The dream lingers.
Not a vision. Not a memory. Not even magic.
A feeling.
Like silk brushing my skin. Like cold fire in my veins. Like a whisper in the blood that isn’t mine—yet.
I wake tangled in black silk, my body still humming from the night before—the kiss in the ruins, the portal collapsing, the way Kaelen held me like I was the only thing keeping him from falling into the dark. The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the chamber. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, like a heartbeat slowing. And him—
He’s still here.
Kaelen.
Not asleep. Not restless. Just… watching.
His arm is draped over my waist, his hand splayed against my stomach, his fingers warm despite the cold of his skin. His breath is slow, steady, like he’s memorizing the rhythm of mine. His black eyes—endless, fathomless—burn into my profile as I lie on my side, facing away, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his gaze.
But I do.
I feel everything.
The way his thumb brushes the dip of my hip. The way his body shifts closer, pressing into mine, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. The way the bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, alive—not screaming, not twisting, but thriving.
And I hate it.
Not him.
Not the way he touches me.
Not the way he looked at me when I said I didn’t want to hate him anymore.
But the way I *want* it.
The way my body arches toward his even now, half-asleep, half-afraid. The way my magic sings when he’s near. The way my breath catches when he whispers my name like it’s a prayer.
I press my fingers to my sternum, as if I can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in my veins, written in the blood that runs through me. I came here for revenge. For justice. For the obliteration of a system that used women like my mother, that erased them, that called it *tradition*.
But now?
Now I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do it.
Because if I break the Oath, I don’t just lose my magic.
I lose *him*.
And if I don’t?
I lose myself.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmurs, his voice rough, low, like gravel wrapped in velvet.
“You said I think too loud.”
“I did.” His hand slides up my stomach, slow, deliberate, stopping just beneath my breast. “And you do.”
“And you?” I ask, still not turning. “What are you thinking about?”
“How you fought the Winter Sovereign.” His lips brush the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “How you refused her. How you came back to me.”
“And?”
“And how I don’t deserve you.”
My breath catches.
“And how if I lose you, I’ll burn this city to the ground.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I press my palm to his hand, holding it against me. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not for power. Not for revenge. Not for anyone.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because I choose to be.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls me closer, his body pressing into mine, his face in my hair, his breath warm against my skin. The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied—but I can feel his heart, fast, unsteady, like it’s learning how to beat again.
And then—
Stillness.
Not from the bond.
Not from the chamber.
From *him*.
His breath stops. His body tenses. His hand tightens on my stomach.
“Kaelen?”
“Don’t move,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
And then—
I feel it.
Not the bond.
Not magic.
Something older.
Something darker.
A presence.
Like a shadow crawling through my veins.
Like a whisper in the blood that isn’t mine—yet.
And then—
He speaks.
Not aloud.
Not in the chamber.
In my *mind*.
Blair…
My breath stops.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Recognition.
Because I know that voice.
The one that haunted my dreams as a child. The one that whispered in the dark when I was alone. The one that laughed when my mother screamed.
Malrik.
You think you’ve won, he hisses. You think a witch and a vampire can break what is eternal?
“No,” I whisper. “We already did.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just holds me tighter, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. But I feel it—the spike of fear, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way his magic flares beneath his skin.
He hears it too.
Lies, Malrik sneers. The Oath is not broken. It is only… sleeping. And it will rise again. Stronger. Hungrier.
“Then we’ll break it again.”
You cannot destroy what is eternal. What is blood. What is mine.
“You don’t own me.”
No. He laughs—a sound like bones breaking. But your mother did. And her blood— He inhales, as if tasting the air. So sweet. So full of power. I can feel it. In the bond. In the mark.
“Don’t touch her,” Kaelen snarls, pressing his lips to my neck. His fangs graze my skin—just a whisper, a threat, a promise. “You don’t get to speak to her.”
Or what? You will stop me? You, who let a witch mark you? Who let her ride you like a common whore?
“She marked me,” Kaelen says, voice cold. “Not the other way around. And if you think that makes me weak, you don’t know me at all.”
You are weak. Malrik’s voice shifts, the whisper curling deeper into my mind. You both are. And you will fall. And when you do—
“Then we’ll fall together,” I say, pressing my palm to Kaelen’s hand. “And we’ll take you with us.”
You think you can banish me? You, who are nothing but a fraud? A half-breed? A witch?
“I’m more than you’ll ever be.”
Then prove it.
The chamber shakes.
Not from the bond.
From him.
Stone cracks. Torches gutter. The runes on the walls flare, then dim. And then—
Darkness.
Not the absence of light.
But the presence of nothing.
And then—
I’m not in the chamber.
I’m in a garden.
My mother’s garden.
Flowers bloom in impossible colors—violet, gold, deep crimson—petals shifting like silk in a breeze that doesn’t exist. Trees rise like spires, their bark silver, their leaves glowing faintly. The air is thick with scent—roses, honey, something darker, something hungry.
But it’s not real.
Not truly.
It’s a memory. A dream. A *trap*.
And he’s there.
Malrik.
Not as a shadow. Not as a whisper.
In the flesh.
Or what passes for it.
He stands in the center of the garden, his form smoke and shadow, his eyes two pits of endless dark. His lips curl into a smile that isn’t a smile. His hands—pale, skeletal, clawed—reach for me.
“You think you can stop me?” he hisses. You think a witch and a traitor can break what is eternal?
“We already did,” I say, voice steady. “The Oath is under review. The vote has begun.”
Lies. The smoke swirls, thickens. The Oath is not broken. It is only… sleeping. And it will rise again. Stronger. Hungrier.
“Not if we destroy it first.”
You cannot destroy what is eternal. What is blood. What is mine.
“You don’t own me.”
No. He laughs—a sound like bones breaking. But your mother did. And her blood— He inhales, as if tasting the air. So sweet. So full of power. I can feel it. In the bond. In the mark.
“Don’t touch her,” a voice snarls.
Kaelen.
He’s here too.
Not in the flesh.
In the dream.
He steps between us, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His fangs are bared, his eyes black, endless, his magic flaring like a storm. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak to me.
Just watches Malrik.
“You don’t get to speak to her,” he growls.
Or what? You will stop me? You, who let a witch mark you? Who let her ride you like a common whore?
“She marked me,” Kaelen says, voice cold. “Not the other way around. And if you think that makes me weak, you don’t know me at all.”
You are weak. Malrik’s form shifts, the smoke curling toward me. You both are. And you will fall. And when you do—
“Then we’ll fall together,” I say, stepping beside Kaelen. “And we’ll take you with us.”
You think you can banish me? You, who are nothing but a fraud? A half-breed? A witch?
“I’m more than you’ll ever be.”
Then prove it.
The garden shakes.
Not from the bond.
From him.
Flowers wilt. Trees crack. The air thickens with the scent of blood. And then—
He offers me his hand.
Not to attack.
Not to hurt.
To *help*.
Join me, he whispers. Break the Oath. But not with him. With me. With power. With blood. With truth.
“No.”
Why not? His voice is softer now. Almost gentle. You want to destroy it. You want to avenge your mother. You want to be free. And I can give you that. All of it. No need for him. No need for the bond. No need for the vote.
“I don’t trust you.”
And do you trust him? He gestures to Kaelen. He let you believe Lira was his. He let you think he’d used you. He let you suffer. And for what? A lie? A game?
“He didn’t lie.”
He didn’t tell you everything.
“That’s not the same.”
Isn’t it? He steps closer. I won’t hide from you. I won’t pretend. I will give you power. Real power. Not this half-breed magic. Not this *witch* filth. But the true magic of the D’Vaire bloodline. The power to command blood. To break oaths. To rule the night.
“And what do you want in return?”
Break the Oath.
“And then?”
Rule with me.
“No.”
Why? He smiles. Slow. Deadly. You think love breaks a curse? It only deepens it. You think trust wins a war? It only makes you vulnerable. You think he’ll protect you? He couldn’t protect your mother. He couldn’t protect himself. But I can. I will. I *have*.
“You killed her.”
I freed her. His voice drops. She was weak. Broken. Useless. And I ended her suffering. Just as I will end yours—if you refuse me.
My breath catches.
And then—
Kaelen grabs my wrist. “Blair. 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 him 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 coat. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
Malrik laughs.
You see? he whispers. He needs you. He wants you. He craves you. And when the bond breaks, when the Oath rises, when the vote fails—he will destroy you to save himself. Just as I did to your mother.
“No,” I say, voice breaking. “He’s not like you.”
Isn’t he? Malrik steps closer. Then prove it. Break the Oath with me. Take the power. Rule alone. Be free.
“I don’t want to be free,” I say. “I want to be *me*.”
And if I make you more? He raises his hand. A shard of black ice forms in his palm, sharp as a blade. Then kneel. Or suffer.
The ice flies.
Not at my heart.
At my neck.
But I’m faster.
My dagger is out—black iron, etched with runes. I slash. The ice shatters. The garden screams.
And then—
He smiles.
You’re strong, he says. Stronger than I expected. But strength without power is meaningless. And you will learn that. Soon.
“No,” I say, pressing my palm to the cut. “I’ll learn that I don’t need you. I don’t need your power. I don’t need your lies.”
Then you will die here.
“Maybe.” I lift my dagger. “But I’ll take you with me.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. And then—
“You could have power,” he says. “You could rule beside me. You could be a queen of blood and shadow.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you are nothing.”
“Then I’ll be nothing on my own terms.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just raises his hand. The garden cracks. The air thickens. Black smoke spreads—jagged, hungry—crawling toward me like a living thing.
And then—
A voice.
Not from the garden.
Not from Malrik.
From *him*.
“Blair.”
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
I turn.
Kaelen stands in front of me, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His hand finds mine. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of scent, of need. “She’s not yours,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “She’s not a weapon. She’s not a pawn. She’s *mine*.”
Then die with her.
He raises both hands.
The smoke surges.
But we don’t move.
We just—
Kiss.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Fierce. Possessive. Like we’re claiming each other in front of the world.
And the bond—
It doesn’t break.
It *evolves*.
Heat meets cold. Blood meets shadow. Magic clashes—and then *merges*.
And for one breathless moment, I know—
He can’t have me.
Because I’ve already chosen.
Not power.
Not revenge.
Not even survival.
Love.
And then—
The garden collapses.
The smoke shatters.
Malrik screams.
And we’re gone.
Back in the chamber. On the bed of black silk. Still kissing.
Still holding on.
Still *alive*.
“You idiot,” I whisper, pulling back. “You could have died.”
“And you could have stayed,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “But you came back.”
“Because I chose to.”
“Then choose me.”
“I already did.”
And I did.
Not in the garden.
Not in the kiss.
But in the moment I realized—
I don’t want to unmake.
I want to *become*.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.