The garden was quiet at dawn—too quiet. Not peaceful. Not serene. But the kind of silence that follows a storm, when the wind has died and the world holds its breath, waiting to see what’s left. Dew clung to the thorned roses, their crimson petals glistening like blood in the pale light. The air was cool, sharp with the scent of frost and damp earth. I stood at the edge of the path, arms crossed, back straight, refusing to let the cold seep into my bones the way everything else had.
Everything.
Kaelen’s bite. The mark on my throat, still warm, still pulsing beneath the collar of my black dress. The fire in my blood—the magic I could no longer deny. The way I’d let him hold me last night, after Malrik’s spy had broken, after the dream had come, after I’d woken screaming his name. The way I’d leaned into him, just slightly, just enough, and he’d pulled me close like I belonged there.
Like I belonged to him.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Not after everything.
And yet—
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. The dream. Not a memory. Not a vision. A *violation*. Malrik’s voice, smooth as poisoned honey, whispering in the dark: *“You think he saved her? You think he protected her? He let her die so he could have you. He signed the decree so he could claim you. He wore her locket so he could remember what he took.”* And then—images. Kaelen, standing over Cassia’s pyre, not with grief, but with *hunger*. Kaelen, pressing the locket to his lips, whispering, *“Soon, Athena. Soon you’ll be mine.”* Kaelen, turning to me in the shadows, his fangs bared, his eyes burning—
I shook my head, pressing my fingers to my temples. It wasn’t real. It *couldn’t* be real. I’d seen the truth in the blood ritual. I’d felt it in the archives. I’d watched him burn Malrik’s men to ash and call me *his queen*. But dreams were dangerous. Especially when they carried the weight of truth.
And Malrik knew how to twist it.
I turned, moving down the path, my boots silent on the gravel. The keep loomed behind me, its black stone towers piercing the gray sky. The torches had burned out. The guards were changing shifts. The world was waking. But I felt like I’d never slept.
And then—
I saw him.
Kaelen stood at the far end of the garden, beneath the arch of climbing roses, his coat open, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He wasn’t looking at me. Wasn’t moving. Just standing there, one hand braced against the stone, his head bowed, his profile sharp, haunted. The morning light caught the silver in his hair, the scar above his brow, the tension in his jaw. He looked like a man who’d spent the night fighting ghosts.
Maybe he had.
I didn’t call out. Didn’t approach. Just watched him, my breath coming slow, my heart pounding. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, quieter now but deeper, heavier. It wasn’t just magic anymore. It was memory. The way his fangs had grazed my throat. The way he’d said, *“Then I’ll let you go. But I’ll never stop loving you. And I’ll never stop waiting.”*
Lies.
Or truth.
I didn’t know anymore.
And then—
He turned.
Slowly.
His red eyes caught mine, molten, unreadable. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
“You’re up early,” he said, voice low, rough.
“So are you,” I replied, stepping forward. My boots crunched on the gravel, too loud in the silence. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Neither could you.”
I didn’t answer. Just kept walking until I stood a few feet from him, close enough to smell him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses. Close enough that the bond flared, a pulse between my thighs, sudden and deep. My breath hitched. I didn’t step back.
“Malrik got to you,” he said, not a question.
“He was in my dreams,” I said, voice quiet. “Showing me things. Twisting them. Making me doubt.”
“And do you?”
“Doubt you?” I lifted my chin. “Yes. I do. Because if I don’t, I’ll lose myself. And I can’t afford that. Not now. Not when he’s watching. Not when he’s waiting.”
He stilled. Then—
“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t have to carry this. Not the grief. Not the rage. Not the fear.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I said. “I came here to kill you. 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.”
My voice broke on the last word. I didn’t care. I was tired of pretending. Tired of fighting. Tired of not knowing who the real enemy was.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stepped closer, until there was no space between us. His hand found my waist, pulling me against him, until I could feel the heat of his body, the slow, steady pulse of his heart beneath his ribs.
“Then stay,” he said, voice raw. “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 whispered. “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 asked, voice barely above a whisper.
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 burned my eyes. 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.
And then—
He pulled back.
Just enough to look at me. His hand cupped my face, his thumb brushing the pulse at my throat, over the mark. His red eyes burned into mine, not with hunger. Not with possession.
With *recognition*.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said, voice low. “You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to fight. You can just… *be*.”
“And if I am?” I asked. “If I stop fighting? What then?”
“Then you’ll live,” he said. “Not just survive. Not just endure. *Live*. With me. As me. As *us*.”
My chest tightened.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whispered.
“I do,” he said. “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 kissed me.
Not fire. Not teeth. Not desperation.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
His lips sealed over mine, not claiming, not conquering, but *asking*. And I answered. My hands fisted in his coat, pulling him closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
But this time—this time it wasn’t the fever. Not the bond. Not the magic.
It was *me*.
I broke the kiss, just enough to breathe, to look at him, to see the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes.
“No fangs,” I whispered.
He smiled—just slightly, just enough. “No blood. No magic. Just… this.”
And then he kissed me again.
Not slow this time. Not careful.
Fire.
Teeth and tongue and desperation. He groaned, his arms locking around me, pulling me closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
His hands slid down my back, under the curve of my ass, lifting me slightly, pressing me against the hard length of him. I gasped, my hips grinding down, seeking friction. He growled, his mouth trailing down my jaw, to the pulse point at my throat. I arched, offering myself.
“Kaelen—”
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his fangs grazing my skin. “Or I won’t.”
I didn’t answer.
I arched my neck, offering myself.
And gods help me, he wanted to take her.
He wanted to bite. To mark. To claim her in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed forest held.
But then—
He saw it.
In the reflection of a shard of broken glass caught in the moss—her face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Trust.
Not of the bond.
Not of fate.
Of *me*.
And that—
That was the line.
I pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. My hand still in her hair. My body still pressed to hers. My breath ragged.
“No,” I said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this. Not with the bond screaming in your blood. Not with your mind torn between vengeance and desire. Not when you don’t know if you want me—or if you just want to destroy me.”
Her eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I take you now, it won’t be you choosing me. It’ll be the magic. And I want you. Not a spell. Not a bond. You.”
She stared at me. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You’re a coward,” she spat. “You don’t get to touch me and then walk away like some noble martyr. You don’t get to—”
“I don’t want to walk away,” I said, cutting her off. “I want to stay. I want to fight for you. I want to earn you. But not like this. Not when the bond is forcing us.”
She shoved me—hard. I let her. Stepped back, giving her space. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned.
“You hate me,” she said.
“You don’t,” I said. “You hate that you want me.”
She didn’t answer. Just turned, snatching up the satchel, her movements sharp, furious.
And then—
She froze.
Her breath stopped.
Her eyes locked onto something at my neck.
I followed her gaze.
The locket.
I’d forgotten it. In the heat, the hunger, the need—I’d forgotten it was there. The silver chain, thin and old, the locket itself small, antique. Cassia’s face inside. Her dark hair, high cheekbones, haunting smile.
I’d worn it every night since she died. Hidden beneath my shirt. A secret. A penance. A promise.
And now it was exposed.
She reached out—slow, trembling—and snapped it open.
And there she was.
Cassia.
Smiling. Alive. Gone.
Athena’s breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her fingers tightened around the locket. Her eyes filled with tears—but not of grief.
Of rage.
“You kept this,” she whispered. “All this time. You kept her close.”
“Because she asked me to.”
“And you never showed it to me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”
“You didn’t think you’d want to see my sister’s face?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it around my neck.”
She stared at me. The bond flared—pain, heat, truth.
And then—
She slapped me.
Not hard. Not cruel. But sharp. A crack in the silence. My head snapped to the side. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Did you love her?” she asked, voice breaking. “Did you love her?”
“No,” I said, turning back to her. “I protected her. I promised her I’d keep you safe. And I will. Even if you hate me. Even if you never believe me. Even if you never stop fighting me.”
She didn’t answer.
She just stared at the locket. At her sister’s face. At the promise I’d made.
And then—
She stood.
Not running. Not screaming. Just standing. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes dark, unreadable.
“I need air,” she said.
And she walked out of the hollow.
I didn’t stop her.
I couldn’t.
Because for the first time in four hundred years—
I was afraid.
Afraid she might believe me.
Afraid she might not.
Afraid that if she did, I’d lose her anyway.
The forest was silent.
The fire between us?
It wasn’t just beginning.
It was consuming us.
And I didn’t know if we’d survive it.
But this time—
I wouldn’t let go.
Not of her.
Not of us.
Not of the truth.
And as the sun rose over Blackthorne Keep, painting the sky in gold and crimson, I made a silent vow.
I would fight for her.
Not just with fangs and blood and fire.
But with every broken piece of my soul.
Because Athena wasn’t just my fated mate.
She was my redemption.
And I would not lose her.
Even if it killed me.
Even if she never loved me back.
Even if she never stopped hating me.
I would fight for her.
Because she was worth it.
And as I stood there, the garden quiet, the roses glistening, the bond humming beneath my skin, I realized—
For the first time in four hundred years—
I wasn’t afraid of love.
I was afraid of losing it.
And that—
That was the difference.