The dagger still hummed in my hand.
Not with magic—though it pulsed, alive, as if it recognized me—but with *memory*. The weight of it. The balance. The way the leather wrapped around my fingers like it had been made for me. My mother’s dagger. Shadowline. I could almost hear her voice: “This blade is blood-bound. It will never betray you.”
I hadn’t believed in destiny before.
But now?
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I stood in the hidden study, the silver sigils in the floor still glowing faintly, the air thick with power. Kaelen watched me, his golden eyes burning, his hands clasped behind his back like a general surveying a battlefield. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let me hold it. Let me *feel* it.
And I did.
Not just the weapon.
But the truth.
He hadn’t just protected me.
He’d *preserved* me.
My name. My bloodline. My legacy.
And now, he was giving it all back.
“Why?” I asked, voice low. “Why keep it? Why not destroy it? Sell it? Use it against me?”
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “Because it wasn’t mine to use. It was yours. And because I knew one day you’d need it. Not to kill me. But to *rule*.”
I looked up at him. “You really believe that?”
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “I *know* it. The Fanged Contract doesn’t bind just any two vampires. It chooses its own. And it chose *you*, Elara. Not because you’re strong. But because you’re *meant* to be here. With me. At my side.”
My breath caught.
Not from the words.
But from the way he said them—like they were carved into his bones, written in his blood.
Like they were *true*.
I turned the blade in my hand, watching the runes flare. “And if I don’t want to rule?”
“Then you’re a fool,” he said. “Because you’re not just fighting me. You’re fighting *yourself*. Your body knows the truth. It *wants* this. It *wants* me.”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
And I was tired of lying.
“I should go,” I said, slipping the dagger into the inner seam of my dress. It fit perfectly. Like it had always been there.
“You should stay,” he said. “The moon is rising.”
I stilled. “What?”
He didn’t answer. Just moved to the window, pulling back the heavy black curtain. Outside, the enchanted glass filtered the sky—artificial stars, artificial night—but beyond it, I could feel it. A shift. A pull. A deep, primal *thrum* in my blood.
Full moon.
And with it—
Heat.
Not the slow burn of the bond. Not the fire of desire when he touched me. This was something else. Something darker. Wilder. A pulse between my thighs, a tightening in my chest, a whisper in my blood that said: Now. Need. Take.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, trying to steady myself. “I don’t—”
“You’re hybrid,” he said, turning. “Your witch blood is stable. But your vampire side? It’s dormant. Suppressed. Until now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The full moon awakens the beast in werewolves,” he said. “But in hybrids like you? It stirs the blood. The magic. The *heat*.”
I shook my head. “I’m not a werewolf.”
“No,” he said. “But your mother was half-Fae. Your magic is tied to the cycles. And tonight—” He stepped closer, his golden eyes blazing. “—you’ll burn.”
And I did.
Heat flooded my body, sudden and violent. My skin prickled. My breath came fast, shallow. My core tightened, wetness blooming between my thighs. I pressed my hands to the wall, trying to ground myself, but the sigils beneath my palms flared, responding to my magic, to my need.
“Kaelen—” I gasped.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I can smell it. Taste it. Your blood is singing.”
“Make it stop,” I begged.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not without binding you. And I won’t do that unless you ask.”
“Then leave me,” I said, backing away. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Too late,” he said. “I’ve seen you break. I’ve seen you bleed. I’ve seen you hate me. And I’ve seen you *want* me. There’s nothing you can do that will make me leave.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, my voice breaking. “This isn’t just desire. It’s—”
“Loss of control,” he finished. “I know. But you’re not alone. And you’re not weak.”
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, like he was approaching a wild animal. “Let me help you.”
“No,” I said, backing into the wall. “If you touch me, I won’t be able to stop.”
“Then don’t stop,” he said. “Let go. Let me in.”
“I can’t—”
But I could.
Because the heat was unbearable. Because my body was screaming. Because every nerve in my body was alight, every breath a plea, every heartbeat a drumbeat of *need*.
And then—
I snapped.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I lunged.
My hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him down, and I kissed him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like a drowning woman grasping for air.
My lips crushed against his, teeth scraping, breath tangling. I poured every ounce of my hunger, my fear, my *need* into that kiss—into the way my tongue forced its way into his mouth, the way my nails dug into his shoulders, the way my body pressed against his, demanding, breaking.
And he—
He responded.
Not with fire. Not with fury.
With *control*.
His hands shot to my waist, gripping hard, lifting me off the ground, pinning me against the wall. But he didn’t kiss me back. Didn’t deepen it. Just held me there, his mouth a breath from mine, his golden eyes blazing.
“Elara,” he growled. “Look at me.”
I did.
My breath came in gasps, my pupils wide, my skin flushed. I could feel my fangs—long, sharp, deadly—pressing against my gums. My magic flared, silver and black, crackling along my skin.
“This isn’t you,” he said, voice low. “Not all of you. The heat is driving you. But I won’t take advantage of it.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped, trying to kiss him again.
He turned his head. “Yes, I do. Because I love you. Not your body. Not your blood. But *you*. And I won’t ruin you in a fever.”
“I’m not ruined,” I gasped. “I’m *alive*.”
“And I’ll keep you that way,” he said. “Even if it means locking you in my room.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” he said, lifting me into his arms.
I fought. Kicked. Scratched. Bit.
But he was stronger.
He carried me through the halls, my body thrashing, my magic flaring, my voice a scream of rage and need. Vampires turned, their pale eyes wide, their whispers following in our wake.
“She’s in heat.”
“Hybrid. Unstable.”
“He’s taking her to his chamber. Locking her in.”
Good.
Let them talk.
Let them know.
I wasn’t just his wife.
I was a storm.
And I would burn this court to the ground if I had to.
He kicked open the door to his chamber, strode inside, and slammed it shut behind him. The locks clicked into place—one, two, three—magical seals sealing us in.
Then he laid me on the bed.
Not gently. Not roughly.
With *purpose*.
“Stay,” he said, voice steel.
“Or what?” I hissed, sitting up. “You’ll tie me down?”
“If I have to,” he said. “But I’d rather you choose to stay.”
“I don’t *choose* anything,” I said, standing. “You took that from me the moment the bond activated.”
“No,” he said. “I gave you back your choice when I gave you the dagger. When I told you the truth. When I let you see me.”
“And what if I don’t want to see you?” I demanded.
“Then you’re a liar,” he said. “Because you already do. You see me. You see *us*. And you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m *hungry*.”
And I was.
Heat pooled between my thighs. My breath hitched. My core tightened. I reached for him, my hands trembling, my body screaming.
He didn’t move.
Just stood there, a dark, silent presence, his golden eyes burning.
So I did the only thing I could.
I pressed myself against him.
My body molded to his, my hands sliding up his chest, my lips brushing his jaw. “Touch me,” I whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t.
Just stood there, his breath steady, his hands at his sides.
“I won’t,” he said. “Not like this. Not when you can’t say yes.”
“I *am* saying yes,” I gasped.
“No,” he said. “You’re saying *need*. And I won’t take that from you.”
“You don’t get to decide what I want,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I do,” he said. “Because I love you. And I won’t ruin you in a fever.”
And then—
I broke.
Not with rage.
Not with fire.
With tears.
They came suddenly, violently, streaming down my face, my body trembling, my breath coming in sobs. “I don’t want to be weak,” I whispered. “I don’t want to need you.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He pulled me into his arms, cradling me against his chest, his hands stroking my hair, his voice low, soothing. “You’re not weak. You’re *human*. You’re *alive*. And you’re not alone.”
“I don’t want to want you,” I sobbed.
“I know,” he murmured. “But you do.”
And I did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the heat.
But because of *him*.
Because he had protected me.
Because he had waited sixteen years.
Because he had *loved* me.
And because he was the only man who had ever looked at me and not seen a weapon.
He saw a woman.
And it terrified me.
He held me for hours, his arms tight around me, his breath steady against my hair. The heat still pulsed in my blood, but it was quieter now, tamed by his presence, by his touch, by his *love*.
And then—
I whispered, “What if I *want* to be ruined?”
He stilled.
Looked down at me. “What?”
“What if I *want* to be ruined?” I said, lifting my head. “What if I want you to take me? To claim me? To make me yours in every way?”
His eyes flared gold. “Elara—”
“I’m not asking because of the heat,” I said. “I’m asking because of *you*. Because I’ve spent sixteen years hating you. And now I don’t know how to stop.”
He didn’t speak.
Just cupped my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You don’t have to stop. You just have to *choose*.”
“Then I choose you,” I said. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Council orders it. But because I *want* you. Because I *love* you.”
And I did.
Not perfectly.
Not easily.
But *true*.
He didn’t kiss me.
Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath tangled with mine, his heart beating against my chest. “Say it again,” he whispered.
“I love you,” I said.
And the bond—oh, the bond—flared gold, wrapping around us, sealing us, *claiming* us.
Then he kissed me.
Not hard. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Like a promise.
And I knew—
This wasn’t just about survival.
It wasn’t just about the bond.
It was about *us*.
And I didn’t want to be anyone else.