The war room was too quiet after I left him.
Not peaceful. Not calm. 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. My boots were silent on the stone, my breath steady, but my hands trembled at my sides. I didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. Just walked—fast, deliberate—through the keep’s dark corridors, past the guards who bowed but didn’t speak, past the flickering torches that cast long, wavering shadows on the walls.
I wasn’t running.
I was *choosing*.
And for the first time in five years, I wasn’t choosing vengeance.
I was choosing *him*.
The truth still burned in my chest—Malrik was my father. Cassia had been pregnant. Kaelen had carried that secret like a blade, let me hate him, let me try to kill him, because he’d promised to protect me. And now—now he stood there, raw and broken, telling me he’d do it all again if it meant I lived.
And I believed him.
Not because the bond demanded it.
Not because the magic whispered in my blood.
Because I *saw* him. Not the warlord. Not the tyrant. Not the vampire who’d signed my sister’s death warrant.
The man who’d worn her locket every night since she died.
The man who’d healed me with his bite.
The man who’d said, *“Then I’ll let you go. But I’ll never stop loving you. And I’ll never stop waiting.”*
I reached the chamber we now shared—the one with the black stone walls, the hearth that never burned out, the bed too large for one, too small for the space between us. I didn’t light the candles. Didn’t remove my boots. Just stood in the center of the room, my hands clenched, my breath coming slow.
And then—
I sank to my knees.
Not in prayer.
In surrender.
To the truth. To the fire. To the choice I’d just made.
I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just let the weight of it all press down—the grief, the rage, the love, the fear. It had been building for years, a storm behind my ribs, and now it broke. Not with noise. Not with magic.
With stillness.
And in that stillness—
I *felt* it.
The bond. Not as a chain. Not as a curse. But as a thread—golden, warm, alive—connecting me to him. I could feel his heartbeat, slow and ancient, beneath the stone. Could feel the ache in his side where Malrik’s dagger had pierced him. Could feel the way his breath caught when he thought of me.
And then—
I made a vow.
Not to the Council. Not to the Fae. Not to the memory of my sister.
To *him*.
To *us*.
I stood, moving to the hearth. The fire was low, embers glowing like dying stars. I didn’t speak. Didn’t cast a spell. Just knelt, pressing my palms to the stone, and *pulled*.
Fire erupted—not from the hearth.
From *me*.
Golden-white flames roared to life, twisting into the air, forming shapes—words, sigils, a vow written in fire. They spiraled upward, burning into the ceiling, searing the stone with truth.
I will not run.
I will not hide.
I will not let vengeance blind me.
I will fight with him.
I will burn for him.
I will live for him.
And if I must die—
I will die knowing I chose love.
The flames died slowly, leaving behind scorched sigils, glowing faintly in the dark. I didn’t look at them. Just turned, moving to the wardrobe. I didn’t reach for the black dress. Not tonight.
I reached for *his* shirt.
The one he wore during war council. Thick, black fabric, embroidered with silver sigils along the cuffs. I pulled it over my head, the fabric swallowing me, the scent of him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses—filling my lungs. I didn’t button it. Just let it hang open, the hem brushing my thighs, the sleeves sliding past my fingertips.
And then—
I waited.
Not long.
The door opened within minutes.
He didn’t knock.
Didn’t announce himself.
Just stepped inside, his coat open, his fangs retracted, his red eyes burning. He stopped when he saw me—really saw me.
Me in his shirt.
Me by the hearth.
Me with fire still dancing in my eyes.
“You’re not in bed,” he said, voice low.
“Neither are you,” I replied.
He didn’t answer. Just moved forward, slow, deliberate, until he stood before me. His hand found my waist, cool and steady, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above the hem of his shirt. The bond flared—hot, deep, a pulse between us, not of magic, but of *need*.
“You burned the vow,” he said, voice rough. “I felt it.”
“You were supposed to,” I said. “So you’d know. So there’d be no more secrets. No more lies. No more carrying the weight alone.”
He stilled.
Then—
He reached up, his fingers brushing the mark on my throat—the one he’d left in front of the entire city. It pulsed faintly, warm, alive. His touch sent a jolt through me—not desire. Not fear. *Recognition.*
“You don’t have to fight for me,” he said, voice low. “I can protect you.”
“I know,” I said. “But I don’t want protection. I want *partnership*. I want to fight *with* you. Not behind you. Not beside you. *With* you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, until there was no space between us. His arm locked around 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 fight with me,” he said, voice raw. “Burn with me. Rule with me. *Live* with me.”
“Yes,” I said. “But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“No more holding back,” I said. “Not with me. Not with the bond. Not with *this*.” I reached up, my fingers brushing the scar above his brow. His breath caught. His eyes closed. “If you want me—if you *love* me—then take me. Not because the magic demands it. Not because the fever is screaming. But because *you* want me. Because *you* choose me.”
He opened his eyes.
And for the first time, I saw it—*hunger*. Not just for blood. Not just for power.
For *me*.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said, voice rough. “If I take you, I won’t stop. Not this time. Not ever.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t want you to.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not fire. Not teeth. Not desperation.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
His lips sealed over mine, not claiming, not conquering, but *answering*. And I answered back. 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 the obsidian table—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,” 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 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.