The water is warm—too warm, almost feverish—when Kaelen lowers me into the pool. It laps at my skin like a living thing, curling around my thighs, my waist, my breasts, rising to just below my collarbones. The surface is still, unbroken, reflecting the flickering torchlight like liquid gold. The air above it shimmers, thick with the scent of jasmine and honey, something ancient, something sacred. This isn’t just water. It’s a conduit. A threshold. The first step into the final ritual—the one that will sever the Oath of Crimson Fealty forever.
And I’m not afraid.
Not of the magic.
Not of the merging.
Not even of him.
I’m ready.
Kaelen kneels beside the pool, his bare chest glistening in the torchlight, his black eyes burning into mine. He hasn’t touched me since laying me down. Hasn’t spoken. Just watches me, his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. But I can feel it—the tension in his jaw, the way his fangs press into his lower lip, the way his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s holding back. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he promised. Because he said I lead.
And I do.
“Take off your clothes,” I say, voice low.
He stills. “What?”
“You heard me.” I press my palm to the surface of the water, sending a ripple across its glassy skin. “Undress. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re preparing for something holy.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for the buckle of his belt.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a vow.
The leather slides free. The fabric of his trousers falls open. He pushes them down—inch by inch—revealing the hard lines of his hips, the dark trail of hair leading lower, the thick, heavy length of him already half-hard, straining against the air. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. Just strips, piece by piece, until he’s bare, kneeling beside me, his body a sculpture of shadow and muscle, his fangs fully extended, his eyes black with need.
And still, he doesn’t touch me.
“Get in,” I say.
He hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his breath hitches, the way his hands clench at his sides.
And then—
He steps into the pool.
The water ripples as he moves, his body cutting through the surface like a blade. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t close the distance. Just walks toward 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.
He stops in front of me, his chest level with my face, his heat radiating through the water. I press my palms to his abdomen—cold, hard, ridged with muscle—and feel the way his body tenses, the way his breath catches, the way his fangs graze his lower lip.
“You’re trembling,” I whisper.
“Not from fear,” he says, voice rough. “From need.”
“And if I told you to stop?”
“I’d stop.”
“And if I told you to leave?”
“I’d leave.”
“And if I told you to kiss me?”
His breath hitches. “Then I’d obey.”
And I do.
Not with words.
With action.
I rise—slow, deliberate—until my body is flush with his, until my breasts press into his chest, until my thighs brush his, until my mouth is inches from his. The water laps at our hips, warm, insistent, alive. My magic hums beneath my skin, the gold of the mark between my shoulder blades pulsing faintly. The sigils on the walls glow brighter, their light rippling across the surface of the pool.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
His lips are cold at first—like marble, like stone—but they warm under mine, softening, opening, yielding. His hands find my waist, not to pull, not to possess, but to hold. His thumbs brush the curve of my hips, sending sparks through my veins. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise—but he doesn’t bite. Doesn’t take. Just waits.
And I—
I deepen the kiss.
My tongue slides against his, slow, deliberate, tasting the cold, metallic tang of vampire blood, the warmth of something deeper, something human. He groans—low, guttural, free—and his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, until there’s no space between us, until our bodies are fused, until the water is the only thing separating skin from skin.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It sings.
Not in hunger.
Not in rage.
In love.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m fighting.
I feel like I’m choosing.
He breaks the kiss—slow, reluctant—his breath cold on my skin, his black eyes burning into mine. “Blair,” he whispers. “I’ve never—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to his lips. “Don’t speak. Not yet. Just feel.”
And he does.
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the ridges of old scars, the faint pulse of something buried deep. My fingers trace the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the thick muscle of his arm. Every touch is a question. Every breath a plea. And he answers—
With a shiver.
With a groan.
With the way his fangs extend, just a flicker, just a pulse, but he doesn’t pull away.
And then—
I turn.
Pressing my back to his chest, my body fitting into his like we were made for this. The water laps at my shoulders, my neck, my hair, sending ripples through the pool. His arms wrap around me, one hand splayed across my stomach, the other cupping my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple. I arch into him, my head falling back onto his shoulder, my breath coming too fast.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “So beautiful.”
“Don’t lie,” I whisper.
“I’m not.” He presses his lips to my neck, his fangs grazing the pulse point. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then—
He moves.
One hand slides down—slow, deliberate—over my hip, my thigh, until his fingers brush the apex of my sex. I gasp. My body arches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“May I?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes.”
And he does.
Not deep. Not rough.
Just a touch—two fingers sliding through my folds, finding me wet, aching, ready. He circles my clit—slow, deliberate—sending waves of heat through my veins. I moan. My head falls back. My hands clutch his arms. My magic flares, the sigils on the walls pulsing brighter.
“Kaelen,” I gasp.
“I know,” he murmurs, his breath cold on my skin. “I feel it too.”
And he does.
The bond thrums between us, alive, electric. I feel his need—not just in his touch, not just in his breath, but in the way his heartbeat syncs with mine, in the way his magic hums beneath his skin, in the way his body trembles against mine.
And then—
I reach for him.
My hand finds his cock—hard, thick, aching—and wraps around it, slow, deliberate. He groans. His hips buck. His fangs graze my neck.
“Blair,” he growls. “If you keep that up—”
“Then come,” I whisper. “I want to feel you.”
And he does.
Not with force.
Not with magic.
With trust.
He lets go—just for a second—his body tensing, his breath hitching, his release spilling into my hand, hot, thick, alive. I stroke him through it, slow, deliberate, until he’s spent, until his body sags against mine, until his arms tighten around me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
And then—
He turns me.
Pulling me around until I’m facing him, until my legs wrap around his waist, until my body is cradled in his arms. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine. “I’ve never let anyone see me like this,” he says, voice rough, broken. “Not in centuries. Not 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.” He lifts my chin, his black eyes burning into mine. “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 I do.
Not the vampire lord.
Not the heir to a cursed bloodline.
Not the man who feeds on traitors in the open.
Just him.
The one who flinched when I slapped him.
The one who let me touch his face.
The one who carried me to this hidden chamber and made love to me like it was the first time he’d ever done it right.
“Then don’t hide from me,” I say, voice quiet. “Not anymore. Let me see you. All of you. The good. The bad. The broken. The beautiful.”
He doesn’t answer. Just kisses me.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
And I kiss him back.
Because I’m not afraid anymore.
Because I’m not alone.
Because the truth—
Is that I’m not here to unmake.
I’m 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.
—
Later, when the torches burn low and the sigils on the walls pulse faintly, we lie on the stone beside the pool, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, our bodies pressed together, our breaths syncing. The water is still again, unbroken, reflecting the stars above. The air is cool, sharp with the scent of rain and stone. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls—once, twice, three times.
And then—
He presses his lips to my temple. “No more running,” he says, voice low. “No more lies.”
I turn in his arms, my green eyes burning into his. “No,” I say. “No more.”
And I mean it.
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 my life, 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.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.