The silence after I speak is so deep it feels like the world has stopped breathing. My words hang in the air—You don’t get to decide what I am—sharp as a blade, final as a vow. And Kaelen—
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t argue.
Just kneels there, his forehead pressed to the edge of the bed, his hands trembling, his body coiled with a pain so deep it doesn’t even have a name. 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 breaking.
Not from Malrik’s whispers.
Not from the weight of the Oath.
From *me*.
From the truth I just spoke.
And I should feel guilty.
Should feel some flicker of regret for cutting him so deep.
But I don’t.
Because he *needed* to hear it.
Needed to know that I’m not his to protect. Not his to hide. Not his to *own*.
I’m mine.
And if he wants me—
He has to let me choose.
I slide off the bed, bare feet meeting the cold stone. The silk of my robe whispers against my skin, but I don’t care about modesty. Don’t care about power plays or dominance or the centuries of vampire tradition that say he should be the one to mark me.
Because I’m not tradition.
I’m not a pawn.
I’m not a witch bound by blood pacts and broken promises.
I’m Blair Vale.
And I decide who I belong to.
I step in front of him. He doesn’t look up. Just stays there, kneeling, like he’s waiting for judgment. Like he’s already sentenced himself.
“Look at me,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t move.
So I crouch down, bringing myself to his level. My fingers brush his jaw—cold, sharp, unyielding. I tilt his face up, forcing his black, endless eyes to meet mine.
“You don’t get to decide what I am,” I say again. “But I get to decide what *you* are.”
His breath catches. “Blair—”
“You think refusing to mark me protects me?” I ask, my voice rising. “You think hiding your fangs, your hunger, your *need*—that makes you noble? That makes you better than him?”
“I don’t want to become him,” he whispers. “I don’t want to lose control. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“And what if I *want* to be hurt?” I snap. “What if I want to feel your fangs at my throat? What if I want to scream your name as you claim me? What if I *want* you to lose control?”
He flinches. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I know exactly what I’m asking. I’m asking you to stop pretending. To stop hiding. To stop being afraid of what you feel.”
“I’m not afraid,” he says, voice rough.
“Yes, you are.” I lean in, my lips brushing his ear. “You’re afraid of me. Afraid of what I make you want. Afraid of what you’ll do if you let yourself *have* me.”
His breath hitches. His fangs extend—just a flicker, just a pulse—but he doesn’t pull away.
“Then prove you’re not afraid,” I say, stepping back. “Prove you’re not him.”
“How?”
I don’t answer.
Just reach for the collar of my robe.
And I pull.
The silk slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. The air is cold against my skin, but I don’t shiver. Don’t cover myself. Just stand there—naked, unashamed, *alive*—and I watch him.
His eyes burn.
Not with hunger.
Not with dominance.
With *need*.
Raw. Unfiltered. Desperate.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It screams.
A surge of heat slams through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The runes on the walls pulse brighter. The fire in the hearth roars to life. And still, he doesn’t move.
“Mark me,” I say, voice low. “If you dare.”
He stills. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” I step closer, my body pressing into his. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the ridges of old scars beneath his shirt. “I’m asking you to stop pretending. To stop hiding. To stop being afraid of what you feel.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you’ll finally be free.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for me.
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 hands find my waist, pulling me into his lap. My legs straddle him, my body fitting into his like we were made for this. My heart hammers. My breath comes too fast. The bond screams—a surge of heat, of scent, of need.
And then—
He stops.
Just holds me.
His face buried in my neck, his breath cold on my skin, his body trembling against mine. His arms tighten around me, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. Like he’s 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 marked anyone,” he whispers, voice rough, broken. “Not like this. Not with love. Not with choice.”
“Then let me be your first.”
He lifts his head, his black eyes burning into mine. “And if I hurt you?”
“Then you’ll heal me.”
“And if I can’t stop?”
“Then don’t.”
And that’s all it takes.
His fangs graze my neck—just a whisper, a threat, a promise. I gasp. My body arches toward him. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
And then—
He bites.
Not deep.
Not violent.
Just a puncture—sharp, precise, *perfect*—right over the pulse in my throat. A jolt of heat slams through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My nails dig into his shoulders. My head falls back. A cry tears from my throat—pleasure, not pain.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It sings.
Because this isn’t magic.
Not blood pacts.
Not curses.
This is *choice*.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m fighting.
I feel like I’m choosing.
And I choose him.
Even if it destroys me.
Even if it breaks me.
Even if it means I’ll never be the woman I swore I’d be—the one who burned his world down.
Because the truth is—
I don’t want to burn it.
I want to build it.
With him.
He pulls back, his lips glistening with my blood. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine. And then—
He licks the wound.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s sealing a vow.
And the mark—
It glows.
Not red.
Not black.
Gold.
Like sunlight on snow.
Like *mine*.
“Now,” I say, voice rough, “it’s your turn.”
He stills. “What?”
“You marked me.” I press my palm to the bite on my neck. “Now I mark you.”
“Blair—”
“You don’t get to say no.” I lift his chin, my green eyes burning into his. “You don’t get to decide what I am. And you don’t get to decide what *you* are. Not anymore.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. And then—
He nods.
Slow. Reluctant. Like he knows what’s coming.
And I do.
I rise from his lap, standing over him, my body still humming from the bite, my magic coiled tight. I reach for the dagger at my belt—black iron, etched with runes. The same one I used to fight the Winter Sovereign. The same one that spilled fae blood in the ruins.
And now—
It will spill *his*.
I press the tip to my palm, drawing a thin line of blood. Red. Hot. *Alive*. And then—
I press my palm to his chest.
Right over his heart.
His breath catches. His fangs extend. His hands clench at his sides. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine.
“This isn’t a curse,” I say, voice low. “It’s a promise.”
And then—
I bite him.
Not with fangs.
Not with magic.
With *teeth*.
My mouth finds the pulse in his throat—cold, steady, *his*—and I bite down.
Hard.
Deep.
Until I taste blood.
Not warm.
Not human.
Cold. Metallic. *hunger*.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It explodes.
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 shoulders. 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—
I pull back.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
Blood stains my 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 say, voice rough. “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 you drink from me, 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.