The storm didn’t break.
It shattered.
One moment, the sky was a bruised tapestry of purple and black, the wind howling like a wounded beast, the sea clawing at the cliffs with jagged teeth. The next—silence. Not the absence of sound, but the kind of stillness that follows lightning, when the air itself holds its breath, charged and trembling. I stood at the edge of the cliff, knees weak, breath ragged, the locket clenched in my fist like a weapon. My palm stung where the silver had cut me, blood welling in thin lines, dripping onto the stone. I didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t care.
Because I’d finally seen it.
The truth.
Not just about Kaelen. Not just about Cassia. But about me.
I’d spent five years believing he was the monster who’d killed my sister. I’d come to Blackthorne Keep with fire in my veins, a dagger at my hip, and a heart sealed shut by grief and rage. I’d vowed to burn him, to expose him, to destroy everything he was.
And now—now I was the one who felt destroyed.
Not by him.
By the realization that I’d been wrong. That I’d let my pain blind me to the man who’d carried my sister’s secret like a blade, who’d worn her locket every night as a penance, who’d let me hate him to keep me alive.
And worse—by the fact that I’d wanted him to bite me.
Wanted it not because the bond demanded it, not because the fever was screaming in my blood, but because I wanted it. Because I wanted to belong to him. To be claimed. To be his.
The wind shifted.
Not gently. Not slowly. But like a hand gripping my spine, turning me.
And there he was.
Kaelen.
He stood ten feet away, boots silent on the stone, coat open, fangs retracted, red eyes burning. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me—really watched me—with that unnerving focus, like he could see every crack in my armor, every lie I’d told myself, every drop of blood I’d spilled in her name.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice low.
I glanced down.
The cut on my palm had deepened, the blood now a steady trickle, dark against the silver of the locket. I hadn’t even felt it. Not the pain. Not the sting. Just the weight of it—of everything.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“It’s not nothing,” he said, stepping closer. “Nothing about this is nothing.”
He stopped just out of reach. Close enough that I could smell him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses—but not close enough to touch.
“You left,” he said.
“You noticed.”
“I felt it,” he said. “When you walked out. The bond—”
“Don’t,” I said, lifting my head. “Don’t talk to me about the bond. Not now. Not when you’ve been carrying *this*—” I held up the locket, “—like some sacred relic, while I called you a monster.”
He didn’t flinch. Just looked at me—with those red eyes that saw too much, that knew too much.
“I kept it because she asked me to,” he said. “Not as a reminder of love. But of duty. Of promise.”
“And you couldn’t show it to me?”
“Would you have wanted to see it?” he asked, voice quiet. “Would you have believed me if I’d said, *‘Here. This is your sister. I wear her face next to my heart every night’*? Or would you have seen it as proof I’d loved her? That I’d mourned her more than you?”
I opened my mouth.
And closed it.
Because he was right.
I *would* have seen it that way.
I *had* seen it that way.
And that—that was the real betrayal.
Not that he’d kept the locket.
But that I’d assumed the worst.
That I’d let my pain blind me to his.
“You think I didn’t grieve her?” he asked, voice breaking. “You think I didn’t carry her loss like a blade in my chest? She was my friend. My ally. The only one who saw me not as a warlord, but as a man. And when she died, I buried that part of me. I locked it away. Because if I let myself feel it—if I let myself *remember*—I would’ve broken. And then who would protect you?”
Tears spilled over.
Not fast. Not loud. Just a single, silent track down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.
“And the locket?” I whispered.
“A penance,” he said. “A reminder that I failed her. That I couldn’t save her. That I had to let you hate me to keep you alive. Every night, I wore it. Not to honor her. But to punish myself. For not being strong enough. For not being *enough*.”
My breath caught.
“You’re *enough*,” I said, voice breaking. “You’ve always been enough.”
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.
“You’re enough,” I said. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the magic. But because you’re *you*. Because you carried her secret. Because you let me hate you. Because you stood in front of me and said, *‘I will die for you.’*”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me to him, his arms locking around my waist, his body pressing to mine, 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.