The silence after her departure was worse than war.
Not the quiet of empty halls or the hush of dawn before bloodwine is poured. This was the silence of a man standing in the wreckage of his own making—walls cracked, foundations trembling, the air thick with the scent of smoke and something deeper, something *broken*. I stood in the garden where she’d kissed me, where I’d touched her face, where I’d let myself believe—fool that I am—that she might stay.
And then she was gone.
No word. No warning. Just the ghost of her breath on my skin, the echo of her heartbeat beneath my palm, and the mark on her throat pulsing faintly, like a dying star.
I didn’t follow.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I *did*.
Too much.
And that was the danger. If I chased her, if I dragged her back, if I used the bond to pull her to me like a chained thing, then Malrik won. Then every lie he’d ever whispered would be true: that I was a monster. That I didn’t love her. That I only wanted to possess.
So I let her go.
Again.
And gods help me, it felt like dying.
I turned from the garden, my boots silent on the gravel, my coat flaring behind me. The keep loomed ahead, its black stone towers piercing the sky like spears. Guards bowed as I passed, but I didn’t see them. Didn’t hear the low murmur of their voices, the clink of armor, the distant echo of a carriage rolling through the city. My mind was a storm—fury, grief, need—all of it circling back to *her*.
Athena.
The woman who’d walked into my life like fire through dry tinder.
The woman who’d burned through blood seals and assassins and lies.
The woman who’d let me bite her in front of the entire city.
The woman who’d whispered, *“I don’t know if I hate you. I don’t know if I love you.”*
And now she was with Maeve.
I knew it the moment the bond shifted—just a flicker, a change in the current, like a flame bending in the wind. She’d crossed the Veil’s edge. Gone to the northern woods. To the willow cottage. To the one person who might tell her the truth I’d sworn never to speak.
And when she heard it—
Would she come back?
Or would she burn me alive?
I reached the war room, my steps heavy, my fangs aching. Silas was already there, standing by the obsidian table, his silver eyes scanning a report. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“She’s gone,” I said.
He nodded. “I know.”
“You didn’t stop her.”
“You would’ve killed me if I had.”
I didn’t argue. Just moved to the table, my fingers tracing the sigils etched into the stone. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and ink. Maps of the Eastern Coven, the Fae borderlands, the Blood Tribunal’s holdings—all of it useless now. None of it mattered if she didn’t return.
“Malrik knows,” Silas said, voice low. “The spy confirmed it. He knows about the bond. Knows it’s stronger than he thought. Knows that if he can’t break us apart, he’ll have to destroy her.”
“And he’ll try,” I said. “He’ll send more assassins. More spies. More dreams.”
“And if he tells her the truth?”
I stilled.
That was the question, wasn’t it?
If Maeve told her—really told her—that Malrik was her father. That Cassia was his daughter too. That I’d known. That I’d let her hate me to keep her safe.
Would she believe me?
Or would she see me as just another liar?
“Then she’ll have a choice,” I said, voice rough. “She can hate me. She can kill me. She can walk away. But she’ll do it knowing the truth. Not Malrik’s lies. Not the Council’s propaganda. Not the whispers in the dark. The *truth*.”
Silas looked at me, really looked at me. “And if she chooses to leave?”
“Then I’ll let her go,” I said. “But I’ll never stop loving her. And I’ll never stop waiting.”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded, stepping back.
And then—
It hit me.
Not pain. Not grief.
*Heat*.
Like fire in my veins, molten and sudden. My breath came fast. My fangs throbbed. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. The bond—our bond—flared, not as a whisper, but as a *scream*. A pulse of need so deep, so raw, it tore through me like a blade.
Bond fever.
Not hers.
Mine.
It had never happened before. Not in four hundred years. The bond was supposed to be mutual—equal in its demands, balanced in its hunger. But this—this was different. This was *hers*. Her absence. Her choice. Her *power*.
She was the fire.
And I was burning.
I staggered, bracing myself against the table. The sigils pulsed beneath my palm, red and hot. My vision blurred. The room tilted. I could smell her—blood and fire and crushed juniper berries—even though she was miles away.
“Kaelen?” Silas’s voice was sharp, close. “What is it?”
“Bond fever,” I ground out. “Get out.”
“You’re not—”
“*Get out!*”
He didn’t argue. Just turned, leaving the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
And then—
I was alone.
With the fire.
With the need.
With the truth.
I tore at my coat, ripping it off, letting it fall to the floor. My shirt followed, buttons flying, fabric tearing. The cold air hit my skin, but it did nothing. The heat was inside me, in my blood, in my bones. My fangs were fully extended now, sharp and aching. My hands trembled. My breath came in ragged gasps.
I couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Could only *feel*.
And all I felt was *her*.
The way her body had arched into mine in the garden. The way her lips had sealed over mine, soft and then fire. The way her fingers had fisted in my coat, pulling me closer. The way she’d whispered, *“No fangs. No blood. Just… this.”*
And then she’d left.
And now I was paying for it.
I dropped to my knees, my hands pressing into the stone, my head bowed. The fever climbed, higher, hotter, until I could feel it in my teeth, in my throat, in the pulse between my legs. I groaned, a low, guttural sound, half pain, half need.
I couldn’t fight it.
Not this time.
Not when she was the only one who could calm it.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the room.
Not from the keep.
From *her*.
“Kaelen.”
Her voice—soft, urgent, laced with fear.
“I’m coming back.”
My breath caught.
“Don’t fight it. Just… hold on.”
The bond flared—hotter, deeper. Not just need. Not just hunger.
*Hope*.
I lifted my head, my red eyes burning in the dim light. My fangs ached. My body trembled. But I didn’t fall.
I *held on*.
And then—
Time passed.
I don’t know how much. Minutes? Hours? The fever raged, a storm in my blood, but I didn’t break. I stayed on my knees, my hands pressed to the stone, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I thought of her. Not the spy. Not the assassin. Not the woman who’d come to kill me.
The woman who’d let me mark her.
The woman who’d whispered, *“I don’t know if I love you.”*
The woman who was *coming back*.
And then—
Footsteps.
Not slow. Not cautious.
Running.
I lifted my head.
The door burst open.
And there she was.
Athena.
Her dark hair wild, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving. She wore the same black dress, the fabric torn at the hem, her boots covered in forest mud. Her eyes—dark, sharp, alive—locked onto mine.
And the bond *screamed*.
Not in pain.
In *relief*.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. Just ran to me, dropping to her knees, her hands reaching for my face.
“I’m here,” she said, voice trembling. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m *here*.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. Just stared at her, my breath coming fast, my fangs still bared, the fever still clawing at my insides.
“You don’t have to fight it alone,” she said, her thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Not anymore. I know the truth. Maeve told me. About Malrik. About Cassia. About *you*.”
My chest tightened.
“And?” I managed, voice raw. “Do you hate me?”
She didn’t answer.
Just leaned forward—and kissed me.
Not fire. Not teeth. Not desperation.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
Her lips sealed over mine, not claiming, not conquering, but *answering*. And I answered back. My hands found her waist, pulling her closer, until she was in my lap, until her legs bracketed my hips, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel her thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
But this time—this time it wasn’t just the fever.
It was *her*.
She broke the kiss, just enough to breathe, to look at me, to see the raw, unguarded emotion in my eyes.
“No fangs,” she whispered. “No blood. Just… this.”
And then she kissed me again.
Not slow this time. Not careful.
Fire.
Teeth and tongue and desperation. I groaned, my arms locking around her, pulling her closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel her thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
Her hands slid down my back, under the curve of my ass, lifting me slightly, pressing me against the hard length of her. I gasped, my hips grinding down, seeking friction. She growled, her mouth trailing down my jaw, to the pulse point at my throat. I arched, offering myself.
“Athena—”
“Tell me to stop,” she said, her fangs grazing my skin. “Or I won’t.”
I didn’t answer.
I arched my neck, offering myself.
And gods help me, she wanted to take me.
She wanted to bite. To mark. To claim me in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed world held.
But then—
She saw it.
In the reflection of the obsidian table—my face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Trust.
Not of the bond.
Not of fate.
Of *her*.
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,” I said. “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 war room.
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 keep was quiet.
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 dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in blood and gold, 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 knelt there, the war room silent, 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.