The corridor blurred as I walked—stone walls, glowing veins, flickering torchlight—all smeared into a haze of rage and something worse. Shame. Because the truth clawed at me, raw and undeniable: I wasn’t angry because I thought Kaelen had betrayed me.
I was angry because I cared.
Because the bond flared hot in my chest, not with pain, but with jealousy. Because my pulse roared in my ears, not from fear, but from the image of Seraphine in his robe, damp from a bath that wasn’t mine, humming like she belonged.
Like she’d touched him.
Like she’d tasted him.
And because a part of me—a deep, traitorous part—ached at the thought that he might have wanted her.
Even for a second.
Even in the dark.
I didn’t go to my chamber. I didn’t return to the suite. I turned down a side passage, my boots clicking against the stone, my breath sharp in my throat. The Obsidian Court was a maze of tunnels and chambers, a fortress carved from volcanic rock, and I knew enough of its layout to disappear. To hide.
But I didn’t want to hide.
I wanted to burn.
I found a dead-end corridor—a forgotten arm of the lower tunnels, sealed off by a collapsed archway, the air thick with dust and decay. Moonlight didn’t reach here. No enchanted glass. Just darkness, and silence, and the slow pulse of obsidian in the walls.
Perfect.
I pressed my palms to the cold stone, leaning my forehead against the rock, trying to steady my breath. The Codex was still in my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the High Priestess’s words: “You were meant to save him.” As if I owed him anything. As if my mother’s death, my sixteen years of hatred, my very soul weren’t already tangled in this cursed bond.
And now Seraphine.
Now this.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t love him,” I whispered. “I don’t.”
But the bond pulsed, warm and insistent, a second heartbeat syncing with his. And my body—traitorous, maddening—remembered the way his hands had felt in the Sacred Spring, tracing my spine, massaging my scalp, his cock hard against my thigh in the tunnel. Remembered the softness of his kiss, the tenderness in his voice when he said, “You’re mine, Elara. Whether you admit it or not.”
I shoved off the wall, pacing the narrow corridor. “It’s the magic,” I said aloud. “The bond. The proximity. It’s not real. It’s not me.”
But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.
Because when I looked at him—really looked—I didn’t see the monster from my childhood. I didn’t see the vampire lord who had knelt in my mother’s blood. I saw the man who had carried me through the dark, who had bared his scars, who had whispered, “I’ll save you.”
And worse—I saw the man I wanted.
Not because of the bond.
But because of him.
“No,” I growled, slamming my fist into the stone. Pain flared in my knuckles, sharp and grounding. “I came here to destroy him. To make him pay. Not to—”
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Coming down the corridor.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t need to.
I knew that step. That presence. That scent—cedar and frost and something ancient, something his.
Kaelen.
“Elara.”
His voice, low, commanding, like ice dragged over stone.
I didn’t answer. Just stood there, my back to him, my fists clenched, my breath unsteady.
“You ran,” he said. “Again.”
“You noticed.”
“I always notice when you run.”
I turned.
He stood a few feet away, tall, dark, his golden eyes blazing in the dim light. He wasn’t in his usual velvet and chainmail. Just black trousers, boots, a fitted shirt open at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbone. He looked less like a lord and more like a predator. Dangerous. Real.
And still, my body responded.
Heat pooled between my thighs. My breath hitched. My core tightened.
“You let her wear your robe,” I said, voice sharp. “You let her think she’d been in your bed.”
“I let her,” he said. “So she’d reveal her hand. So she’d tell me where Veylan’s next strike would be.”
“And did she?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that makes it okay?”
“I think it makes it necessary,” he said. “Veylan has spies everywhere. If he’d known I was close to breaking her, he’d have moved faster. But now we know where he’ll strike—the eastern armory, in three days. We can prepare. We can stop him.”
“And what about me?” I demanded. “Did you think about how I’d feel? Did you think about the bond? About what it would do to me to see her—” My voice cracked. “To think you’d been with her?”
He stepped closer. “I thought about it. I knew it would hurt you. But I also knew you’d understand. Eventually.”
“Eventually?” I laughed, bitter. “You don’t get to decide when I understand. You don’t get to manipulate me like this. To use me. To use us.”
“I’m not using you,” he said, voice low. “I’m protecting you. And if that means making you hate me for a night, then so be it.”
“You don’t get to choose that!” I snapped. “You don’t get to decide what I feel. What I endure. What I—” I broke off, my breath coming faster.
He stepped closer. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” His hand lifted, slow, deliberate. “Let me—”
I slapped it away. “Don’t touch me.”
But the moment I did, the bond flared—hot, electric, unwanted. Fire shot through my veins, white-hot and wild. My knees buckled. My breath came in short, desperate pulls. Every nerve in my body screamed, alive, awake.
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.
Hard.
Angry.
Like a punishment.
My lips crushed against his, teeth scraping, breath tangling. I poured every ounce of my rage, my grief, my betrayal 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 gentleness. Not with tenderness.
With fire.
His hands shot to my waist, gripping hard, lifting me off the ground, pinning me against the stone wall. His mouth moved over mine—fierce, hungry, devouring. His tongue clashed with mine, a battle for dominance, for control, for truth. His cock—hard, thick, alive—pressed against my thigh, sending shockwaves through me.
And the bond—oh, the bond—exploded.
Fire. Light. Need.
I arched into him, my legs wrapping around his hips, my hands clawing at his shirt, desperate to feel more, to have more. His hands roamed my back, my ass, pulling me tighter, closer. His teeth scraped my lip, drawing blood, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through me.
“Elara,” he growled against my mouth. “Gods, you taste like fire.”
I didn’t answer. Just kissed him harder, deeper, my body screaming for release, for him. His hands slid under my dress, rough, possessive, fingers digging into my thighs. One hand moved higher, tracing the curve of my hip, the swell of my ass, then—
He touched me.
Not over fabric.
Not through layers.
But there.
His fingers slid through my wetness, slow, deliberate, and I gasped, my head falling back against the stone.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, voice rough. “For me.”
“No,” I gasped. “It’s the bond. It’s—”
“Liar,” he growled, thrusting two fingers inside me.
I cried out, my back arching, my hips grinding against his hand. Pleasure—sharp, electric—ripped through me. My core tightened, my breath came in short, desperate pulls, my body trembling on the edge.
“You want this,” he said, his thumb circling my clit. “You want me.”
“No—”
“Yes.” He bent his head, his fangs grazing my throat. “Say it.”
“I—”
He thrust deeper, faster, his thumb pressing harder, and I shattered.
My orgasm ripped through me—violent, blinding, uncontrollable. I screamed, my body convulsing, my nails raking his back. Pleasure and pain and something deeper—something like truth—flooded my veins.
And the bond—oh, the bond—flared gold, wrapping around us, sealing us, claiming us.
He didn’t stop. Just held me through it, his fingers still inside me, his body pressed to mine, his breath ragged against my neck.
When the waves finally subsided, I sagged against him, my breath coming in gasps, my body weak, my mind shattered.
He pulled his hand free, slowly, deliberately, then brought his fingers to his mouth.
And tasted me.
His golden eyes burned. “You’re mine,” he said, voice raw. “Whether you admit it or not.”
I stared at him.
And in that moment, I saw it—not just the vampire, not just the warrior, not just the husband.
I saw 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 shoved him.
Hard.
He stumbled back, surprise flashing in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I said, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m yours,” I snapped. “You don’t get to claim me. You don’t get to own me. I’m not your prize. I’m not your revenge fuck.”
He stilled.
And then—
He laughed.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
But sad.
“Is that what you think this is?” he asked. “Revenge?”
“Isn’t it?” I demanded. “You’ve wanted me since the moment I stepped into the Court. You’ve touched me, kissed me, used me—”
“Used you?” He stepped closer, his voice low, dangerous. “I’ve protected you. I’ve bared my soul to you. I’ve let you hate me, let you fight me, let you test me—because I knew you wouldn’t believe me otherwise. And now, when you finally let me in, when you finally let yourself feel—you call it revenge?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I couldn’t.
Because he was right.
And it terrified me.
He stepped closer, his golden eyes burning. “I won’t be your revenge fuck, Elara. I won’t be the man you use to punish yourself for wanting me. If you want me—if you really want me—then it has to be because you choose me. Not because the bond demands it. Not because you’re angry. But because you love me.”
My breath caught.
Love.
He’d said love.
And in that moment, I knew—
I was already falling.
But I couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t admit it.
Not yet.
So I did the only thing I could.
I slapped him.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the corridor like a whip.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there, his cheek marked with red, his gaze locked on mine.
“Then why did you stop?” I demanded, voice breaking. “If you won’t be my revenge, why did you stop?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped back, his hands falling to his sides, his expression unreadable.
And in that silence, I realized—
He hadn’t stopped because he didn’t want me.
He’d stopped because he did.
Because he loved me.
And I didn’t know how to live with that.
So I turned and ran.
Not to the suite.
Not to the archives.
But to the one place I knew he couldn’t follow.
My chamber.
I slammed the door behind me, locked it, pressed my back against it, sliding down until I was on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees.
My skin still burned where he’d touched me.
My core still ached.
And worst of all—I didn’t hate him.
Not completely.
Because for the first time in sixteen years, someone had looked at me and not seen a weapon.
They’d seen a woman.
And it terrified me.
I stayed on the floor for hours, listening to the silence, to the distant hum of the court, to the slow, steady beat of the bond between us.
Eventually, I slept.
And when I woke, the sun had not risen.
But the door was open.
And he was standing there, tall, dark, his golden eyes burning in the dark.
“You left it unlocked,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
Just stared at him.
And in that moment, I knew—
I was already his.
And I didn’t want to be anyone else.