The bedchamber was too warm.
Not from the hearth—the flames had died to embers hours ago. Not from the thick velvet drapes drawn tight against the moonlight. It was *him*. Kaelen. The heat of his body, the weight of his presence, the way his breath stirred the air even when he stood across the room, silent, still, watching me like I was both his salvation and his executioner.
We hadn’t spoken since the courtyard.
Not a word. Not a touch. Just this—this unbearable tension, this silence that screamed louder than any argument. I sat on the edge of the bed, my boots still on, my fingers curled into the fabric of my dress. The black one. The torn one. The one stained with ash and blood and the memory of fire. I should’ve changed. Should’ve washed. Should’ve done *something* to mark the end of the battle, the beginning of… whatever this was.
But I didn’t.
Because I wasn’t ready.
Because I still didn’t know if I was his queen—or his prisoner.
He moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate. His boots silent on the stone, his coat open, his fangs retracted, his red eyes burning. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses—but not close enough to touch.
“You’re still dressed,” he said, voice low.
“So are you,” I replied.
A flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Not amusement. Something deeper. Something *raw*.
“You asked me a question earlier,” he said. “In the courtyard. You asked if I’d come back for you. And I said, *‘For you. Always.’*”
My breath caught.
“I remember.”
“And you asked me why.”
“And you said it was because I was your choice.”
He stepped closer. “I meant it.”
“Then why did you stop?” I asked, voice breaking. “When I offered myself in the hollow. When I said, *‘Take me.’* Why did you pull away?”
His jaw tightened. “Because I wanted *you*. Not the bond. Not the fever. Not the magic. *You*.”
“And now?”
He didn’t answer. Just 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.*
“Now,” he said, voice rough, “I want you to choose me. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the fever is screaming. But because *you* want me. Because *you* choose me.”
My chest tightened.
Because I *had* chosen him.
Not in the Council Chamber. Not when I burned Malrik to ash. Not when I stood before the world and claimed him as mine.
I’d chosen him the moment I healed him.
The moment I pressed my hands to his wound and let my fire pour into him, not as magic, but as *love*.
But saying it—saying it out loud—felt like stepping off a cliff.
So I did.
“I choose you,” I said, voice quiet. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the magic. But because you’re *you*. Because you carried my sister’s secret like a blade. Because you let me hate you. Because you stood in front of me and said, *‘I would’ve died for her. I will for you.’*”
He stilled.
Then—
He stepped forward, closing the distance between us. 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*.
“Say it again,” he said, voice low.
“I choose you,” I said. “And I’m not afraid anymore.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not either.”
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 *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, 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.