The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. Embers pulsed like dying stars, their glow painting the walls in flickering gold and crimson. The room was quiet—too quiet. Not peaceful, not restful, but charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. The weight of the Moon Festival still clung to the air: the scent of blood and fire, the echo of chants, the memory of Kaelen’s fangs piercing my throat, the mark still warm beneath my fingertips.
And now we were here.
Back in our chambers. Together. Alone.
He stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit sky, his coat discarded, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His back was to me, but I could feel him—the pull of the bond, the hum beneath my skin, the way my breath hitched every time he shifted. He hadn’t spoken since we’d returned. Not a word as the guards bowed, not a sound as the doors closed behind us. Just silence. Heavy. Expectant.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap. I’d changed out of the red silk—too much power, too much provocation—and into a simple black nightgown, the fabric soft against my skin. But even that felt like a lie. Like I was pretending I wasn’t still thrumming with magic, with memory, with the raw, unspoken truth between us.
He turned.
Slowly.
His red eyes caught the firelight, molten, unreadable. He didn’t approach. Just watched me, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
“You’re not going to sleep,” he said, voice low, rough.
“Neither are you,” I replied.
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. Then he moved—silent, predatory—until he stood beside the bed. Not too close. Not too far. Just near enough that I could smell him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses. Near enough that the bond flared, a pulse between my thighs, sudden and deep.
“You didn’t have to let me mark you,” he said. “Not like that. Not in front of them all.”
“I didn’t let you,” I said, lifting my chin. “I *wanted* you to.”
His breath caught. Just slightly. But I saw it—the way his pupils dilated, the way his nostrils flared, the way his hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t dare.
“You could’ve said no,” he said.
“And you could’ve stopped,” I countered. “But you didn’t. You bit me. You claimed me. You told the world I was yours.”
“I am.”
“Not by choice,” I said. “By bond. By decree. By blood.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you didn’t pull away. You arched into me. You moaned my name. You *trusted* me.”
My chest tightened. “I didn’t trust you. I trusted the moment.”
“It was real,” he said, voice raw. “Every second of it. The way your blood tasted. The way your body responded. The way the bond screamed between us. That wasn’t magic. That wasn’t fate. That was *you*.”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than anything.
He sat beside me—on the edge of the bed, close enough that our thighs nearly touched. His warmth radiated through the fabric, a furnace against my side. He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the fire, his profile sharp, haunted.
“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I’ve never done that before.”
“Marked someone in front of a crowd?”
“Marked someone at all.”
I turned to him. “What?”
He didn’t look at me. Just kept his gaze on the fire. “Lirien. She lies. I never bit her. Never claimed her. Never wanted to. She wanted power. Status. A way into my inner circle. But I saw through her. So she spread the rumors. Said I begged her to stay. Said I screamed her name. All lies.”
“And Cassia?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stilled. Then—
“She asked me to protect you,” he said. “That was the only vow I ever made. The only promise I’ve ever kept.”
Tears pricked my eyes. Not from sadness. From rage. From the sheer, *injustice* of it all.
“You let them think you killed her,” I said. “You let the world believe you were the monster.”
“Because if I hadn’t,” he said, turning to me, “they would’ve come for you that night. Malrik would’ve known I was weak. That I cared. That I’d break for you. And he would’ve destroyed you.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whispered. “You don’t get to choose who lives and who dies.”
“I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “I chose *you*. I chose to keep *you* safe. Even if it meant letting her go. Even if it meant carrying that guilt for the rest of my existence.”
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to claw the bond from my skin.
But all I could think was—he loved her like a sister.
And now he was bound to me.
Forced. Trapped. Just like me.
“You don’t get to protect me,” I said, voice trembling. “You don’t get to decide what I know. You don’t get to—”
“I do,” he said, cutting me off. “Because I’m the only one who’s not afraid of what we are.”
“And what are we?” I challenged, lifting my chin. “Enemies? Fated mates? Political prisoners?”
“We’re *alive*,” he said. “And we’re *together*. And that’s more than most people ever get.”
The bond flared—hot, deep, a wave of emotion that wasn’t mine. Grief. Guilt. Need.
And then—
He reached out.
Not to touch my face. Not to pull me close.
To trace the mark on my throat.
His thumb brushed the silver-red sigil, slow, deliberate. A spark shot through me—heat, pressure, a pulse between my thighs, sudden and deep. My breath hitched. My nipples tightened. I didn’t pull away.
“It’s healing,” he murmured. “Faster than it should. Your magic’s in it.”
“I’m not just human,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”
He lowered his hand, then—slow, so slow—his fingers trailed down my spine, through the thin fabric of my nightgown. Goosebumps rose in their wake. My breath came faster. My body arched, just slightly, seeking more.
“You’re magnificent,” he said, voice rough. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t want your praise,” I said, but my voice trembled.
“I’m not praising you,” he said. “I’m stating a fact. You burned through a blood seal. You burned Malrik’s men to ash. You stood on that dais and let me mark you—not because the crowd demanded it, but because *you* wanted it.”
My chest tightened. “And if I did?”
“Then you’re stronger than I ever was.”
“You’re a warlord,” I said. “A tyrant. A man who’s crushed rebellions without blinking.”
“And yet,” he said, turning to me, “I’ve never been more afraid than I am right now.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing you,” he said, voice raw. “Of watching you walk away. Of realizing too late that I waited my entire existence for you—and then let you go.”
I stilled.
My breath caught.
And then—
“You don’t get to say that,” I whispered. “You don’t get to play the vulnerable one. You don’t get to—”
“I’m not playing,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m *feeling*. For the first time in four hundred years, I’m not hiding. Not controlling. Not pretending. I’m *here*. With you. And I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be soft. How to be gentle. How to love without possession. But I’m trying. Because you’re worth it.”
Tears burned my eyes. Not from sadness. From rage. From the sheer, *injustice* of it all.
“You think I don’t see it?” I said, voice breaking. “The way you watch me. The way your jaw clenches when I mention her. You’re obsessed with her. With her memory. With her *ghost*.”
He flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it—the way his nostrils flared, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I’m not obsessed,” he said, voice tight. “I’m *haunted*.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Obsession is desire. Haunting is guilt. And I carry *both*. I carry the guilt of failing her. The guilt of letting her die. And the guilt of surviving.”
My breath caught.
“You think I wanted this?” he continued, voice raw. “You think I wanted to be bound to you? To love you? To *need* you? I didn’t. I fought it. I walked away in the library. I walked away in the hollow. Because I knew—*I knew*—that if I took you, it wouldn’t be you choosing me. It would be the bond. The magic. The fever.”
“And now?” I whispered.
“Now?” He looked at me, really looked at me. “Now I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s the bond. I don’t care if it’s magic. I don’t care if you hate me. I just care that you’re *alive*. That you’re *here*. That you’re not dead because of me.”
Tears pricked my eyes. Not from sadness. From rage. From the sheer, *injustice* of it all.
“You don’t get to say that,” I said, voice breaking. “You don’t get to play the martyr. You don’t get to wear her locket and say you didn’t love her. You don’t get to—”
“I didn’t,” he said, cutting me off. “I didn’t love her like that. She was like a sister to me. A friend. A ward. I protected her because she was innocent. Because she was *yours*. Because she asked me to keep you safe. And I failed her. But I won’t fail you.”
My chest tightened.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whispered.
“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “Because I’m the only one who’s not afraid of what we are.”
“And what are we?” I challenged, lifting my chin. “Enemies? Fated mates? Political prisoners?”
“We’re *alive*,” he said. “And we’re *together*. And that’s more than most people ever get.”
The bond flared—hot, deep, a wave of emotion that wasn’t mine. Grief. Guilt. Need.
And then—
I did something I hadn’t done in five years.
I told the truth.
“I came here to kill you,” I said, voice quiet. “To destroy you. To make you pay for what you did to my sister. And now—now I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if I hate you. I don’t know if I love you. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do either.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared at me, his red eyes burning in the dim light.
And then—
He reached for me.
Not to pull me close. Not to claim me.
To take my hand.
His fingers were cool, steady. His touch sent a jolt through me—not desire. Not fear. *Recognition.*
“Then stay,” he said, voice low. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the contract. But because you want to. Because you’re not done with me. Because you need to know who I am. And who you are. And what we could be.”
“And if I do?” I asked. “If I stay? What then?”
“Then we fight,” he said. “Together. You hunt Malrik. I protect you. You burn his men. I shield you. You uncover the truth. I stand beside you. And when it’s over—when the dust settles and the blood dries—we’ll decide what comes next. Not as enemies. Not as pawns. But as *us*.”
My breath caught.
“And if I walk away?” I whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Then I’ll let you go,” he said. “But I’ll never stop loving you. And I’ll never stop waiting.”
Tears spilled over. Not from sadness. From rage. From the sheer, *injustice* of it all.
“You’re impossible,” I said, voice breaking.
“I know,” he said. “But I’m yours.”
And then—
I did something I hadn’t done in five years.
I let someone in.
I leaned into him. Just slightly. Just enough.
And he pulled me close.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
His arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me against him, until my head rested on his shoulder, until my breath mingled with his, until the bond hummed between us like a second heartbeat.
We didn’t speak.
We didn’t move.
We just *were*.
And for the first time since I’d entered Blackthorne Keep—
I wasn’t sure who the real enemy was.
The fire in my chest hadn’t died.
It had just changed direction.
And I didn’t know where it would lead.
But I would follow.
Even if it burned me alive.
Even if it was him.