The storm had passed, but the air still hummed with its aftermath—charged, trembling, like the world was holding its breath. I stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind no longer howling, but whispering now, curling around me like a lover’s fingers. My palm stung where the locket had cut me, the blood dried in thin, dark lines across my skin. I hadn’t washed it away. I’d left it there—proof. A wound I didn’t try to heal.
Because I needed to remember.
Not just what I’d done.
But what I’d almost done.
I’d wanted him to bite me. Not because the bond demanded it. Not because the fever was screaming in my blood. But because I wanted it. Because I wanted to be his. To belong. To be claimed in fire and fang and blood.
And that terrified me.
Not because I was afraid of him.
But because I wasn’t.
Behind me, the keep loomed—Blackthorne Keep, jagged and ancient, its towers piercing the storm-washed sky like spears. I could feel it behind me, not just as stone and shadow, but as him. Kaelen. His presence was a weight against my back, steady, silent, waiting. He hadn’t followed me out here. Not at first. But he was here now. I could feel the shift in the bond—subtle, but there. A pulse, not of magic, but of something deeper.
Need.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t have to.
“You followed me,” I said, voice quiet.
“Always,” he answered.
That single word—always—settled in my chest like a blade. Not sharp. Not painful. But deep. Final. I closed my eyes, breathing in the salt and stone, the lingering scent of fire. I could still taste it on my tongue—golden-white flame, wild and desperate, the burst of power that had split the cliffside, the echo of my scream tearing through the night.
And beneath it—the silence after.
The moment I’d realized I wasn’t just fighting the world.
I was fighting myself.
“You didn’t have to come out here,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, stepping closer, his boots silent on the stone. “I did.”
I turned then.
Slowly.
He stood ten feet away, coat open, fangs retracted, red eyes burning. Not with hunger. Not with rage. But with something quieter. Something real. He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t try to close the distance. Just watched me—really watched me—with that unnerving focus, like he could see every lie I’d ever told myself, every wound I’d buried beneath fire and fury.
“You’re still bleeding,” he said.
I glanced down at my palm. The cut had scabbed over, but the blood remained—dark, stubborn, a map of my failure. I hadn’t healed it. Hadn’t tried.
“It’s not important,” I said.
“It is,” he said. “Because it’s real. And we’ve lived in lies long enough.”
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 as a penance, who’d let me hate him to keep me alive. At the man who’d stood in front of me and said, *“I would’ve died for her. I will for you.”*
And I believed him.
Not because the bond told me to.
Not because the magic demanded it.
But because I finally saw the truth.
And it wasn’t in his words.
It was in his silence.
“You loved her,” I said, voice breaking.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “No.”
“You protected her.”
“Yes.”
“And you let me believe you killed her.”
“Because if I hadn’t, Malrik would’ve killed you too.”
My breath caught.
“And the locket?”
“A reminder,” he said. “Not of love. Of failure. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t protect her. And the only way I could protect you was by letting you hate me. So I wore it. Every night. Not to honor her. But to punish myself. For not being strong enough. For not being *enough*.”
Tears spilled over.
Not fast. Not loud. Just a single, silent track down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.
“You were 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.