The darkness in my chamber was absolute—no enchanted glass, no torchlight, no pulse from the obsidian veins in the walls. Just silence. Stillness. And the slow, steady beat of the bond between us, like a second heart buried deep in my chest.
I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep. Hours? Minutes? Time meant nothing here, beneath the ruins of Edinburgh, in the fortress of blood and shadow. But I knew one thing: I hadn’t woken naturally.
I’d been *watched*.
And now, he was standing in my doorway, tall, dark, his golden eyes glowing like embers in the dark. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, a silent, predatory presence, his gaze locked on mine.
“You left it unlocked,” he said, voice low, rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, my back against the door, my arms wrapped around my knees. My body still hummed with the echo of his touch—his fingers inside me, his mouth on mine, the way he’d tasted me, like I was something sacred. Something his.
And I’d slapped him.
Called him a revenge fuck.
And he’d walked away.
Not in anger.
In pain.
“Why are you here?” I asked, voice raw.
“Because you’re mine,” he said, stepping forward. “And I felt it when you started to break.”
“I’m not breaking.”
“Liar,” he said, closing the distance. “Your pulse is erratic. Your skin is feverish. Your breath—” He knelt in front of me, one hand pressing to my forehead. “—is too fast. The bond is fracturing. You’re running out of time.”
I flinched. “I don’t need you.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, voice soft. “And not just because of the bond. Because of *this*.” He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Because you’re scared. Because you’re tired. Because you don’t know how to fight me anymore.”
I turned my head, breaking his touch. “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he said. “It’s *love*.”
My breath caught.
Love.
He’d said it again. Not as a weapon. Not as a claim. But as a truth.
And it shattered me.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t say that. Not now.”
“Then when?” he asked. “When you’re dead? When the bond consumes you? When Veylan has your blood and your power and your name?” He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ve waited sixteen years for you to come home. I won’t wait another second to tell you how I feel.”
I pressed my hands to my ears. “Stop.”
But the bond pulsed, warm and insistent, syncing with his heartbeat, his breath, his *soul*.
And I knew—
He wasn’t lying.
He loved me.
And I didn’t know how to live with that.
“I need air,” I said, pushing myself up. “I need to leave.”
“You can’t,” he said, standing. “The Court is locked down. Veylan’s spies are everywhere. If you go out there alone, they’ll take you.”
“Then I’ll die free,” I snapped.
“No,” he said, stepping in front of me. “You’ll die broken. And I won’t let that happen.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
“I do,” he said, voice steel. “Because I’m your husband. Your protector. Your *equal*. And if you won’t stay for yourself, stay for me.”
I stared at him. “Why? Why do you care?”
“Because you’re the only thing that’s ever been real to me,” he said. “The only light in this dark world. And if you go, I go with you.”
My chest tightened.
“You’re not making sense.”
“The bond is two-sided,” he said. “If you die, I die. If you break, I break. We’re bound, Elara. Not just by law. By fate. By *blood*.”
I stepped back. “Then let it break. Let us both die.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, closing the distance. “No. I’ve waited too long for you. Fought too hard. Lost too much. I won’t let you throw it away because you’re afraid to *feel*.”
“I’m not afraid!” I shouted.
“Yes, you are,” he said, voice quiet. “You’re afraid of wanting me. Afraid of needing me. Afraid of *trusting* me. But you don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stand in the fire for you. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll *die* for you. But I won’t let you destroy yourself.”
I turned away, pressing my hands to the cold stone wall. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Then let me help you,” he said. “Let me protect you. Let me *love* you.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I couldn’t.
Because in that moment, the bond—warm, insistent—flared with something new.
Pain.
Sharp. Searing. Unbearable.
I gasped, doubling over, my hands clutching my stomach. My vision blurred. The room spun. Heat flooded my body, then cold, then heat again. My skin burned. My bones ached. My blood screamed.
“Elara!” Kaelen was at my side in an instant, his arms around me, holding me up. “The bond-sickness. It’s starting.”
“No,” I gasped. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he said, lifting me into his arms. “And if we don’t stabilize the bond soon, it’ll destroy you.”
“Put me down,” I tried to say, but the words came out garbled, slurred. My limbs were heavy. My thoughts scattered.
He didn’t listen. Just carried me through the suite, down the corridor, to the medical chamber—a sterile room of white stone and silver instruments. He laid me on the examination table, his hands gentle, his touch careful.
“Stay with me,” he said, pressing a cool cloth to my forehead. “Fight it.”
I tried. I really did.
But the bond—oh, the bond—was tearing me apart.
Visions flashed behind my eyes—my mother’s blood on the stones, Kaelen kneeling, Seraphine in his robe, the Sacred Spring, his mouth on mine, his fingers inside me, his voice whispering, *“You’re mine.”*
I screamed.
Not from pain.
From *loss*.
Because I knew—
If I died, I’d never know what it felt like to be loved.
Truly loved.
Not because of the bond.
But because of *me*.
“Kaelen,” I gasped, reaching for him. “Don’t let me go.”
“I won’t,” he said, gripping my hand. “I’ll never let you go.”
But the fever worsened.
My skin burned. My breath came in short, desperate pulls. Hallucinations tore through me—shadows with hands, voices whispering, *“You don’t belong here. You never did.”*
Veylan.
He was in my head.
“Get out!” I screamed, thrashing. “Get out of my mind!”
Kaelen pressed his palm to my chest, his golden eyes blazing. “Fight him, Elara. Fight for *us*.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said. “You’re stronger than this. Stronger than *him*. You’re Elara Shadowline. Last heir of the bloodline. My wife. My queen. And I won’t let you die.”
I clung to his voice, to his touch, to the warmth of his hand on my skin. But the bond-sickness was relentless. It clawed at my mind, my body, my soul. I felt myself slipping—into darkness, into madness, into *nothing*.
Then—
He did the one thing I didn’t expect.
He stripped me.
Not with lust. Not with desire.
With *purpose*.
His hands were gentle as they removed my dress, my underthings, leaving me bare on the cold stone table. The air was cool against my fevered skin, sending shivers through me.
“I’m going to cool you,” he said, voice low. “The fever will break if I lower your temperature.”
He soaked a cloth in icy water, then pressed it to my neck, my chest, my thighs. The cold was sharp, shocking, but it helped. The visions faded. The voices quieted. My breath slowed.
But then—
His hands.
Warm. Strong. Alive.
They glided over my skin, pressing the cloth to every inch of me, cooling the fire, grounding me. His fingers brushed my collarbone, my ribs, the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh.
And the bond—oh, the bond—responded.
Not with pain.
With *pleasure*.
Heat pooled between my thighs. My breath hitched. My core tightened.
“Kaelen—” I gasped.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Just feel.”
His hands moved lower, pressing the cloth between my legs, and I cried out, arching into the touch. Not from relief. From *need*.
He didn’t stop. Just kept moving, cooling me, claiming me, *saving* me.
And then—
He leaned down.
His mouth brushed my ear. “I won’t let you die, Elara. But I won’t force you either. If you want me to stop, say the word.”
I didn’t.
Because I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t *want* him to stop.
So he continued.
His hands glided over my body, pressing the cold cloth to my fevered skin, his touch slow, deliberate, intimate. His breath tangled with mine. His scent—cedar and frost and power—filled my senses. And the bond—warm, insistent—pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
And I realized—
This wasn’t just about survival.
It wasn’t just about the bond.
It was about *us*.
About the man who had protected me.
Who had waited sixteen years.
Who had loved me.
And I didn’t know how to fight that.
So I did the only thing I could.
I reached for him.
My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, trembling as I undid each one, as the fabric slipped from his shoulders, as his chest was revealed—broad, scarred, beautiful.
He stilled. “Elara—”
“Don’t talk,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “Just… touch me.”
He didn’t argue.
His hands returned to my skin, warmer now, rougher, hungrier. They traced the line of my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my spine, the swell of my hips. His thumbs brushed my nipples, sending sparks through me. His mouth found my throat, his fangs grazing my pulse point.
And the bond—oh, the bond—flared gold, wrapping around us, sealing us, claiming us.
“I don’t want to want you,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes.
“I know,” he murmured, his lips brushing mine. “But you do.”
And I did.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of him.
So I kissed him.
Not hard. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Like a surrender.
And he responded—not with fire, not with fury, but with tenderness.
His lips moved against mine, gentle, patient, loving. His hands cradled my face, his body pressed to mine, his heart beating against my chest.
And the bond—oh, the bond—sealed itself, not with blood, not with bite, but with *trust*.
When we broke apart, our breaths tangled, our foreheads touching, he whispered—
“You’re mine, Elara. And I’m yours.”
And for the first time—
I believed him.
I didn’t answer.
Just leaned into him, my head on his shoulder, my arms around his waist, the cold cloth forgotten, the fever broken, the bond stable.
And in that moment, I knew—
I was already his.
And I didn’t want to be anyone else.
He held me for hours, his arms tight around me, his breath steady against my hair. The bond pulsed between us, warm and insistent, a second heartbeat syncing with his. No longer a curse. No longer a prison.
A promise.
And when I finally slept, I didn’t dream of shadows or blood or Veylan.
I dreamed of sunlight.
And a garden.
And a man with golden eyes who whispered, *“I’ll save you.”*
And I believed him.