The night before the final ritual, I dream of fire.
Not the slow burn of revenge. Not the cold flame of hatred. This is something older. Something primal. A conflagration that doesn’t destroy—it transforms. I stand in the center of a circle etched in blood and gold, my body bare, my magic coiled tight. The runes on the walls pulse, not red, not black, but alive—shifting, breathing, watching. And then—
He appears.
Kaelen.
Not in shadow. Not in fury.
Bare-chested. Bloodied. mine.
His fangs are bared, but not in threat. In need. 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 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.
And then—
I wake.
The dawn is breaking over the Undercourt, pale light filtering through the high arched windows, casting long, golden fingers across the black stone floor. The air is still—too still—like the world is holding its breath. The woolen blanket is tangled around my legs, my skin damp with sweat, my heart still pounding from the dream.
And him—
Kaelen.
He’s beside me, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of a predator at rest. But I know he’s awake. I can feel it—the way his fangs press into his lower lip, the way his hand tightens around mine, the way his breath hitches when I shift.
“You dreamed,” he says, voice low, rough.
“You felt it.”
“I always feel it.” He opens his eyes, black, endless, burning into mine. “Your magic. Your fear. Your need.”
“And if I didn’t need you?”
“Then I’d let you go.”
“And if I did?”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls me into his arms, his body warm despite the cold of his skin, his heartbeat syncing with mine. The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied—like it’s finally found its home.
And maybe it has.
Maybe I have.
—
The ritual chamber is not the same.
Last night, it was warm. Soft. holy.
Now—
It’s alive.
The sigils on the walls pulse—not gold, not steady, but red, jagged, hungry. The pool of water has evaporated, leaving behind a shallow basin of cracked stone, etched with ancient runes that glow with a sickly light. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting long, wavering shadows that dance like ghosts. The air is thick with the scent of iron and magic, but also something darker—something older.
The Oath is not gone.
It’s awake.
And it’s fighting.
Kaelen stands at the edge of the chamber, his coat gone, his shirt torn, his body bare. His fangs are bared, his black eyes burning with something deeper than rage—something holy. Not vengeance. Not dominance.
Justice.
And I—
I step inside.
Slow. Deliberate. Like I’m walking into a fire.
My robe 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 sigils on the walls pulse brighter. The stone beneath my feet trembles.
And still, he doesn’t move.
“You said I lead,” I say, voice low.
He nods. “I remember.”
“Then undress me.”
He stills. “What?”
“You heard me.” I step closer, my body pressing into his. “Undress me. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re unwrapping a gift.”
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 the hem of my robe, pulling it up, inch by inch, his fingers brushing my skin, sending sparks through my veins. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tear. Just undresses me—slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every breath.
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 done this,” 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.
He lifts me.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With care.
And carries me to the center of the chamber.
He lays me down gently, his hands steady, his touch light. The stone is cold against my back, but my body burns. My magic hums. The bond thrums, alive, electric.
“This isn’t just sex,” I say, voice low. “It’s a ritual. A vow. A choice.”
“Then let me choose you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Oath requires it. But because I love you.”
And then—
He 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.
His 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.
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.
The sigils on the walls flare—gold, hot, alive. The stone beneath us cracks. The air thickens. And then—
Malrik.
He surges forward—a wave of shadow, a scream in the blood. The chamber darkens. The torches gutter. The runes on the floor flare, then dim. And then—
He’s on us.
Not flesh. Not fang.
Memory.
He wraps around us like smoke, whispering, his voice slithering into our minds, into our blood, into the deepest part of us where the scars live.
You are weak, he hisses. You always were. You let her mark you. You let her ride you. You let her choose.
Kaelen staggers. His fangs retract. His eyes—black, endless—flicker with something raw, something broken.
“No,” I whisper.
And I pull him closer.
Not away.
Toward.
“Don’t listen,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “This is us. Not him. Not the Oath. Not the past. Us.”
He looks at me, his eyes burning. “I love you,” he says, voice rough.
“Then fight with me.”
And he does.
He thrusts—deep, hard, sure—and the bond explodes again, a wave of gold light erupting from us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, every choice, every kiss, every fight, every us—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.
Malrik screams.
Not in pain.
Not in rage.
In fear.
And then—
He’s gone.
Not destroyed.
Not banished.
But wounded.
And we’re not done.
Kaelen keeps moving—slow, deep, steady—each thrust a promise, each breath a vow. My body arches. My magic flares. The sigils on the walls pulse brighter. And then—
I feel it.
Not the Oath.
Not the pain.
The bond.
It doesn’t hum.
It sings.
Not in fear.
Not in rage.
In love.
And I know—
We’re not alone.
“Kaelen,” I say, pulling back. “I’m ready.”
“For what?”
“To break it. Together.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods. “Then let’s end it.”
We rise.
Side by side.
Hand in hand.
The chamber is silent. The runes pulse. The Oath screams.
And we—
We step forward.
To the center.
To the pedestal of obsidian—cracked, stained, empty.
And we press our palms to the stone.
Together.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It explodes.
A wave of gold light erupts from us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, every choice, every kiss, every fight, every us—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.
The Oath shrieks.
The pedestal cracks.
The runes shatter.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of death.
Not the silence of defeat.
The silence of freedom.
The Oath is broken.
Not destroyed.
Not banished.
Released.
And then—
Kaelen pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But holding.
And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
I let him hold me. Let his cold seep into my skin. Let his heartbeat sync with mine. Let the bond hum between us—low, steady, satisfied—like it’s finally found its home.
And maybe it has.
Maybe I have.
“It’s over,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “We’re just beginning.”
And I believe him.
Because 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.