my neck, his fangs grazing my skin, and I arched into him, whispering the words I never thought I’d say.
“Don’t stop.”
But he did.
He pulled back, breathing hard, his eyes still red, his fangs bared, his chest heaving. “You’re not ready,” he said, voice rough. “Not for this. Not yet.”
“What?” I gasped. “Why?”
“Because if we do this now,” he said, “if we give in completely, the bond will *own* us. It’ll strip us bare. And when it does—” he looked at the Crown, then back at me—“you won’t be able to take it. You’ll be too lost in me. And I won’t be able to let you go.”
I stared at him. “You’re saying you *want* to let me go?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood, offering me his hand.
I didn’t take it.
I pushed myself up, my legs trembling, my body still aching. “You think you’re protecting me,” I said, my voice low. “But you’re not. You’re just afraid. Afraid of what happens if I take the Crown. Afraid of what happens if I *win*.”
He looked at me—really looked—and for the first time, I saw it.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of *us*.
“Maybe I am,” he said. “But that doesn’t change the truth. The Crown isn’t the prize, Avalanche. *You* are.”
I froze.
And before I could respond, he turned and walked to the door, opening it with a wave of his hand.
“Go,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
I didn’t move.
“Or stay,” he said, not looking at me. “And take it. But know this—once you do, there’s no going back. The bond will demand more. The heat will rise. And I won’t be able to stop myself from claiming you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. But your *soul*.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I stepped forward.
Not toward the door.
But toward the Crown.
My hand reached out—
And the moment my fingers brushed the cold metal, the world *shattered*.
Images flooded me—my mother, kneeling before the Fae Queen, silver ink carving into her spine. A vow. A pact. A *prophecy*.
Then darkness. Blood. A blade falling.
But not Vex’s hand.
*Nyx’s.*
And then—
A whisper, so faint I almost missed it.
“*You will bind the Unbroken King… or die as he did.*”
I stumbled back, gasping, my hand flying to my spine, where the vow was etched in scar tissue beneath my skin.
It wasn’t just a threat.
It was a *destiny*.
And Vex—
He wasn’t the monster.
He was the *key*.
I looked at him, my heart pounding, my mind racing.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure who I was fighting for.
Or what I was really trying to destroy.
“You feel it,” he said, stepping closer. “The truth.”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because the worst part?
It wasn’t just the revelation.
It was the way my body still ached for him.
The way my blood still sang for the Crown.
The way my heart still *burned*—not for vengeance.
But for *him*.
And as he reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek, I didn’t pull away.
Because the truth?
It wasn’t just in the past.
It was in the future.
And it was written in fire.
In blood.
In the bond between us.
And I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
But I knew one thing.
I couldn’t run.
Not from him.
Not from the Crown.
Not from the truth.
Because the truth?
It wasn’t just coming.
It was already here.
And it was wearing his face.
Across the room, the Crown pulsed.
Waiting.
Watching.
And for the first time—
I wasn’t sure if it wanted to be claimed.
Or if it wanted to claim *me*.
And I wasn’t sure which one scared me more.