The fire had burned out, but the silence it left behind was louder than any scream.
I stood in the corridor, breath ragged, palms still stinging from the burst of flame. The stone wall beside me was scorched black, cracked down the center like a wound. Embers drifted on the air, glowing faintly before dying into ash. My magic had erupted not from intent, but from something deeper—something raw. A truth I could no longer outrun.
Kaelen hadn’t moved.
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—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 bleeding,” he said, voice low.
I glanced down at my palm. The cut 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.
I didn’t go far.
Just to the edge of the courtyard, where the stone met the cliff, where the sea churned below like a living thing. The wind had died, but the air still hummed with magic, with aftermath. I pressed my palms to the cold stone, grounding myself, breathing in the salt and stone, the lingering scent of fire.
And then—
A voice.
Not from behind me.
Not from the keep.
From *within*.
“You’re not ready.”
Maeve.
My mentor. My blood. The only one who’d known the truth from the beginning.
I closed my eyes. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” she said, her voice like smoke in my mind. “But the bond isn’t the enemy. The fear is.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“You’re afraid of needing him,” she corrected. “Of trusting him. Of letting go of the anger that’s kept you alive.”
I pressed my forehead to the stone. “I don’t know how to stop hating.”
“You don’t have to stop,” she said. “You just have to choose something stronger.”
I turned, slowly.
Kaelen stood at the archway, coat open, red eyes burning. Not with hunger. Not with rage. But with something quieter. Something *real*.
And I knew—
I didn’t have to choose between vengeance and love.
I could have both.
Because justice wasn’t the opposite of love.
It was its promise.
I stepped toward him.
Not fast. Not desperate.
But sure.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He didn’t move. Just watched me. Waited.
“Not about the bond,” I said. “Not about the magic. Not about Malrik. About *us*.”
His jaw tightened. “There is no *us*.”
“There is,” I said. “And I’m done pretending there isn’t.”
He stepped forward. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do,” I said. “I’m asking for the truth. All of it. No more secrets. No more lies. No more running.”
He stared at me. Then—
He nodded.
“Come with me,” he said.
And I did.
Not to the war room.
Not to the throne.
But to the crypts beneath the keep—where the dead were buried, and the past was sealed in stone.
He stopped before a door of black iron, etched with runes I didn’t recognize. His hand hovered over the lock.
“This is where I kept her things,” he said. “Everything she left behind. I never opened it. Not until tonight.”
My breath caught.
He turned the key.
The door groaned open.
Inside—
A single chest. Silver-bound. Ancient.
And on top—
A letter.
Addressed to me.
In Cassia’s handwriting.
I reached for it, hands trembling.
And as I broke the seal, the bond between us flared—not with fever, not with magic.
With *truth*.
And I finally understood—
This wasn’t just about vengeance.
It was about *her*.
And me.
And the love that had survived even death.
Kaelen stepped closer, his voice low. “She knew you’d come. She left this for you. And she told me—”
“What?” I whispered.
He met my eyes. “She told me to protect you. No matter the cost.”
And as I unfolded the letter, the first line burned into my soul:
“If you’re reading this, then he kept his promise. And you’re finally ready to hear the truth.”
I looked up at him.
At the man who’d carried my sister’s secret like a blade.
At the man who’d let me hate him to keep me alive.
At the man who’d worn her locket every night as a penance.
And I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
Of everything.