The truth sat in my chest like a blade, cold and sharp, twisting with every breath. Kaelen’s words—*“I didn’t kill your mother. My father did.”*—echoed in the silence between us, louder than the wind howling through the broken windows of the east tower. His confession hadn’t come with fanfare or grand gestures. Just a whisper, raw and broken, as if the weight of a century had finally cracked his spine.
And I believed him.
That was the worst part.
Not the betrayal. Not the lies. Not even the fact that the man I’d come to destroy—the monster I’d sworn to dismantle—had just handed me the truth like a gift, wrapped in shame and blood.
I believed him.
And that meant everything I’d built—the mission, the rage, the cold, precise focus—was built on sand.
My mother hadn’t failed.
She’d been murdered.
And Kaelen—this vampire king, this predator, this killer—hadn’t ordered it. He’d *believed* the lie. He’d grieved. He’d raged. He’d buried himself in power because the pain was too much to bear.
And now he was standing in front of me, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot on my skin, offering me the only thing he had left: the truth.
And I wanted to rip it from him.
“I hate you,” I said, voice raw, tears spilling down my temples. “I *hate* you.”
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “Then hate me. But don’t leave.”
And then—
I collapsed into his arms.
Not with rage. Not with fury. But with grief. With loss. With the weight of a century of lies, of betrayal, of a mother murdered for truth. My body trembled. My fingers dug into his coat, knuckles white. The bond flared—white-hot, electric—crashing through me, not with pleasure, not with need, but with *pain*. His pain. My pain. Our pain.
He held me. Tight. Possessive. Protective. His arms like iron around my waist, his chest a wall of heat, his breath hot against my hair. I sobbed, great, heaving gasps that tore from my throat like they were ripping me apart. The sigil on my hip burned—not from lying, not from deception—but from the sheer, unbearable weight of it all.
And he didn’t let go.
Not when I screamed. Not when I clawed at his coat. Not when I shoved him, weak and desperate, and he caught my wrists, held them firm, and pulled me back against him.
“Let me go,” I sobbed. “Let me go, you monster—”
“I’m not letting you go,” he growled, voice low, dangerous. “Not now. Not ever.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
“I do.” He pressed his forehead to mine again, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. “Because you’re mine. And I’m not losing you. Not after this.”
I didn’t answer. Just buried my face in his chest, breathing him in—dark amber, iron, something wild. And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a warrior.
I felt like a daughter.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if I wasn’t the weapon I’d believed myself to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the storm still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn't just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
And then—
I broke.
Not with a whisper.
Not with a sob.
With a scream.
It tore from my throat like a blade, raw and feral, echoing through the broken tower, scattering the shadows, silencing the wind. I shoved him—hard—both hands against his chest, and he stumbled back, eyes wide, fangs bared, but he didn’t fight me.
He let me.
And that made me angrier.
“You don’t get to do this!” I roared, voice cracking. “You don’t get to tell me the truth and expect me to *forgive* you! You don’t get to hold me and whisper that I’m yours and expect me to *believe* you!”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, chest rising and falling with each breath. The bond flared—hot, insistent—but he didn’t move toward me.
“You let them kill her!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. “You believed their lies! You let her die alone, and you did *nothing*!”
“I wasn’t there,” he said, voice low. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
“That’s not good enough!”
“I know.”
“You don’t!” I lunged at him, fists flying, nails raking across his face, his chest, his arms. I hit him—again and again—my knuckles splitting, blood streaking his skin. He didn’t block. Didn’t dodge. Just took it, his body a wall, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Hit me!” I screamed, voice breaking. “Fight back, you coward! *Fight me!*”
He didn’t.
Just stood there, letting me beat him, letting me scream, letting me destroy him with my hands and my voice and my grief.
And when I finally collapsed, sobbing, my fists bruised, my breath ragged, he caught me.
Not gently. Not softly.
>Like he was claiming me.One arm wrapped around my waist, the other behind my head, pulling me against him, his mouth crashing down on mine—not a kiss, not a caress, but a *claim*. His fangs grazed my lip, sharp and sweet, and I tasted blood—mine, his, ours.
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me *climax*—right there, in his arms, in the broken tower, with my fists still clenched in his coat.
I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He groaned, low and deep, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I *wanted* it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it was over, when the wind returned, when the sea roared, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
I was still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still *his*.
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. Blood streaked his cheek, my blood, his blood, ours. “Better?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched me, like I was something *precious*, not prey.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
And then—
I hit him.
Not with my fists.
Not with my voice.
With my palm, sharp and fast, across his face.
The slap echoed through the tower, loud, final. His head snapped to the side, blood from his split lip smearing across his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. Just turned back to me, slow, deliberate, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“Hit me back,” I demanded, voice shaking. “If you’re such a predator, if you’re such a *king*, then hit me back.”
He didn’t.
Just stood there, breathing hard, blood on his face, eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re not going to,” I said, voice breaking. “You’re not going to fight me. You’re not going to punish me. You’re just going to *take* it.”
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “Because you need to.”
“I need you to *fight* me!”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You need to break. And I’ll let you.”
And then—
I did.
Not with violence.
Not with rage.
With my mouth.
I kissed him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it stole my breath. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already *ready*.
He groaned, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like *mine*.”
And then—
The world shifted.
The wind stilled. The sea calmed. The bond—
It *screamed*.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me *climax*—right there, in his arms, in the broken tower, with my mouth on his.
I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He held me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I *wanted* it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it was over, when the wind returned, when the sea roared, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
I was still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still *his*.
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. “Better?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
He smiled—slow, dangerous. “Now imagine what it’ll be like when I’m *inside* you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It *screamed* again.
I didn’t push him away.
Didn’t walk out.
Just stayed in his arms, my body still trembling, my breath still unsteady.
And when he leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt like a woman.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I lay there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my hair, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.