The silence of the Blackthorne Library was a living thing.
Not empty. Not peaceful. But watchful. Rows of ancient tomes rose like sentinels on either side of the central aisle, their spines etched with sigils that pulsed faintly in the candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of vellum, ink, and something older—magic, sealed in paper and blood. Dust motes drifted through the beams of moonlight that sliced through the high, arched windows, untouched by time or wind. This was a place of secrets. Of truths buried so deep even the keep’s architects had forgotten them.
And Athena was here.
She stood at the far end of the hall, back to me, her silhouette framed by the silver glow. She wore a simple black dress—no silk, no red defiance—her hair unbound, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her fingers trailed along the spine of a book, not reading, just… searching. Hunting. Always hunting.
She didn’t know I was watching.
She didn’t know I’d been watching her for days.
Since the wedding. Since the vow. Since she’d whispered, *“I came to kill you,”* in the dark, and I’d answered, *“I know.”*
And still, she stayed.
Not because of the bond. Not because of the contract. But because she was waiting. For proof. For truth. For a reason to either destroy me… or believe me.
I wanted her to believe me.
Gods help me, I did.
But I wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t plead. Not Kaelen Duskbane. Not the warlord who had broken three rebellions before breakfast and sent a Fae prince screaming into the void for daring to challenge my rule.
And yet—
When she turned, and her eyes found mine in the dim light, something in my chest cracked.
Not pain. Not weakness.
Hunger.
“You’re following me,” she said, voice low, steady. No accusation. Just observation.
“I live here,” I replied, stepping forward. My boots echoed on the stone, too loud in the silence. “This is my library.”
“And yet you never come here.”
I almost smiled. “You’ve been keeping tabs?”
“I keep tabs on everything.”
“Looking for evidence?”
“Looking for truth.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the shelves, pulling out a volume bound in cracked leather. *“Records of the Eastern Coven: 1890–1920.”* Her fingers hovered over the title. “Cassia’s name is missing from these.”
“She wasn’t officially registered,” I said. “She came to me in secret. I kept her off the rolls to protect her.”
“Convenient.”
“Truth rarely is.”
She shot me a look—sharp, suspicious. “You expect me to believe you kept records of your *mistress* in a hidden archive?”
“She wasn’t my mistress.”
“Then what was she?”
“A ward. A protégée. A friend.”
“And you let her die.”
“I let her die to keep you alive.”
She flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it. The way her breath caught, the way her fingers tightened on the book. The bond flared between us—heat, pressure, a pulse low in my gut. It had been growing stronger since the ceremony, a slow burn beneath my skin. But now, in this quiet, in this tension, it surged.
Bond fever.
Not full. Not yet. But close.
It wasn’t just desire. It was need. A primal, supernatural demand—*claim her, touch her, bind her.* The magic didn’t care about our war, our grief, our lies. It only knew one thing: we were fated. And it wanted completion.
I clenched my jaw, fighting it. Fighting the urge to cross the space between us, to pin her against the shelves, to taste her again, to feel her pulse beneath my fangs.
But I didn’t move.
“Why are you really here?” I asked, voice rough. “Not for books. Not for answers. You could’ve searched the archives at any time. You’ve had access since the marriage.”
She turned, eyes dark, unreadable. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d follow.”
“And now that I have?”
“Now I know you’re afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of being alone with me.”
I laughed—short, bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“I think you’re afraid of what you’ll do when it’s just us. When the bond is too loud to ignore.”
She was right.
And that terrified me.
Because she was right.
The bond surged again—hotter this time, sharper. A wave of heat rolled through me, tightening my chest, coiling low in my abdomen. My fangs ached. My vision sharpened. I could smell her now—fire and iron, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, deeper. Wanting.
She felt it too.
Her breath hitched. Her pupils dilated. Her scent spiked—musk and salt and arousal. She stepped back, just slightly, her shoulder brushing the shelf.
And that was all it took.
I moved.
One step. Then another. Silent. Predatory. Until I was close—too close. Close enough to feel the heat of her body, to see the pulse in her throat, to smell the faint sweat gathering at the base of her neck.
Her breath came faster.
“Kaelen—”
“Don’t,” I said, voice low, rough. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t say you don’t feel it.”
“I feel it,” she whispered. “But I don’t want it.”
“Your body says otherwise.”
“My body doesn’t get to decide.”
“It already has.”
I reached out—slow, deliberate—and pressed my palm flat against the shelf beside her head, caging her in. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t fight. Just stared up at me, her chest rising and falling, her lips slightly parted.
“You want me to stop,” I said. “Say it. And I will.”
She didn’t speak.
Her silence was an invitation.
I leaned in, my free hand finding her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. She inhaled sharply, but didn’t move. My thumb brushed the dip of her hip, slow, testing. Her breath hitched again.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmured, my lips close to her ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
She turned her head—just slightly—until her lips were a breath from mine.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered.
And then she kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was fire and teeth and desperation. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, her body arching into mine. I groaned, my control snapping. My arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly, pressing her against the shelves. The books trembled. One fell, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I didn’t care.
Her mouth was warm, alive, hungry. She bit my lower lip—just enough to sting—and I answered with a growl, my tongue sliding against hers, claiming, devouring. The bond screamed between us—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel her thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
My hand slid up her side, under the curve of her breast, then higher, until my fingers tangled in her hair. I tilted her head back, breaking the kiss, and trailed my lips down her jaw, to the pulse point at her throat. She gasped, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Kaelen—”
“Tell me to stop,” I said again, my fangs grazing her skin. “Or I won’t.”
She didn’t answer.
She arched her neck, offering herself.
And gods help me, I wanted to take her.
I wanted to bite. To mark. To claim her in front of every book, every secret, every lie this library held.
But then—
I saw it.
In the reflection of the glass-fronted cabinet across from us—her face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of herself.
Of what she was becoming. Of what I was making her feel.
And that—
That was the line.
I pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. My hand still in her hair. My body still pressed to hers. My breath ragged.
“No,” I said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this. 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.”
Her eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I 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.”
She stared at me. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You don’t get to want me,” she 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,” I said, cutting her 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.”
She shoved me—hard. I let her. Stepped back, giving her space. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned.
“You’re a coward,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I’m the only one here who’s not afraid of what we are.”
She turned, snatching up the book she’d dropped. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” I said. “You hate that you want me.”
She didn’t answer. Just stormed down the aisle, her footsteps echoing in the silence.
I didn’t follow.
I stayed there, my back against the shelves, my breath slow, my fangs still aching, my body still thrumming with need.
But my mind—
My mind was clear.
Because for the first time since the bond ignited, I hadn’t let it control me.
I had chosen.
And I had chosen *her*.
Not the magic.
Not the fate.
Her.
And if that made me a fool—
Then so be it.
Let the world burn.
Let the bond rage.
I would wait.
Even if it killed me.
Even if she never believed me.
Even if she never stopped hating me.
I would wait.
Because Athena wasn’t just my fated mate.
She was my redemption.
And I would not claim her until she chose me back.
The library fell silent again.
The dust settled.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows, a single candle flickered out.
But the fire between us?
That was just beginning.