I woke before dawn.
Not because of the light—there was none. The Obsidian Court lay beneath the ruins of Edinburgh, buried in volcanic rock, its only illumination the faint pulse of enchanted veins in the walls and the cold glow of silver sigils. No sun. No sky. Just shadows and silence.
But I knew the hour.
My body did. My blood did. The bond between Elara and me hummed in my veins like a second heartbeat, steady now, strong. No longer fractured. No longer screaming with dissonance.
Stable.
Because of her.
I turned my head, slow, careful, not wanting to wake her. She lay beside me in my bed—*our* bed—her body curled into mine, one arm flung across my chest, her dark hair fanned out like a storm across the pillow. Her breath was soft, even, her face relaxed in sleep. No tension. No fear. Just peace.
She looked younger this way. Not the warrior. Not the avenger. Not the woman who had come here to destroy me.
Just Elara.
And for the first time in sixteen years, she was home.
I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb, feather-light, not wanting to disturb her. Her skin was warm, flushed from the fever, her lips slightly parted. I remembered how they’d felt against mine—soft, yielding, *hers*. Not forced. Not stolen. Given.
She had kissed me.
Not in anger. Not in revenge.
But in surrender.
And it had shattered me.
The bond had stabilized not through blood, not through bite, not even through sex—but through *trust*. Through her reaching for me. Through her whispering, *“Just… touch me.”*
And I had.
Gently. Reverently. Like she was something sacred.
Because she was.
She was the last heir of the Shadowline bloodline. A hybrid of witch and vampire, her magic unstable, her power feared. She was a weapon forged in grief, sharpened by vengeance. And she had spent sixteen years hating me for a crime I didn’t commit.
And still, she had chosen me.
Not because the bond demanded it.
But because *she* did.
I pressed my lips to her forehead, breathing in her scent—rose oil, sweat, blood, and something deeper, something *hers*. Not just the magic. Not just the bond. But the woman beneath it all.
And I knew—
I would die for her.
I would burn the Court to the ground for her.
I would face Veylan, Seraphine, the entire Council—if it meant she was safe.
Because she wasn’t just my wife.
She was my *equal*.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, and pulled on a black silk robe. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. I stoked it, adding a log, watching the flames catch, the light flickering over the room.
Our suite was a fortress within a fortress—two chambers connected by a sitting room, a private bath, a study. The walls were carved with ancient sigils, the floor inlaid with silver veins that pulsed with dormant magic. It had been my sanctuary for decades. Cold. Silent. Alone.
Until now.
Now, it smelled like *her*.
Her gowns hung in the wardrobe. Her boots stood by the door. Her journal—her mother’s journal—lay on the writing desk, open to a page filled with looping script. I didn’t read it. I didn’t need to. I’d lived it.
I moved to the desk, picking up a blank sheet of parchment. My pen scratched across the surface, sharp, angular.
“Seven days.”
That was all I wrote.
Not a command. Not a threat.
A reminder.
The Council had demanded the bond be consummated within seven days. We were on day five.
And now, after last night, after the bond-sickness, after her surrender—
We both knew it was inevitable.
Not because of the law.
But because of *us*.
I left the note on the table, where she’d see it when she woke. Then I moved to the window, looking out over the Court.
Below, the tunnels sprawled like a living thing—black stone bridges, glowing lanterns, vampires moving like shadows through the dark. The Court was quiet now, most of them still in their chambers, conserving energy for the night. But I could feel the tension in the air. The whispers. The fear.
The tunnel collapse. The sabotage. The High Priestess’s sudden interest in Elara.
Veylan was moving.
And Seraphine had played her hand.
I had let her think she’d been in my bed. Let her wear my robe, let her believe she had power over me. And in return, she’d told me where Veylan’s next strike would be—the eastern armory, in three days.
It was a trap, of course.
But I would spring it.
And when I did, I would make sure Elara was ready.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
Soft. Hesitant.
I didn’t turn.
“You left it unlocked,” she said, voice still thick with sleep.
Now I turned.
She stood in the doorway to the bedroom, wrapped in my black silk robe, her hair tangled, her eyes still heavy with rest. The robe was too big on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem dragging on the floor. But she wore it like armor. Like a claim.
And I liked it.
“I knew you wouldn’t lock it,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re presumptuous.”
“I’m certain,” I corrected. “You ran from me last night. But you didn’t lock the door. That wasn’t an accident.”
She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms, pressing the robe tighter around her. “Where’s my dress?”
“In your chamber. I’ll have it brought.”
“I’ll get it myself.”
“No,” I said. “You’re still weak. The fever took a lot from you.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re not. But you’re also not invincible. And I won’t let you push yourself too far.”
She flinched.
Not from anger.
From recognition.
Because I wasn’t just protecting her body.
I was protecting her heart.
And she didn’t know how to fight that.
“Why did you stay?” she asked, voice low. “After I… after we—”
“Because you needed me,” I said. “And because I needed you.”
She looked away. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She turned back, her green eyes blazing. “You don’t get to say things like that. Not after everything.”
“I don’t get to say I love you?” I asked. “I don’t get to say I’ve waited sixteen years for you to come home? That every night since you were twelve, I’ve dreamed of this moment?”
“Stop.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I’ve been silent for too long. Let you hate me. Let you fight me. Let you *test* me. But I won’t stay quiet anymore. I love you, Elara. Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. But because of *you*. Because you’re fierce. Because you’re strong. Because you’re *mine*.”
She stepped back. “You don’t get to claim me.”
“I already have,” I said. “Not with a bite. Not with a contract. But with *this*.” I pressed a hand to my chest, over my heart. “You’re in here. You’ve been in here since the night I found you in the garden. Since the night I promised to protect you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stood there, her breath coming fast, her eyes wide.
And I saw it—the moment she believed me.
Not because of words.
But because of truth.
“I’ll have your dress brought,” I said, turning away. “And breakfast. You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “Your pulse says otherwise.”
She didn’t argue.
I left the suite, moving swiftly through the halls, my boots clicking against the stone. The Court was waking—the vampires emerging from their chambers, their voices low, their eyes sharp. They watched me. Whispers followed in my wake.
“Is it true? The bond is stable?”
“She’s alive. After the sickness.”
“He stayed with her. Slept in the same bed.”
Good.
Let them talk.
Let them know.
She was mine.
And I wasn’t letting her go.
I reached the servants’ wing, instructing a maid to bring Elara’s dress and a tray of food—human fare this time. Bread, fruit, tea. She needed nourishment. Not blood.
Then I went to the armory.
Cassian was already there, inspecting the weapons, his amber eyes scanning the racks of blades, crossbows, enchanted daggers. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“She’s alive,” he said.
“You doubted it?”
“I doubted *you*,” he said, turning. “You let her run. Let her fight you. Let her hate you. And now—”
“Now she trusts me,” I said.
“Or she’s broken,” he said. “The bond-sickness can do that. Make someone dependent. Make them believe anything.”
“She’s not broken,” I said, voice low. “She’s *awake*. She sees me now. Not the monster. Not the husband. Not the protector. But *me*.”
He studied me. “And what if she sees too much?”
“Then she’ll know the truth,” I said. “That I’d die for her. That I’ve loved her since she was twelve. That I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her alive.”
He nodded slowly. “Veylan’s spies are moving. They know about the armory.”
“Let them,” I said. “We’ll be ready. Set the traps. Double the guards. And make sure Elara has a blade.”
“She’ll want to fight.”
“She’ll fight,” I said. “But not alone. Not unprotected.”
He hesitated. “And Seraphine?”
“She’s played her hand,” I said. “Now it’s ours.”
He didn’t ask how.
He didn’t need to.
We both knew what came next.
War.
I returned to the suite to find Elara standing at the window, still in my robe, her back to me. The tray of food sat untouched on the table. Her dress hung over a chair, clean, repaired, ready.
“You didn’t eat,” I said.
“I wasn’t hungry,” she said, not turning.
“You’re lying,” I said. “Your body is recovering. It needs fuel.”
She turned. “Why do you always know?”
“Because I’ve been watching you for sixteen years,” I said. “I know the way you breathe when you’re lying. The way your pulse jumps when you’re afraid. The way your skin flushes when you’re—”
“Don’t,” she snapped.
“What?” I stepped closer. “Afraid I’ll say it? That I know how you feel when I’m near? That your body betrays you?”
She stepped back. “I don’t want this.”
“You do,” I said. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
She didn’t answer.
Just moved to the writing desk, picking up the note I’d left.
“Seven days.”
She looked at me. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” I said. “It’s a reminder. The Council will demand proof soon. And if we don’t give it—”
“I’ll die,” she finished.
“Or worse,” I said. “You’ll break. And I won’t let that happen.”
She threw the note into the fire. “You always say that. ‘I won’t let that happen.’ But what if I *want* to break? What if I don’t want to be saved?”
“Then you’re a fool,” I said. “Because you’re not just fighting me. You’re fighting *yourself*. Your body knows the truth. It *wants* this. It *wants* me.”
“It’s the bond,” she said.
“No,” I said. “It’s *you*.”
She didn’t deny it.
Just stood there, her breath coming fast, her eyes wide.
And I saw it—the moment she stopped fighting.
Not because she was weak.
But because she was strong enough to admit the truth.
“I don’t want to want you,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said, stepping closer. “But you do.”
And she did.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of *me*.
So I did the only thing I could.
I pulled her into my arms.
And she didn’t fight.
She leaned into me, her head on my shoulder, her arms around my waist, the bond pulsing between us, warm and insistent, a second heartbeat syncing with mine.
And in that moment, I knew—
She was already mine.
And I would never let her go.