The red moon rises over the Shadowveil Court like a wound in the sky, its crimson glow bleeding through the enchanted obsidian windows, painting the stone corridors in shades of rust and fire. It’s the first red moon since the bond sealed, since the Blood Trial, since the truth returned. And the air—thick with old magic and older blood—hums with it. Not danger. Not war. But change.
And my blood answers.
I feel it in my veins—hot, restless, alive. A pulse beneath the skin, a whisper in the bone. The hybrid in me—half-witch, half-vampire—awakens under the red moon. Not fully. Not like a werewolf in heat. But enough. Enough to make my skin burn. Enough to make my breath come fast. Enough to make the bond between me and Cassian flare with a heat that isn’t just magic.
It’s need.
I stand at the balcony of his chambers, barefoot on the cold marble, the torn silk of my gown whispering against my thighs. The city of Prague sprawls below—human and supernatural entwined, black-market blood bars flickering beside Fae pleasure gardens, witches’ sigils glowing in alleyways. But I don’t see any of it.
I see him.
Cassian stands in the war room, just beyond the open doors, his back to me, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled up. He’s tracing the sigils on the obsidian map table, his fingers moving like a man reading a language only he understands. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are tense. He hasn’t slept. Not since the Blood Trial. Not since he bit me in my sleep. Not since Lysandra’s ghost called me a weapon, a half-breed, the heir to the Bloodfire Pact.
And he hasn’t touched me.
Not since.
Not even when the bond flares. Not even when I wake with his name on my lips. Not even when I press my hand to the mark on my neck and moan at the heat that floods my core.
He stays away.
He watches.
He wants.
And he waits.
---
I step inside.
The moment my bare feet touch the war room floor, the sigils flare—silver light pulsing beneath the stone, reacting to my presence, to my blood, to the red moon. Cassian doesn’t turn. But I see it—the way his fingers still. The way his breath hitches. The way his spine stiffens.
“You’re awake,” I say, voice low.
“So are you,” he replies, not looking at me.
“You’ve been here all night.”
“So have you.”
I step closer. The air between us thickens—charged, electric, hungry. My skin burns. My pulse hammers. The bond flares—hot, bright, unbearable—but I don’t care. Let it burn. Let it pull. Let it scream.
Because I’m done waiting.
“You’re avoiding me,” I say.
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
I stop just behind him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. Close enough to smell the dark amber, the frost, the ancient stone. Close enough to reach out and touch him.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
“You bit me,” I say. “In my sleep. You left your mark. But you didn’t take me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He turns.
His eyes—crimson-rimmed, endless—lock onto mine. Not with control. Not with coldness. With torment.
“Because you didn’t say yes,” he says, voice rough. “Because you weren’t awake. Because I couldn’t know if you wanted it. If you wanted me.”
“And if I say yes now?” I ask, stepping closer. “If I look into your eyes and say, *‘Take me. Make me yours.’* What then?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me—really stares—like he’s memorizing the shape of my face, the curve of my lips, the way my hair falls over my shoulders.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.
“I do,” I say. “I want you. I need you. I love you. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
“The red moon,” he says. “It affects your blood. Your magic. Your judgment.”
“And yours?”
“I’m not immune,” he says. “I feel it too. The heat. The hunger. The need. But I’ve spent centuries learning to control it. To suppress it. To—”
“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. “Stop hiding behind control. Stop pretending you don’t want me. I see it. I feel it. The bond knows it.”
He closes his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t,” I say. “Make love to me. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the red moon calls. But because you want to. Because you love me.”
He opens his eyes.
And in that moment—I see it.
Not just desire.
Not just need.
Fear.
“What if I can’t stop?” he whispers. “What if I lose control? What if I take too much? What if I—”
“Then stop,” I say. “Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m not fragile. I’m not weak. I’m not some human consort you have to protect from yourself. I’m your wife. Your Bloodsworn. The woman who was always meant to save you. And if you can’t see that—” I step back. “—then maybe you don’t deserve me.”
He flinches.
And then—
He moves.
Fast. Blurring. A predator unleashed.
One moment he’s standing before the map table.
The next—he’s pinning me to the wall, his body slamming into mine, his hands gripping my wrists, holding them above my head. His chest presses into mine, his breath hot on my neck. His fangs graze my throat—just enough to sting, just enough to make me gasp.
“You don’t get to say that,” he growls, voice a velvet command. “You don’t get to say I don’t deserve you. Not after everything. Not after the way you fought me. Not after the way you defied me. Not after the way you tried to kill me.”
My breath hitches.
“And now?” I whisper.
“Now,” he says, his mouth moving to my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, “you’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”
His free hand slides under my gown, his fingers trailing up my thigh, over the curve of my hip, his thumb brushing the edge of my waistband. I gasp—soft, sweet—and he swallows the sound, his mouth crashing into mine.
Hot.
Hungry.
Desperate.
His tongue slides against mine, claiming me, reclaiming me. My body arches into his, my hips grinding against his, my core aching for more. The bond flares—bright, hot, unbearable—but it’s not pain.
It’s home.
It’s right.
It’s us.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at me.
His eyes are blazing—crimson fire, endless night. His breath is ragged. His fangs are bared.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”
And I do.
Because I am.
“I’m yours,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “I’ve always been yours.”
He kisses me again—harder, deeper, more possessive—and the world shatters.
---
But he doesn’t take me.
Not yet.
Instead, he lifts me—just slightly—so I’m on my toes, my hips pressed even tighter against his. I can feel him—hard, thick, ready—and the knowledge sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.
“You came here to kill me,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I did,” I whisper.
“And now?”
“Now,” I say, my hands flying to his chest, fingers digging into the black silk of his coat, “I want to love you.”
He stills.
And then—
He pulls back, just enough to look at me.
“Say it again,” he says, voice rough.
“I want to love you,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the magic compels it. But because I love you. Because I need you. Because I can’t imagine a life without you.”
His breath catches.
And then—
He lowers me—slowly, deliberately—until my feet touch the floor. His hands slide from my wrists to my waist, his thumbs brushing the edge of my gown. His eyes never leave mine.
“Then tell me why,” he says. “Tell me why you came here. Tell me the truth. Not the mission. Not the curse. Not the revenge. But the real reason.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know what he’s asking.
He’s not asking for the story.
He’s asking for the wound.
And I’ve spent ten years hiding it.
But now—
Now I’m done hiding.
---
I press a hand to my chest, where the locket lies beneath my gown. Where my mother’s last words are carved into stone. Where the truth has lived, buried, for a decade.
“I came to kill you,” I say, voice breaking. “Because I thought you cursed my mother. Because I thought you enslaved her. Because I thought you made her die screaming your name.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just watches me—really watches—his eyes soft, his hands warm on my hips.
“And then?” he asks.
“And then,” I say, tears burning my eyes, “I found out the truth. That Dain cursed us both. That she made us forget. That she made me hate you. That she made you forget me. And that my mother—” My voice breaks. “—she died trying to stop it. Trying to protect us. Trying to save the truth.”
He pulls me into his arms, holding me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive. His face buries in my hair. His breath shudders.
“I didn’t know,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t remember. I only knew the bond—the ache, the pull, the madness. And when they brought her before me, when I sentenced her—” His voice cracks. “—I didn’t know she was your mother. I didn’t know she was the mother of the woman I’d sworn to love for eternity.”
I press my hands to his chest. “You didn’t kill her.”
“But I condemned her,” he says. “And I played my part in her death.”
“No,” I say, lifting my head. “You were a prisoner too. A weapon in their hands. And now—” I cup his face. “—we’re free.”
He kisses me—slow, deep, real—and the bond hums beneath my skin, warm, steady, right.
And then—
He pulls back, just enough to look at me.
“And now?” he asks, voice a velvet command.
“Now,” I whisper, “I think I was meant to save you.”
He smiles. Not cold. Not cruel.
Soft.
And then he lifts me—gently, slowly—into his arms, carrying me from the war room, down the corridor, into his chambers. The silver sconces flare as we pass, the wards humming with recognition. The bed waits—black silk sheets, high canopy, the scent of blood and earth and memory thick in the air.
He lays me down, then climbs in beside me, his body pressing to mine, his arm draping over my waist. His breath is warm on my neck. His heart beats against my back.
And for the first time since the bond formed—
I’m not afraid.
Not of him.
Not of the bond.
Not of the mission that had brought me here.
For the first time in ten years, I feel… safe.
---
Later, when the red moon hangs high and the bond hums between us like a shared heartbeat, I whisper into the dark—
“I came to kill you.”
He presses his lips to my shoulder. “And now?”
I turn in his arms, my eyes meeting his in the dim light. “Now I think I was meant to love you.”
He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Then do it. But not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you awake,” he says. “I want you to look into my eyes and say, *‘Yes. Take me. Make me yours.’* And I want to remember every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
I close my eyes. “Then I’ll say it. When I’m ready.”
“And when will that be?”
“When I stop being afraid,” I whisper.
He pulls me closer. “You’re not afraid anymore.”
“Aren’t I?”
“No,” he says. “You’re here. With me. As my wife. As my equal. As the woman who was always meant to save me.”
I press my hand to the mark on my neck—still warm, still humming.
And I know—
I’m not afraid.
Not of him.
Not of the bond.
Not of the truth.
I’m ready.
And when I look into his eyes and say, *“Yes. Take me. Make me yours,”*
It won’t be because the bond demands it.
Not because the magic compels it.
But because I want to.
Because I need to.
Because I am.
And then—
Then I’ll finally be his.