The carriage ride back to Blackthorne Keep was silent.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the quiet that settles between lovers after a storm has passed. This was different—thick, charged, like the air before lightning splits the sky. I sat across from Kaelen, my spine straight, my hands folded in my lap. His coat still draped over my shoulders, his scent clinging to me like a second skin. Outside, the city of Geneva blurred past—gaslit streets, shadowed alleys, the distant hum of human life unaware of the war that had just been fought beneath their feet.
We’d won.
Malrik’s name was ash. His lies burned. His shadow—Lirien’s ghost—reduced to nothing but memory and smoke. The Council had acknowledged the truth. Kaelen was free. I was no longer just a human liaison. I was a queen. A fire-witch. A fated mate.
And yet—
I couldn’t breathe.
Because the real battle wasn’t in the Spire.
It was here. Now. Between us.
Kaelen hadn’t touched me since we left. Not a hand on my knee, not a brush of fingers, not even a glance that lingered too long. He sat like a statue—black coat open, red eyes fixed on the passing night, fangs retracted, but tension humming beneath his skin. The bond pulsed between us, not with fever, not with magic, but with something heavier.
Unfinished.
I’d confessed everything in the Council Chamber. I’d laid bare the truth—Malrik was my father, Cassia had been pregnant, Kaelen had protected her, had let me hate him to keep me safe. I’d shown them the locket. I’d burned Lirien to ash. I’d stood beside him and claimed him as mine.
But I hadn’t said the one thing that still burned in my chest.
Not the truth.
The beginning.
So when the carriage rolled through the gates of Blackthorne, when the stone towers rose against the moonlit sky like jagged teeth, I didn’t follow him inside.
I stopped at the threshold.
“Wait,” I said.
He turned.
Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate. His red eyes locked onto mine, unreadable, searching.
“What is it?” he asked, voice low.
“I need to say something,” I said. “Before we go in. Before the guards see us. Before the world sees us. Before the bond decides for us.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me. Waited.
And I let it come.
Not the fire.
Not the magic.
But the truth.
“I came to kill you,” I said.
Three words.
Simple. Cold. Final.
And the moment they left my lips, the air between us *cracked*.
Not with magic. Not with power.
With memory.
I saw it in his eyes—the flicker. Not surprise. Not anger. But *recognition*. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d known it was coming.
“I know,” he said.
Just like that.
No denial. No deflection. No attempt to soften it.
Just acceptance.
My breath caught.
“You… know?”
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The torchlight caught the silver in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the pulse at his throat—my mark, still faintly glowing. “I’ve known since the first night you set foot in this keep. You thought you were hidden in the shadows, but your scent—fire and crushed juniper berries—betrayed you. And your eyes… they weren’t afraid. They were *hunting*.”
I didn’t flinch. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because I deserved it.”
The words hit like a blade.
“You didn’t kill her,” I said, voice breaking. “You protected her.”
“But I let you believe I did,” he said. “I let you call me a monster. I let you plan my death. I let you try to kill me. And I did nothing to stop it. So yes. In a way, I *am* guilty.”
My chest tightened.
“You did it to protect me.”
“I did it because I loved her,” he said. “And because I knew—*knew*—that if Malrik thought I loved her, he’d kill you too. So I let you hate me. I let you come here with fire in your eyes and a dagger at your hip. I let you walk into my life like a storm, because the alternative—losing you—was worse.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stared at him. At the man who’d carried my sister’s secret like a blade. Who’d worn her locket every night. Who’d let me burn him, hate him, *try to kill him*—all to keep me alive.
And then—
I laughed.
Not cruel. Not bitter.
But shattered. A sound that tore from my chest like a blade.
“You’re impossible,” I said, voice breaking. “You let me hate you. You let me try to kill you. You carried this—*this*—alone. And now you stand here, telling me you did it for *love*?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because it was.”
“And what about *us*?” I asked. “What about what we are? Was that just part of the plan too? The bond? The marriage? The way you look at me when I wear red?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “The bond was fate. The marriage was politics. But *this*—”
He took my hand, pressing it to his chest, over his heart.
“—this is *me*. This is *us*. This is not a lie. This is not a duty. This is *want*. This is *need*. This is *love*.”
My breath caught.
“And if I hadn’t come back?” I asked. “If I’d stayed with Maeve? If I’d walked away?”
“Then I would’ve let you go,” he said. “But I would’ve never stopped loving you. And I would’ve never stopped waiting.”
My vision blurred.
Not from tears.
From *rage*.
Not at him.
At myself.
At the years I’d wasted. At the hatred I’d clung to like armor. At the way I’d let vengeance blind me to the truth standing right in front of me.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, stepping into him, my hands fisting in his coat. “You don’t get to carry the weight alone. You don’t get to love me in silence. You don’t get to *protect* me from the truth.”
“I do,” he said, his hands finding my waist, pulling me closer. “Because I’m the only one who’s not afraid of what we are.”
“And what are we?” I challenged, lifting my chin.
“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 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.
“No blood,” he said, brushing my thumb over my lower lip. “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, I wanted him to take me.
I wanted him to bite. To mark. To claim me in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed world held.
But then—
He 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 *him*.
And that—
That was the line.
He pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. His hand still in my hair. His body still pressed to mine. His breath ragged.
“No,” he said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
I blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this,” he 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.”
My eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” he 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.”
I stared at him. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You’re a coward,” I 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,” he said, cutting me 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.”
I shoved him—hard. He let me. Stepped back, giving me space. My chest heaved. My eyes burned.
“You hate me,” I said.
“You don’t,” he said. “You hate that you want me.”
I didn’t answer. Just turned, snatching up the satchel, my movements sharp, furious.
And then—
I froze.
My breath stopped.
My eyes locked onto something at his neck.
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.
He’d worn it every night since she died. Hidden beneath his shirt. A secret. A penance. A promise.
And now it was exposed.
I reached out—slow, trembling—and snapped it open.
And there she was.
Cassia.
Smiling. Alive. Gone.
My breath came in short, desperate gasps. My fingers tightened around the locket. My eyes filled with tears—but not of grief.
Of rage.
“You kept this,” I 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.”
I stared at him. The bond flared—pain, heat, truth.
And then—
I slapped him.
Not hard. Not cruel. But sharp. A crack in the silence. His head snapped to the side. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Did you love her?” I asked, voice breaking. “Did you love her?”
“No,” he said, turning back to me. “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.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stared at the locket. At her face. At the promise he’d made.
And then—
I stood.
Not running. Not screaming. Just standing. Slow. Deliberate. My eyes dark, unreadable.
“I need air,” I said.
And I walked out of the war room.
He didn’t stop me.
He couldn’t.
Because for the first time in four hundred years—
He was afraid.
Afraid I might believe him.
Afraid I might not.
Afraid that if I did, he’d lose me 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 him.
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 him.
Not just with fangs and blood and fire.
But with every broken piece of my soul.
Because Kaelen wasn’t just my fated mate.
He was my redemption.
And I would not lose him.
Even if it killed me.
Even if he never loved me back.
Even if he never stopped hating me.
I would fight for him.
Because he was worth it.
And as I stood there, the courtyard silent, the ashes of Riven scattered by the wind, 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.