The kiss lingers like fire on my lips—slow, deep, deliberate, not the violent clash of before, but something more. Something that doesn’t burn, but builds. A fire stoked not by rage or magic, but by choice. By need. By the terrifying, beautiful truth that I don’t hate him.
I want him.
Not because of the bond. Not because of the Oath. Not because of some cursed bloodline or ancient magic that binds us together like chains.
But because he’s the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen me. Not the witch. Not the half-breed. Not the weapon. Not the pawn.
Just Blair.
And when he pulls back, his black eyes searching mine, his thumb brushing the edge of my lip, I don’t flinch. Don’t turn away. Don’t reach for my dagger.
I just breathe.
And for the first time in my life, I feel like I can.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice rough, low, like gravel wrapped in velvet.
“So are you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it. Just cups my face in his hands, his palms cool against my skin, his touch steady despite the tremor in his fingers. The bond hums beneath my skin—low, insistent, a second heartbeat that syncs with his. But it’s not screaming. Not twisting. Not pulling us apart.
It’s calm.
Like it’s waiting.
Like it knows what’s coming.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice quiet. “Not tonight. Not ever. I won’t force you.”
“I know.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. “And that’s why I want to.”
He stills. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
And I mean it.
Not because I’ve suddenly forgotten my mother’s screams. Not because I’ve forgiven Malrik for what he did. Not because I trust Kaelen completely—because I don’t. Not yet.
But because for the first time, I’m not acting out of fear. Not out of rage. Not out of vengeance.
I’m acting out of desire.
And that terrifies me more than any curse.
Because if I let myself want him—if I let myself feel this—then there’s no going back.
There’s no pretending I came here just to burn his world down.
There’s no denying that I’ve already fallen.
“Then let me take you somewhere safe,” he says, stepping back but not releasing my hand. “Somewhere no one will find us. No wards. No spies. No shadows.”
“And if Malrik comes?”
“Then he’ll have to go through me.”
“And if Lira tries to interfere?”
“She won’t.” His voice is cold. “I made that clear.”
“Good.” I squeeze his hand. “Because I don’t want anyone else in my head tonight. No ghosts. No lies. No magic.”
“Just us,” he says.
“Just us.”
We move fast—through the vault, up the spiraling staircase, past the flickering wards and silent corridors. Riven follows at a distance, a shadow in the dark, his golden eyes scanning the shadows for threats. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t question. Just watches. Protects.
Kaelen leads me to the east wing, to a hidden passage behind a tapestry of the D’Vaire crest. The stone shifts beneath his touch, revealing a narrow staircase that descends into darkness. The air grows colder, the scent of iron and magic replaced by something older—something private.
“No one knows about this place,” he says as we descend. “Not even my sire.”
“And you’re showing it to me?”
“You’re not him.”
The staircase opens into a chamber unlike any I’ve seen—small, circular, its walls carved with runes that pulse faintly in the dark. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor. A bed sits in the center, draped in black silk, its frame carved from obsidian. No throne. No weapons. No relics of power.
Just a room.
Just a man.
Just us.
“You’ve never brought anyone here,” I say, stepping inside.
“No.” He closes the door behind us, sealing us in. The wards flare, humming softly, then settle. “Not until now.”
“Why me?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine. And then—
He steps closer.
Not fast. Not rough. But slow. Deliberate. Like he’s giving me time to run. To fight. To change my mind.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want to.
His hand lifts, hovering near my jaw. Not touching. Not yet. But his fingers twitch, as if drawn to the bare skin at the base of my neck. The bond flares—hot, sudden. A jolt of heat slams through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My breath hitches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, voice rough.
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. “I’m alive.”
And then—
I reach up.
My fingers brush the edge of his coat. Slow. Deliberate. Like I’m testing the water before I dive. His breath catches. His fangs extend—just a flicker, just a pulse—but he doesn’t look away.
“You can stop me,” I say. “Anytime.”
“I don’t want to.”
So I do.
I unbutton his coat. Slide it from his shoulders. Let it fall to the floor. His shirt is next—black silk, open at the throat, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the faint pulse beneath his skin. My fingers tremble as I work the buttons, but I don’t stop. Can’t.
Because for the first time, I’m not afraid of what I want.
And when the shirt falls, I see him—really see him. Not the vampire lord. Not the monster. Not the heir to a cursed bloodline.
Just a man.
His chest is pale, flawless, but marked—scars crisscross his ribs, deep and old, the kind that come from fists, from blades, from betrayal. His hands are calloused, his arms strong, his body taut with restraint. And his eyes—black, endless—watch me, not with hunger, but with something softer. Warmer.
Hope.
“You’ve never done this,” I say, voice quiet.
“Not like this,” he admits. “Not with someone who sees me.”
“And if I don’t like what I see?”
“Then you’ll leave.”
“And if I stay?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer, his body pressing into mine, his hands caging me in. My breath hitches. My magic flares. The bond screams—a surge of heat, of scent, of need.
But I don’t fight it.
Because this time, I’m not fighting him.
I’m fighting me.
And I’m winning.
My hands slide up his chest, tracing the scars, feeling the ridges beneath my fingertips. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just watches me, his breath steady, his pulse jumping in his throat.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
“Malrik.”
“And you survived.”
“Barely.”
“And now?”
“Now I have you.”
My breath catches.
And then—
I rise on my toes.
My lips brush his.
Not a kiss. Not yet.
Just a promise.
And then—
I kiss him.
Softly. Slowly. Like I’m learning him. Like I’m memorizing the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his body arches toward mine. His hands find my waist, pulling me close, his fingers digging into my hips. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled—but the bond doesn’t twist it. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t pull us apart.
It just is.
Like it’s always been meant to be.
His tongue brushes my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise. I open for him. Let him in. And the moment our tongues meet, the bond explodes.
Heat. Fire. A scream—mine? His? The magic tears through us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, amplified.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if he didn’t catch me.
But he does.
He pulls me against him, my body fitting into his like we were made for this. My leg brushes his. My thigh presses against his hip. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight.
“Blair,” he growls. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body aches—for him, for release, for something.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his shirt. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
He pulls back.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
My blood stains his lips. His eyes are black, endless, but there’s something in them—something softer. Warmer. Like the ice has cracked, just slightly.
“You tasted me,” I gasp. “Why didn’t it hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. Just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving mine.
And then—
“Because it wasn’t feeding,” he says. “It was healing.”
“What?”
“Your magic,” he says. “It’s not gone. It’s just… buried. And the bond—when I drink from you, when we’re connected—it wakes it up.”
My breath catches.
“You’re saying I’m still a witch?”
He nods. “And stronger than before.”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to my sternum, as if I can feel it.
And I can.
Not weak.
Not empty.
Alive.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But *holding*.
And for the first time, I let him.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
And then—
He lifts me.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With care.
And carries me to the bed.
He lays me down gently, his hands steady, his touch light. The silk is cool against my skin, but my body burns. My magic hums. The bond thrums, alive, electric.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tear at my clothes. Just undresses me—slow, deliberate, like he’s unwrapping a gift. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist. Every touch is a question. Every breath a plea.
And I answer.
With a nod. With a gasp. With a moan that tears from my throat when his lips brush my nipple, when his teeth graze my hip, when his hand slides between my thighs and finds me—wet, aching, ready.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “So beautiful.”
“Don’t lie,” I whisper.
“I’m not.” He looks up, his black eyes burning into mine. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not on the lips.
On the scar between my shoulder blades—the mark he left when the bond first flared. His lips are soft, his breath warm, his tongue tracing the raised skin like he’s memorizing it.
“This was never a curse,” he says. “It was a promise.”
“And if I break it?”
“Then I’ll make another.”
And then—
He moves up.
His body over mine. His weight pressing me into the silk. His cock—hard, thick, aching—brushing my thigh. I reach for him, my fingers wrapping around him, feeling the heat, the pulse, the way he groans when I stroke him.
“Blair—”
“I want you,” I say. “All of you.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He positions himself at my entrance. Pauses. Looks at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
And then—
He pushes in.
Slow. Steady. Deep.
And the moment he fills me, the bond explodes.
Not in pain.
Not in fire.
In light.
A wave of magic crashes through us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, amplified.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp. My nails dig into his back. My body arches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“Blair,” he growls. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body aches—for him, for release, for something.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his shoulders. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
He starts to move.
Slow. Deep. Steady.
And the bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.