The first time I felt her magic in my veins, I didn’t flinch.
Not because I wasn’t afraid. Not because the pain wasn’t blinding—white-hot, searing, like fire poured into my side where the blade had struck. But because in that moment, as her hands pressed over the wound, her breath ragged, her voice trembling with the ancient words of a witch’s healing spell, I felt something deeper than agony.
I felt seen.
Not as the Prince of Ash. Not as the heir who upheld the law. Not as the cold, untouchable ruler who signed death warrants without blinking.
As a man.
As hers.
And that?
That terrified me more than any blade ever could.
—
I wake to darkness.
Not the suffocating black of unconsciousness, but the soft, flickering dim of the hearth, embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The air is thick with it—the scent of blood and iron, of smoke and old magic, of her. My body is heavy, my breath shallow, my side a furnace of pain, but I’m alive.
And she’s here.
Circe sits beside the bed, her back straight, her storm-dark eyes fixed on me. Her hands are stained with blood—mine—her fingers still trembling from the effort of the spell. The grimoire lies open on her lap, its pages glowing faintly, humming with residual power. Her braid is loose, strands of black hair clinging to her sweat-dampened neck, her lips pale, her jaw tight.
She doesn’t look away.
Just watches me, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks.
“You’re awake,” she says, voice low, rough.
“You’re still here,” I reply.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone—gold, hot, mine—and says, “I told you I wouldn’t run.”
And I believe her.
Because she didn’t.
She stayed.
She fought.
She healed me.
With her mother’s magic. With her own blood. With the very power Voryn wants to steal.
And now?
Now I feel it—her magic, deep in my veins, pulsing like a second heartbeat, warm and insistent, weaving through my Fae essence like fire through ash. It doesn’t burn. Doesn’t reject. It belongs.
Like she belongs.
Like we belong.
—
I try to move.
Bad idea.
Pain lances through my side, sharp and deep, and I hiss, muscles tensing. Her hand is on my chest in an instant, firm, pressing me back.
“Don’t,” she says. “The wound’s closed, but your body’s still healing. One wrong move and it tears open again.”
“I’ve survived worse,” I mutter.
“Not from protecting me,” she snaps. “You didn’t have to step in front of that blade.”
“I did,” I say. “Because if I hadn’t, you’d be the one bleeding.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—really looks at me—with those dark, unreadable eyes. And I see it—the flicker of fear. The crack in her armor. The woman beneath the fire, the one who almost lost me.
And I know—
She cares.
Not just about the bond.
Not just about the mission.
About me.
“You’re not cold,” she says suddenly, her voice quiet. “You’re just afraid to burn.”
My breath snags.
Because she’s right.
I am.
Afraid of this. Afraid of her. Afraid of what I might become if I let myself feel.
But I don’t pull away.
Just let her see it. Let her know it.
“You didn’t have to heal me,” I say. “You could’ve let me die. Served your revenge. Made me pay for my sins.”
“And lose the only man who’s ever fought beside me?” she says, voice low, dangerous. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t do it for you. I did it for us.”
“Liar,” I murmur.
She scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. Just closes the grimoire, sets it aside, and leans closer, her breath warm against my skin. “You’re not going to die on my watch, Kaelen. Not like this. Not ever.”
And then—
She touches me.
Not a slap. Not a shove.
Her hand moves to my chest—over my heart—and presses, just once, firm, certain.
It hammers beneath her touch.
“You’re not going to lock me away,” she says. “You’re not going to hide me behind guards and glamours and pretend this is protection.”
“You’re not safe,” I say. “Voryn won’t stop. Nyx won’t stop. The Crimson House won’t stop. And if they get to you—”
“Then they get to you,” she interrupts. “And if the bond breaks, we both die. So tell me, Prince of Ash—how exactly do you plan to protect me without me?”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
I can’t.
Not without her.
Not without us.
“I’m not your prisoner,” she says. “I’m not your pawn. And I’m not your property.”
“You’re my mate,” I say. “My equal. My fire.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just keeps her hand on my chest, her fingers splayed, her breath steady.
And then—
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to whisper, her lips just a breath from my ear: “Then stop treating me like I need saving. And start fighting with me.”
The bond flares—hot, urgent—and I gasp, arching into her despite myself. My skin burns. My magic surges. And between my legs, the ache pulses, deep and insistent.
“You feel that?” she murmurs. “That’s not the bond. That’s you.”
“It’s you,” I say, voice rough. “It’s always been you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps back.
And walks to the window.
Not to leave.
But to stand there, her silhouette sharp against the night sky, her back straight, her spine unbroken.
“I’m not running,” she says. “I’m not hiding. And I’m not letting them win.”
“Then stay,” I say, forcing myself to sit up, wincing at the pain. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Council commands it. But because you choose it. Because you see me. Really see me. And decide I’m worth the risk.”
She doesn’t turn.
Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone.
Still gold.
Still burning.
Still his.
And I know—
She’s not just fighting for revenge anymore.
She’s fighting for me too.
—
Later, the chamber is quiet.
The hearth burns low, casting long shadows across the stone. The air is thick with it—the scent of smoke, of iron, of us—and I don’t turn on the glamours. Don’t summon the torchlight. Just sit in the dimness, watching her.
She sits by the bed, one hand resting on my thigh, the other clenched in her lap. Her face is pale. Her eyes dark. But her spine is straight. Her jaw tight. And when she looks at me—really looks at me—there’s no fear.
Just fire.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, voice quiet.
“I did,” I say. “Because I couldn’t lose you.”
“And what if I want to be lost?”
“Then you’ll have to lose me first.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone.
Still gold.
Still burning.
Still his.
And then—
She moves.
Not away.
Toward.
One step. Then another. Until she’s close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, the scent of her skin—moonfire and iron and something darker, something like need.
“You want me?” she says, voice low, dangerous. “Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Tell me the truth,” she says. “Not the polished lies you feed the Council. Not the noble speeches about duty and order. The real truth. Why did you sign my mother’s death warrant?”
I don’t look away.
“Because I believed the law,” I say. “Because I was taught that hybrids were a threat. That their magic was unstable. That their existence endangered the purity of the Fae bloodline. And when your mother was found guilty of consorting with a witch—of loving one—I believed she had to be made an example of. To maintain order. To prevent chaos.”
“And now?”
“Now I see that the real threat wasn’t the hybrids.”
“Then what was?”
“The men who used the law to hide their crimes,” I say. “The men who called love corruption. Who called strength impurity. Who burned women like your mother to cover up their own failures. That is the threat. And I helped build it.”
Her breath catches.
“And do you regret it?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Every day,” I say. “Not because I lost power. Not because I look weak. But because I failed you. Before you were even born, I failed you. And if I could go back—if I could stand at that pyre and say no—I would.”
She doesn’t move.
Just watches me, her dark eyes searching mine, as if looking for a lie, a crack, a weakness.
And I let her.
Because there’s nothing to hide.
The bond hums—soft, warm, like a hand brushing my spine—and I feel it in my blood, in my bones. It’s not just magic. It’s memory. A whisper of something older than war, older than hate. A soul split in two, searching for its other half.
And hers is fire.
Mine is ash.
Together, we are burning.
—
“You’re not cold,” she says suddenly, stepping closer. “You’re just afraid to burn.”
My breath snags.
Because she’s right.
I am.
Afraid of this. Afraid of her. Afraid of what I might become if I let myself feel.
But I don’t pull away.
Just stand there, letting her see it. Letting her know it.
And then—
She touches me.
Not a slap. Not a shove.
Her hand moves to my chest—over my heart—and presses, just once, firm, certain.
It hammers beneath her touch.
“You’re not going to lock me away,” she says. “You’re not going to hide me behind guards and glamours and pretend this is protection.”
“You’re not safe,” I say. “Voryn won’t stop. Nyx won’t stop. The Crimson House won’t stop. And if they get to you—”
“Then they get to you,” she interrupts. “And if the bond breaks, we both die. So tell me, Prince of Ash—how exactly do you plan to protect me without me?”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
I can’t.
Not without her.
Not without us.
“I’m not your prisoner,” she says. “I’m not your pawn. And I’m not your property.”
“You’re my mate,” I say. “My equal. My fire.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just keeps her hand on my chest, her fingers splayed, her breath steady.
And then—
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to whisper, her lips just a breath from my ear: “Then stop treating me like I need saving. And start fighting with me.”
The bond flares—hot, urgent—and I gasp, arching into her despite myself. My skin burns. My magic surges. And between my legs, the ache pulses, deep and insistent.
“You feel that?” she murmurs. “That’s not the bond. That’s you.”
“It’s you,” I say, voice rough. “It’s always been you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps back.
And walks to the bed.
Not to lie down.
But to sit on the edge, her boots still on, her back straight, her eyes locked on mine.
“I’m not running,” she says. “I’m not hiding. And I’m not letting them win.”
“Then stay,” I say, stepping closer. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Council commands it. But because you choose it. Because you see me. Really see me. And decide I’m worth the risk.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just reaches up, her fingers brushing my jaw, her touch light, uncertain.
And I let her.
Because for once, I don’t want to be untouchable.
I want to be hers.
—
I don’t sleep that night.
Neither does she.
We sit in silence—me by the hearth, her on the bed—listening to the rhythm of each other’s breath, feeling the pulse of the bond, the weight of something new settling between us.
And then—
At dawn, I make a decision.
“Riven,” I say, summoning him with a thought.
He appears at the door a moment later, wolf-quiet, his storm-gray eyes sharp. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Double the guards,” I say. “But not around her. Around us. No one enters or leaves this wing without my permission. No messages. No visitors. Not even the Council.”
He hesitates. “Voryn will protest.”
“Let him,” I say. “And Riven—” I meet his gaze. “She’s not to be confined. She goes where she pleases. But she is never to be alone. Understood?”
He nods. “Understood.”
“And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If anyone tries to harm her—if anything threatens her—you kill them. No questions. No hesitation. Am I clear?”
His jaw tightens. “Crystal.”
He leaves.
And I turn to her.
She’s watching me, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I did,” I say. “Because I couldn’t lose you.”
“And what if I want to be lost?”
“Then you’ll have to lose me first.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, closes the distance, and presses her palm to my chest—over my heart.
It hammers beneath her touch.
“You’re not cold,” she whispers. “You’re just afraid to burn.”
And I am.
Afraid of this. Afraid of her. Afraid of what I might become if I let myself feel.
But I don’t pull away.
Just cover her hand with mine.
And hold on.
—
Later, she doesn’t take the far side of the bed.
She lies down beside me—close, but not touching. Her back to me, her breath steady, her body relaxed. The bond hums between us, warm, insistent, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
I don’t move.
Don’t speak.
Just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of her breath, feeling the heat of her body, the pulse of the bond, the weight of something new settling between us.
And then—
She shifts.
Turns.
And in the dim light of the hearth, her eyes meet mine.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” she asks.
“Eventually.”
“You’re thinking.”
“Always.”
“About how to control me?”
I turn my head to look at her. “No. About how you’re already controlling me.”
She scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not. The bond doesn’t care about pride. It doesn’t care about hate. It only knows truth. And the truth is, you’re under my skin. In my blood. In my bones.”
She doesn’t respond. Just watches me, expression unreadable.
“You think I wanted this?” I say. “You think I asked for a mate? After everything I’ve done? After the lives I’ve taken? I don’t deserve this.”
“Then why don’t you break it?” she challenges. “If it’s so cursed, so unfair—why don’t you tear it out?”
“Because I can’t,” I say. “And because… part of me doesn’t want to.”
Her breath catches.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I roll onto my side, facing her. “You felt it in the Archives. You wanted me. Not the bond. Not the magic. Me.”
“I wanted to survive.”
“Same thing.”
She turns away. “Go to sleep, Kaelen.”
“Call me that again,” I say softly.
“What?”
“My name. You said it like a curse. But say it again. Just once. Like you mean it.”
She doesn’t answer.
But I hear it—her breath, uneven. Her pulse, quickening.
The bond flares, just slightly, a warm pulse between us.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in centuries, I fall asleep with someone beside me.
Not a conquest.
Not a subject.
But a woman who might just be my ruin.
And I don’t want to survive it.
Her magic tastes like forgiveness.