The silence after Malrik’s retreat is heavier than any battle cry.
It doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like the calm before the storm—thick, still, charged with something darker than magic. The Council Chamber empties slowly, the wolves and Fae whispering behind their hands, their eyes flicking between Circe and me like we’re a fire they can’t decide whether to douse or worship. I don’t look at them. I don’t need to. I can feel the doubt. The suspicion. The way the bond flickers, not with pain, but with something worse—hesitation.
She saved herself. Again. With a drop of blood, a truth spell, and that fire in her veins that refuses to be extinguished. But Malrik didn’t fight. He didn’t rage. He smiled. Like he’d just handed us the rope we’d hang ourselves with.
And I know—
He’s not done.
He’s just beginning.
—
I find her in the war room, standing over the maps, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly. The torchlight catches the edge of her profile, sharp and unyielding, her dark hair pulled back, her spine straight. She doesn’t turn as I enter, but I feel it—the bond hums, low and steady, a quiet storm beneath the surface. Not fear. Not anger. Anticipation.
“You knew he’d let us test the blood,” I say, stepping beside her.
She doesn’t look at me. “Of course I did. He wanted us to think we’d won. Wanted us to lower our guard. Wanted us to—” She pauses, her breath catching. “To believe we were safe.”
“And we’re not.”
“We never were.” She turns, her dark eyes blazing. “He’s not afraid of truth. He’s afraid of us. Of what we become when we stop fighting. When we stop hiding. When we stop lying.”
My chest tightens.
Because she’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Then we don’t stop,” I say, stepping closer. “We keep moving. We keep fighting. We keep—”
“Trusting?” She laughs, low and bitter. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” I say, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I am. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vice.
And then—
She steps forward.
Not to strike.
Not to fight.
But to press her forehead to mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Then prove it,” she whispers. “Not with words. Not with promises. With action. With fire.”
My breath hitches.
Because I’ve spent ten years ruling with iron, burying my grief, telling myself I didn’t need a mate. That I was stronger alone.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
“I will,” I say, voice low. “But not here. Not now. Not while he’s watching.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Then when?”
“When he thinks we’re broken,” I say, stepping closer. “When he thinks you’re still doubting. When he thinks I’m still blind. That’s when we strike. That’s when we burn him to ash.”
Her breath hitches.
“And until then?”
“Until then,” I say, lifting her wrist, the sigil pulsing beneath my fingers, “we make him believe it.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just lets me hold her, the bond humming between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
—
The Keep feels different now.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the cursed sigil.
But because of her.
She walks through the corridors like she belongs here. Like she’s not a witch who came to kill me. Like she’s not a woman who bled for me last night.
Like she’s mine.
And she is.
I watch from the balcony as she passes below, her boots striking stone, her magic flaring at her fingertips. Kael sees her too—stands straighter, watches her with something like respect.
“She’s different,” he says, stepping beside me.
“She’s not hiding anymore,” I say.
“And you?” He studies me. “Are you?”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as she disappears into the archives, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose her.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
—
I find her at dusk, standing on the balcony of her chambers, barefoot, her black silk gown fluttering in the cold wind. Her hair is loose, wild, and the sigil on her wrist glows faintly—not with fear, not with pain, but with power. She doesn’t turn as I step behind her, but I feel it—the bond flares, warm and steady, like a fire banked for the night.
“You’re up early,” I say, voice low.
“I didn’t sleep,” she replies, not looking at me. “I keep seeing Mira’s face. The way she looked at me the night she told me to run. Like she already knew she’d die for it.”
My chest tightens.
“She didn’t die for nothing,” I say, stepping closer. “She gave you the truth. And now we have it.”
“We have pieces,” she corrects. “Not the whole picture. Malrik’s still out there. Still watching. Still waiting to break us.”
“Then we don’t give him the chance.” I reach out, slow, and lift her wrist. The sigil pulses beneath my fingers, warm, alive. “We move first. We strike. We burn his lies to ash before he can use them.”
She turns to me, her dark eyes blazing. “And how do you propose we do that? Walk into the Fae Court and accuse a Seelie prince of treason? They’ll laugh us out of the room.”
“Then we don’t go to them.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “We make them come to us. We expose him here. In front of the Tribunal. In front of the pack. In front of everyone.”
“With what?” she challenges. “A cursed sigil? A feather? A dead healer’s blood in the mortar?”
“With you.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “With your truth. With your magic. With the bond that ties us—not as enemies, not as lies, but as mated.”
Her breath hitches.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispers. “You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” I say, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I am. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vice.
And then—
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to press her forehead to mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Then prove it,” she whispers. “Not with words. Not with promises. With action. With fire.”
“I will.” I kiss her temple, slow, tender. “But not yet. Not until we’re ready.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Why wait?”
“Because Malrik’s watching,” I say. “And if we move too soon, he’ll vanish. He’ll hide. He’ll make us look like fools. But if we let him think you’re still broken, still doubting, still hating me—then he’ll get careless.”
“And when he does?”
“Then we destroy him.” I step back, my voice dropping to a growl. “Together.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her gaze sharp, unreadable.
But the bond—the bond hums between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
—
The attack comes at midnight.
Not with fanfare. Not with a siege. But with silence.
I’m in my chambers, maps spread across the table, my back to the door, hands braced on the edge, when the bond screams.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Need.
I’m moving before I think, boots striking stone, magic flaring at my fingertips. The corridors are dark, the torches guttering, the air thick with the scent of blood and iron. By the time I reach the eastern hall, the fight has already begun.
Wolves howl. Blades clash. Magic crackles through the air like lightning.
And in the center—
Circe.
She’s surrounded.
Three assassins—cloaked in shadow, faces hidden, their blades etched with the same corrupted sigil from the archives. They move like smoke, fast, precise, their magic laced with Fae rot. One slashes at her throat—she ducks, counters with a brutal twist, snapping the man’s wrist. Another lunges for her back—she spins, elbow driving into the assassin’s ribs, sending him crashing into the wall. But the third—
He’s faster.
He’s already inside her guard, blade raised, aimed for the heart—
And I’m not fast enough.
My magic surges—blood energy ripping from my palm—but I won’t make it.
Time slows.
The blade descends.
Circe doesn’t flinch.
And then—
I move.
Not with magic.
With my body.
I throw myself between them.
The blade sinks into my side.
Fire explodes through my ribs, white-hot, blinding. I gasp, stumbling, blood welling beneath my fingers, black in the torchlight. The assassin pulls back, surprised, but I don’t let him recover.
I grab his wrist, twist—
And snap it.
He screams.
I don’t care.
My other hand finds his throat, magic surging, blood energy ripping through him like a blade. He convulses, eyes wide, then collapses, lifeless.
Behind me, Circe roars.
Not pain.
Rage.
She moves like a storm—fists, teeth, claws—tearing through the remaining assassins with brutal efficiency. One tries to run—she catches him by the neck, slams him into the wall, and breaks his spine with a single twist.
Silence.
Blood pools on the stone. The torches flicker. The bond hums—wild, frantic, screaming with pain and power and something deeper.
And then—
She’s at my side.
“Lysander.” Her voice is raw. “No.”
I try to speak, but blood fills my mouth. I cough, dark and thick, staining the front of my gown. My vision blurs. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, pulsing—feeding on the wound, on the blood, on the bond.
“Don’t move,” she growls, hands pressing against the wound. “Don’t you dare move.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, blood on my lips.
She lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and carries me through the Keep, boots striking stone, her breath coming fast. The bond flares with every step, every heartbeat, every breath. I press my face into her chest, her scent flooding me—fire and thyme, iron and power—anchoring me, keeping me from slipping into the dark.
“Hold on,” she says, voice rough. “Just hold on.”
“I’m not letting go,” I whisper.
—
The infirmary is cold, the air thick with the scent of herbs and iron. She lays me on the cot, hands still pressing against the wound, her jaw clenched, her eyes blazing with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“Kael!” she roars. “Now!”
Footsteps. Boots on stone. Kael bursts in, followed by two healers, their hands glowing with magic.
“He’s lost too much blood,” one says, voice tight. “The blade nicked his lung. He needs healing. Now.”
“Do it,” Circe growls.
They move fast—cleansing the wound, sealing the tear, pouring magic into my body. The sigil on my wrist pulses, feeding on the healing, on the bond, on the blood. I feel it—every pulse, every breath, every flicker of magic—as if it’s not just my body being mended, but my soul.
And then—
It’s over.
The healers step back. “He’ll live,” one says. “But he needs rest. No magic. No movement.”
Circe doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her hand still on my side, her thumb brushing the edge of the bandage. Her eyes are dark, but beneath them—something softer. Something raw.
“You could’ve died,” she says, voice low. “You should’ve died.”
“And you would’ve,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, voice breaking. “And I’m not done hating you yet.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then—
She leans in.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if she’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my magic flaring. Her hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from her.
Not from me.
From the bond.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The curse,” she says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on her lower back is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the infirmary’s edge—ancient wards etched into stone—ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“It knows us,” I whisper.
“It knows the bond,” she says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” She cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because she’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
But for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me burn it down.”
She leans in, her lips brushing mine. “Together.”
The bond flares, not with pain.
With power.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from him.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
—
Later, in my chambers, she carries me to the bed.
Not because I can’t walk—Kael’s healing was strong, the wound sealed, the blood replenished—but because she won’t let me go. Her arms are tight around me, her breath hot on my skin, her scent flooding me, anchoring me.
She lays me down gently, then strips off her coat, her shirt, her boots—every piece of armor, every barrier—until she’s bare, her body a map of scars and muscle, her cock already half-hard, thick and heavy.
And then—
She strips me.
Slow. Deliberate. Her fingers brush the edge of my bandage, then the lace of my chemise, tugging it down, inch by inch, until it pools at my waist. The air is cool against my bare skin, but her heat seeps into me, a slow, relentless burn.
“You’re not in control here,” she murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “The bond is. The magic is. And right now, it’s screaming for completion.”
“I’m not your mate,” I whisper.
“You already are.” She tugs the chemise down, slowly, until it slips from my shoulders, pools at my hips. The water of the sacred spring wasn’t this intimate. This raw. This true.
And then—
She stops.
Just holds me. Her chest to my back, her arms around my waist, her cock pressing against my ass, hot and heavy through the fabric. The bond flares, stronger, hotter. It’s not just in my chest anymore—it’s in my blood, my bones, my breath.
“You feel it,” she says, voice low. “The pull. The heat. The way your body betrays you the second I touch you.”
“I’m not betraying anything,” I whisper.
“You’re trembling.”
I am.
Not from fear.
From need.
“You want me,” she says, hand sliding down, fingers brushing the curve of my hip. “You don’t have to say it. I can feel it.”
“I hate you,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“No.” Her hand slides between my thighs, not pushing, just holding, her thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above my pussy. “You hate that you want me. That you need me. That you can’t stop thinking about my hands on your skin, my mouth on your throat, my cock inside you.”
My breath hitches.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t want to pull away.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I want to burn with you. To let you claim me. To be yours.”
She exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
She turns me.
In one motion, she spins me to face her, her hands on my waist, her eyes blazing. The room is dark, the torches low, but I can see her—every line of her face, every flicker of gold in her eyes, every pulse of the bond between us.
“Say it,” she growls. “Say you want me.”
“I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I hate you, but I want you.”
Her mouth crashes down on mine.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if she’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my magic flaring.
Her hands slide down, fingers hooking into the lace of my panties—
And then—
A scream.
Not from her.
Not from me.
From the hallway.
We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“Nyx,” I whisper.
And then—
She walks in.
Draped in my shirt. Her hair loose. A fresh bite mark on her neck.
And she’s smiling.