The West Wing corridor stretches before me like a wound in the stone—cold, silent, humming with suppressed magic. My boots echo too loud on the polished floor, each step a drumbeat in the stillness. The bond thrums beneath my skin, restless, aching, pulling me toward him like a tether I can’t sever. I’ve spent the last hour in the East Garden, trembling, hating, breaking. Hating Selene. Hating Lysandra. Hating the Council. Hating the world.
But most of all—
I hate that I don’t hate him.
I don’t hate the way his hands felt on me in the library. The way his fangs grazed my neck. The way his voice dropped when he said my name. The way his body pressed against mine—hard, hot, needing.
I don’t hate that I wanted it.
That I still do.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
His door looms ahead—reinforced steel, glowing runes, the scent of him—smoke, iron, wild earth—thick in the air. I pause. My hand hovers over the biometric panel. My pulse hammers. My breath comes fast.
Do I go in?
Do I walk away?
Do I burn it all down?
Before I can decide, the door hisses open.
He’s there.
Kaelen.
Golden eyes lock onto mine. His jaw is clenched. His fangs press against his gums—just visible, just enough to remind me what he is. What I am. What we’ve become.
“You’re back,” he says, voice low.
“I never left.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches. “Selene came to me.”
“I know.”
“She said you walked out. That you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“And?”
“And I told her to stay out of it.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“You let her believe it.”
He exhales—slow, controlled. “I was grieving. After the fire. After everything. She slipped me a suppressant. A werewolf sedative. I was weak. Disoriented. I don’t remember what happened.”
“But you let her stay.”
“Yes.” His voice cracks. “And I regret it. Not because of you. Not because of her. But because I let my pain make me careless. I let her use it. And I let it hurt you.”
I don’t answer.
Just stare.
Because he’s not lying.
I can feel it—the truth in his scent, in his voice, in the way his pulse flutters beneath his skin. He’s not defending himself. He’s not blaming her. He’s apologizing.
And that terrifies me.
Because if he’s not my enemy—
Then what am I fighting for?
“I don’t want your regret,” I say, voice low. “I want the truth.”
“You have it.”
“Then say it. To my face. Not through Riven. Not through whispers. Say it.”
He steps forward. Close. So close I feel the heat of his body, the ripple of his breath. “I did not sleep with Selene. I did not mark her. I did not make a blood vow. She was in my chambers because I was weak. Because I was drowning. And she took advantage. But I didn’t touch her. Not like that. Not ever.”
My breath hitches.
“And the night before the ritual?” I whisper. “When she said you called her name?”
“I was under the suppressant. I don’t remember. But I know this—” He grabs my wrist. Pulls up my sleeve. “These sigils. This blood. This magic. You’re not just my mate. You’re my choice. And if I’d wanted her, I’d have taken her. But I didn’t. I chose you. Even when I didn’t know your name. Even when I didn’t know your face. I chose you.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
I don’t let them fall.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to claim me and then let the world think I’m not enough.”
“You are enough,” he growls. “You’re everything. And if I have to mark you in front of them all, if I have to scream it from the Spire’s peak, I will. But I won’t let her use your pain to break us.”
My throat tightens.
Because he’s not just defending himself.
He’s defending me.
“Then do it,” I say. “Mark me. Again. In front of them. Let them see it. Let them know I’m not just your distraction. I’m your equal.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just pulls me into his arms. Presses his forehead to mine. “Not here. Not like this. When I mark you again, it won’t be for them. It’ll be for us.”
My breath hitches.
And I believe him.
That’s the worst part.
He steps back. Turns. Walks into the chamber. Leaves the door open.
An invitation.
Or a challenge.
I follow.
The room is exactly as we left it—bed unmade, clothes scattered, the scent of us tangled in the air. His blood. My sweat. The salt of tears I didn’t know I’d shed. The bite mark throbs—hot, tender, alive. I press two fingers to it, just to feel the throb, the proof. I asked for it. I begged for it. I wanted it.
And I don’t remember.
That’s the worst part.
He stands by the window, looking out over the Carpathians, the moon hanging low, silver light spilling across his face. He doesn’t turn. Just speaks.
“They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“Lysandra’s allies. The ones who profited from the blood theft. They know the investigation is closing in. They’re not going to wait for a trial.”
“Then we fight.”
“We’re outnumbered. Outgunned. And if they take you—”
“They won’t.”
“If they do, they’ll extract your blood. Sell it. Kill you.”
“Then I’ll die fighting.”
He turns. Golden eyes lock onto mine. “And I’ll burn the world trying to bring you back.”
My breath hitches.
And I believe him.
That’s the worst part.
He crosses the room in two strides. Grabs my arms. Pulls me close. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“You don’t own me.”
“No. But I choose you. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
And then—
The alarm blares.
Sharp. Deafening. Red lights flash along the walls. The Spire’s voice echoes through the corridors: “Intruder alert. Sector 4. Hostile forces detected.”
We freeze.
Look at each other.
And then—
We move.
He grabs his jacket. I pull my dagger. We don’t speak. Don’t need to. The bond hums—hot, electric—connecting us, grounding us, a live wire beneath our skin.
We reach the corridor just as the first explosion rocks the Spire.
Fire erupts from the eastern stairwell. Smoke billows. Screams echo. Werewolf enforcers rush past, fangs bared, guns drawn. Fae sentinels shimmer into view, blades of light in their hands.
“They’re inside,” Kaelen growls.
“Then we stop them.”
We move fast—down the central hall, toward the East Chamber. Gunfire. Spells. Snarls. The air reeks of blood and ozone. We round the corner—
And freeze.
Five figures in black tactical gear—vampires, enhanced with stolen witch-blood. Their eyes glow red. Their movements are too fast, too precise. They’re not here to kill.
They’re here to capture.
And they’re heading straight for us.
Kaelen shoves me behind him. “Stay back.”
“Like hell.”
The first vampire lunges—fists like steel, aimed at Kaelen’s throat.
Kaelen dodges. Grabs the arm. Twists. Snap. The vampire screams. Kaelen drives his elbow into the man’s spine—crack—and he drops.
Two more attack at once.
He moves like a storm—fists, elbows, knees. One goes down with a shattered jaw. The second swings high. Kaelen ducks, sweeps his legs, slams him into the ground. A silver dagger appears in his hand—my mother’s dagger—and he drives it into the vampire’s heart.
Black blood sprays.
But the others don’t hesitate.
One throws a vial—shatters at our feet. Smoke erupts, thick, choking. I cough, stumble back. My vision blurs.
Then I feel it—cold steel at my throat.
“Move,” a voice hisses, “and I cut.”
Kaelen freezes.
The assassin holding me is behind me, one arm locked around my chest, the other pressing a blade to my neck. The others rise, regroup. One grabs Kaelen from behind, wrenching his arms back. Another kicks his legs out. He goes down, snarling, fangs bared.
“Drop the weapon,” the lead assassin says.
Kaelen doesn’t move.
“Drop it, or she dies.”
My breath comes fast. My pulse hammers. The bond flares—hot, desperate. I can feel his rage, his fear, his need to protect me.
“Do it,” I say.
He looks at me. “Celeste—”
“Do it.”
He hesitates—just a second—then drops the dagger.
The assassin kicks it away.
“Now,” the lead says, “the witch comes with us. The wolf stays.”
“No,” Kaelen growls.
“Yes.”
They start dragging me back.
And then—
I move.
My knee drives into the assassin’s groin. He grunts, grip loosens. I twist, elbow into his ribs, break free. My hand flies to my boot—pull the second knife—and I slash, deep, across his throat.
He gurgles. Falls.
But the others are on me.
One tackles me from the side. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. He pins me, blade raised—
And Kaelen is there.
He slams into the assassin, knocks him off me. They roll, fighting, fists flying. I scramble up—just as another lunges.
I dodge. Slash. Miss.
He grabs my wrist. Twists. Pain flares. I cry out.
Then—
A gunshot.
The assassin jerks. Blood blooms on his chest. He drops.
I turn.
Kaelen stands over the other, his gun in hand, smoke curling from the barrel. His shoulder bleeds freely now, his face pale, but his eyes—gold, fierce—burn with fury.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
He tosses me the gun. “Then let’s finish this.”
The last two come at us—fast, desperate. One swings at Kaelen. I shoot—once, twice. He drops.
The final assassin turns to run.
Kaelen is on him in seconds. Grabs him by the neck. Slams him into a wall.
“Who sent you?” he growls.
“F-fuck you,” the assassin spits.
Kaelen bares his fangs. “Wrong answer.”
He bites—deep, brutal—into the man’s neck. Blood sprays. The assassin screams, thrashes, then goes still.
Kaelen throws him aside.
I stare at him. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You could’ve questioned him.”
“And risk him escaping? Calling for backup? No. He was a threat. He’s gone.”
He wipes blood from his mouth. “Let’s move.”
We don’t speak as we return—past the sentinels, through the corridors, into his chambers. The door hisses shut behind us. The lights rise slowly, casting the room in soft gray dawn. The bed is still unmade. The scent of us—blood, sweat, smoke, magic—clings to everything.
He locks the door. Activates the security field. Then turns to me.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“So are you.”
“Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit. Or I’ll put you there.”
I glare. But I sit.
He kneels in front of me. Takes my injured hand—the one twisted in the fight—and unwraps the makeshift bandage. The wound is shallow, but inflamed. He cleans it, applies salve, bandages it.
His fingers linger on my skin.
“You don’t have to touch me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you care.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands. Pulls off his shirt. Turns.
His back is a map of scars—old wounds, battle marks, ritual brands. But the fresh injury on his side is the worst—deep, jagged, still seeping.
“Help me,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t reach it. And because you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“Yes, you do. You bled for me. I bled for you. Now fix me.”
I stare at him. At the man who saved me. Who marked me. Who might actually love me.
And I hate that I can’t walk away.
Slowly, I rise. Take the salve. Step behind him.
His skin is hot. Hard. Covered in fine scars and old magic. I press the cloth to the wound. He hisses. Tenses.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Not your fault.”
I apply the salve—careful, clinical. But my fingers tremble. My breath hitches. The bond hums, a constant thrum, pulling me closer.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I finish. Step back. “Done.”
He turns. Looks at me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No. But I did.”
He steps closer. “Why?”
“Because if you die, I lose my leverage.”
“Liar.”
“Believe what you want.”
He reaches out. Touches the mark. “This changes everything.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Yes. It does.” He leans in. His breath is hot on my lips. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no matter what happens in that Council chamber, no matter what Lysandra says, no matter what the world believes—
“You. Are. Mine.”
And I don’t correct him.
Because for the first time in ten years—
I don’t want to be alone.
And that terrifies me more than any blade ever could.
There’s a knock at the door.
Riven’s voice: “Council summons. Emergency session. They know about the attack.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Just keeps looking at me. “You ready?”
I straighten my spine. “I was born ready.”
He smiles—just a flicker. Then turns. Keys in the code.
The door hisses open.
And we walk out.
Together.
Not as enemies.
Not as allies.
Not as prisoners of politics.
As mates.
And when his hand finds mine in the corridor, fingers lacing, his thumb brushing my pulse—
I don’t pull away.
Because the truth is worse than any lie.
Worse than betrayal.
Worse than blood.
I don’t hate him.
I love him.
And if I’m going to burn the Midnight Court to the ground—
I’ll do it with him at my side.