The silence after the dream collapses is heavier than stone.
It presses down on me, thick and suffocating, like the weight of the Undercourt’s black stone ceiling. We’re back in the hidden chamber—Blair and I—still tangled together on the bed of black silk, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding in unison. The fire in the hearth burns low, casting long shadows across the floor. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, as if recovering from the shock of what just happened. Her magic hums beneath her skin—hot, restless, alive. The bond thrums between us, not screaming, not twisting, but celebrating.
We made it.
Not just out of the dream.
Out of the past.
Out of the lies.
Out of the war inside her.
She chose me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the Oath.
But because she wanted to.
And that terrifies me more than any curse.
Because I don’t deserve her.
Not after what I’ve done. Not after what I’ve let happen. Not after letting Lira make her doubt me. Not after standing by while Malrik poisoned her mind. Not after letting her believe, even for a moment, that she wasn’t the only one who’d ever mattered.
She presses her fingers to her lips, still tingling from the kiss—the one she gave me in front of Malrik’s shadow, in front of the nightmare he built, like a declaration, like a vow, like a line drawn in blood and fire. She didn’t kiss me to survive.
She kissed me because she wanted to.
And I—
I don’t know how to breathe.
“You came back,” I murmur, my voice rough, my thumb brushing the edge of her lip. My eyes—black, endless—burn into hers. “You didn’t have to.”
“Neither did you,” she says, her voice quiet. “You should’ve stayed. You could’ve died.”
“And you could’ve stayed with him.” I lean in, my breath cold on her skin. “You could’ve taken his power. His throne. His blood.”
“And become what? A weapon? A puppet? A ghost?” She shakes her head. “No. I’d rather burn than live as someone else’s shadow.”
I don’t answer. Just watch her, my expression unreadable. And then—
I pull her into my arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But holding.
And for the first time, she doesn’t pull away.
She lets me hold her. Lets my cold seep into her skin. Lets my heartbeat sync with hers. Lets the bond hum between us—low, steady, satisfied—like it’s finally found its home.
And maybe it has.
Maybe I have.
“You were magnificent,” I say, my voice muffled against her hair. “Standing there. Facing him. Refusing him.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” she whispers. “Walking into his dream like you owned the place. Like you weren’t stepping into a death trap.”
“I wasn’t.” I lift her chin, my black eyes burning into hers. “Because I knew you’d come back to me.”
Her breath catches.
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Then I’d have found you.”
“Even in Malrik’s shadow?”
“Even in hell.”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her palm to my chest, feeling the steady thud of my heart beneath the fabric of my shirt. It’s not the heart of a monster. Not the heart of a tyrant. Not the heart of a man who feeds on traitors in the open.
It’s the heart of someone who’s been alone too long.
Like her.
“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I used to think love was weakness. That wanting someone made you vulnerable. That needing someone made you a target.”
I still.
Not in anger.
Not in shock.
In pain.
Because I’ve spent centuries believing the same thing.
That love is a flaw. That desire is a failure. That connection is a chain.
And now—
Now I’m not sure I’m strong enough to survive it.
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I think… maybe it’s the only thing that makes us strong.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Just cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You don’t have to say it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to mean it.”
“I do.”
And she does.
Not because the bond demands it.
Not because the Oath is breaking.
Not because Malrik is still out there, whispering in the shadows, waiting for us to fail.
But because for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel like she’s fighting.
She feels like she’s choosing.
And she chooses me.
Even if it destroys her.
Even if it breaks her.
Even if it means she’ll never be the woman she swore she’d be—the one who burned my world down.
Because the truth is—
She doesn’t want to burn it.
She wants to build it.
With me.
“I don’t want to hate you anymore,” she whispers.
I freeze.
Not in anger.
Not in shock.
In pain.
Like the words cut deeper than any blade.
And then—
My breath hitches.
And I feel it.
For the first time since I was a child—since Malrik broke my hands, since he made me watch my mother die, since he told me I was nothing but a vessel, a weapon, a thing—
I weep.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a single tear—cold, silver, like moonlight on snow—sliding down my cheek.
And she reaches for it.
Her fingers brush my skin, catching the tear before it falls. She doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t pretend she didn’t see it.
She just holds it.
Like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” she says, voice breaking. “You don’t have to be the monster. You don’t have to be the lord. You don’t have to be anything but you.”
I don’t answer. Just pull her closer, burying my face in her hair, my body trembling against hers. My arms tighten around her, like I’m afraid she’ll disappear. Like I’m afraid this moment will break.
And maybe it will.
Maybe we’ll go back to fighting. To lying. To pretending we don’t ache for each other.
But not now.
Now, we’re here.
Now, we’re real.
Now, we’re us.
“I’ve never let anyone see me like this,” I say, voice rough, broken. “Not in centuries. Not even when Malrik broke my hands. Not when he made me watch her die. Not when he told me I was nothing but a vessel, a weapon, a thing.”
“And now?”
“Now I let you.”
“Because?”
“Because you’re not like them.” I lift my head, my black eyes burning into hers. “You’re not afraid of me. You’re not in awe of me. You don’t want my power. You don’t want my blood. You don’t want my name.”
“What do I want?”
“Me.”
And she does.
Not the vampire lord.
Not the heir to a cursed bloodline.
Not the man who feeds on traitors in the open.
Just me.
The one who flinched when she slapped me.
The one who let her touch my face.
The one who carried her to this hidden chamber and made love to her like it was the first time I’d ever done it right.
“Then don’t hide from me,” she says, voice quiet. “Not anymore. Let me see you. All of you. The good. The bad. The broken. The beautiful.”
I don’t answer. Just kiss her.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
And she kisses me back.
Because she’s not afraid anymore.
Because she’s not alone.
Because the truth—
Is that she’s not here to unmake.
She’s here to become.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
—
We stay like that for hours—wrapped in each other, the fire burning low, the runes on the walls pulsing faintly. She doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t trust dreams. Not after what Malrik did. Not after what the Winter Court tried to make her.
But she doesn’t need sleep.
She has me.
And for now, that’s enough.
Eventually, the torches flicker. The air grows colder. The bond hums, restless, insistent. She presses her palm to her sternum, as if she can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in her veins.
The final vote is in five days.
Malrik is still out there.
Lira is still alive.
And the Oath—
It’s not broken.
It’s sleeping.
And when it wakes—
We’ll be ready.
She stirs, her arms tightening around me. “You’re thinking again.”
“You said I think too loud.”
“I did.” She lifts her head, her green eyes searching mine. “And you do.”
“And you?”
“I’m thinking about you.”
“Liar.”
“No.” I brush her hair from her face. “I’m thinking about how you fought Malrik. How you refused him. How you came back to me.”
“And?”
“And I’m thinking that I don’t deserve you.”
Her breath catches.
“And I’m thinking that if I lose you, I’ll burn this city to the ground.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” She presses her palm to my chest. “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.”
I don’t answer. Just pull her closer, holding her tight, my face in her hair, her body pressed to mine. The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied—but I can feel her heart, fast, unsteady, like it’s learning how to beat again.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, voice rough.
“I never wanted to.”
“Then let me stand with you.”
“Not as my enemy.”
“No.” I lift her chin, my black eyes burning into hers. “As your equal.”
And for the first time, she believes me.
For the first time, she believes us.
“If I die,” she says, voice quiet, “promise me you’ll burn the Oath.”
“You won’t die,” I say. “Because I won’t let you.”
And then—
I kiss her.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
And she kisses me back.
Because she’s not afraid anymore.
Because she’s not alone.
Because the truth—
Is that she’s not here to unmake.
She’s here to become.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
—
But I’m afraid.
Not of Malrik.
Not of the Oath.
Not of the final vote.
I’m afraid of *her*.
Of what I feel.
Of what she makes me want.
Of what I might do to protect her.
And worse—of what I might do if I lose her.
So when she sleeps—finally, deeply, her body slack against mine—I slip from the bed.
I dress in silence.
I leave the chamber.
And I go to the Oath Vault.
The air is colder here, the torchlight dimmer, the scent of iron and magic replaced by something older—something *darker*. Blood. Bone. Memory.
The door groans open, revealing the chamber so still it feels like time itself has stopped.
At the center stands the pedestal of obsidian, cracked, stained, empty.
The book is gone.
But the magic remains.
And so do I.
I press my palm to the stone.
And I speak.
Not to the Oath.
Not to the blood.
But to the one who created it.
“Malrik,” I say, voice low, rough. “I know you can hear me.”
Nothing.
Just silence.
And then—
A whisper.
Boy.
“I’m not your boy.”
No. You’re my heir. My vessel. My curse.
“And you’re not my father.”
I made you.
“You broke me.”
And I shaped you.
“You used me.”
And you obeyed.
“Not anymore.”
And yet you come to me. Alone. Afraid. Weak.
“I’m not afraid.”
Then why are you here?
“To make a deal.”
Ah. A laugh, cold and sharp. You want to bargain. Like a witch. Like a fae. Like a coward.
“I want to protect her.”
Blair. The name slithers through the air. The half-breed. The witch. The weapon.
“She’s not a weapon.”
She is. And she will be mine.
“She’ll never be yours.”
She already is. The bond ties her to you. And you are mine. So she is mine by blood. By magic. By fate.
“Then break the bond.”
And destroy the Oath? Never.
“Then take it.”
What?
“Take the bond. Take the Oath. Take my life. But let her go. Let her live. Let her be free.”
You would give yourself to me? For her?
“Yes.”
And what makes you think I’d accept?
“Because you want power. And I’m giving you everything.”
But not her.
“No. She stays. Unmarked. Unclaimed. Alive.”
And you think I’d let her live?
“You don’t need her dead. You need the Oath alive. And I’m giving it to you.”
Stillness.
Then—
Prove it.
“How?”
Mark her.
My breath catches.
“What?”
Mark her as yours. Not with the bond. Not with magic. With blood. With fang. With claim. Make her scream. Make her bleed. Make her *yours*.
“No.”
Then no deal.
“She wouldn’t want that.”
Then she doesn’t want you.
“She already has me.”
But not completely. The whisper curls deeper. You fear it. You fear marking her. You fear losing control. You fear becoming me.
And I do.
Because if I mark her—if I claim her—if I let myself *own* her—what’s to stop me from becoming the monster he made me?
“I won’t do it,” I say.
Then she dies.
“No.”
Yes. When the final vote comes, when the Oath rises, when the bond breaks—she will be the first to fall. And you will watch. Just like you watched her mother.
My blood runs cold.
“You won’t touch her.”
I already have.
And I know he’s right.
He’s already touched her.
With lies.
With doubt.
With fear.
And if I don’t act—
He’ll destroy her.
So I make my choice.
Not for power.
Not for survival.
For *her*.
“I’ll mark her,” I say, voice breaking. “But not because you told me to. Not because I fear you. But because I love her.”
Love? He laughs. Love is weakness. Love is death. Love is the first cut.
“Then let it be.”
And I leave.
Back to the chamber.
Back to her.
She’s still asleep, her face peaceful, her body warm beneath the silk. I stand over her, my hands trembling, my fangs aching, my heart breaking.
I want to.
Gods, I *want* to.
To claim her. To mark her. To make her mine in every way.
But if I do—
Will I become him?
Will I lose her?
Will I destroy everything we’ve built?
So I kneel.
I press my forehead to the edge of the bed.
And I whisper—
“I can’t.”
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I love her too much to risk it.
And when she wakes—
She finds me there.
Kneeling.
Broken.
And she says—
“You don’t get to decide what I am.”
And she’s right.
She’s always been right.
And I—
I’m just a coward.
“Then mark *me*,” I say, voice raw. “If you dare.”
And she does.