The silence after Torin died was worse than the battle.
It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even grief—not yet. It was the hollow quiet of a world cracked open, the kind of stillness that comes after a storm has torn through your chest and left nothing but wreckage. I knelt on the cold stone of the Bloodforge, my hands still pressed to Torin’s wound, blood slick between my fingers, his breath shallow and fading. The air smelled of iron, death, and something older—ancient magic, sealed in stone, pulsing like a dying heart.
Kaelen crouched beside me, one arm under Torin’s shoulders, the other pressing against the wound, his face a mask of rage and grief. His crimson eyes were dark, his fangs bared, his breath uneven. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held him, like he could will him back, like he could command death to retreat.
But death didn’t listen.
And Torin—
He was gone.
Not slowly. Not gently.
With a smile.
With a whisper.
With a truth that shattered me more than any blade ever could.
“You fight… for both of us.”
I hadn’t answered. Hadn’t promised. Hadn’t even looked at him. I’d just pressed my hands harder, tears falling, my body trembling, my voice breaking as I begged him to stay.
And then—
Nothing.
His chest stilled. His breath stopped. His eyes—amber, fierce, loyal—went dull.
And the bond—
It didn’t scream.
It didn’t flare.
It just… faded.
Like a light going out.
Like a vow unspoken.
Like a promise broken.
Kaelen let out a sound then—low, raw, *human*—and pulled Torin’s body against his chest, cradling him like he was something precious, not prey. His shoulders shook. His breath came in ragged gasps. And for the first time since I’d known him, the vampire king didn’t look like a predator.
He looked like a man.
And that terrified me more than any lie, any betrayal, any blade ever could.
“He died for us,” I whispered, voice breaking.
Kaelen didn’t look at me. Just held Torin tighter, his fangs bared, his eyes closed. “Then we’ll live for him,” he said, voice rough. “We’ll *fight* for him.”
I didn’t answer. Just pressed my hands to my thighs, wiping the blood away, my fingers trembling. The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. Not because I was lying. But because I was afraid.
Because I wasn’t sure I could.
Not after this.
Not after losing someone who had seen us—really seen us—before we even knew what we were.
“You’re hurt,” I said, voice low, looking at Kaelen’s hands. The silver chains had burned him when he tore them from the ceiling. His skin was raw, blistered, peeling. Blood streaked his coat. His face was cut, his lip split, his neck marked with claw wounds.
He didn’t answer. Just stood, lifting Torin’s body with care, cradling him like he weighed nothing. “We’re leaving,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Now.”
I didn’t argue. Just stood, my legs unsteady, my body aching. I’d been hanging from the ceiling for hours. My wrists were raw, my shoulders dislocated, my ribs bruised. But I didn’t care.
Not about the pain.
Not about the blood.
Only about the man in his arms.
We moved through the tunnels in silence, Kaelen leading, his shadow curling around us like a second skin. I followed, boots silent on the stone, my breath uneven, my mind racing. The air was thick with the scent of iron, decay, and something sharper—grief. My grief. His grief. Our grief.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. Not pain. Not need. But something quieter. More dangerous.
Connection.
We emerged in the east tower—the old observatory, long abandoned, its windows cracked, its telescope shattered. The wind howled through the broken glass, carrying the scent of salt and storm. The sky was dark, the moon high, its light silver on the cliffs below.
Kaelen didn’t stop. Just carried Torin to the edge of the tower, where a single intact window overlooked the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks, white foam churning in the wind. And there—
He laid him down.
Not on the stone.
On a bed of blackthorn flowers.
Where had they come from? I didn’t know. Didn’t ask. Just watched as Kaelen knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his chest, his fangs bared, his breath uneven. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a dagger—ancient, silver, etched with runes of fire and ash.
“What are you doing?” I asked, voice low.
“Honoring him,” he said, voice rough. “As a warrior. As a brother.”
And then—
He cut his palm.
Blood welled, dark and thick, dripping onto Torin’s chest, onto the blackthorn flowers, onto the stone. The runes on the dagger flared—gold, then crimson—light spreading through the chamber like fire. And then—
Flame.
Not from the torches. Not from magic. But from the blood, from the runes, from the vow.
The fire rose slow, curling around Torin’s body, warm, golden, *clean*. It didn’t burn. Didn’t scorch. Just lifted him, cradling him like a child, like a king, like a man who had died for love.
I stepped back, breath catching, my hand pressed to my hip, to the sigil, to the leather pouch hidden beneath my tunic. The blackthorn flower was still there. My mother’s weapon. My mother’s key.
And now—
It was Torin’s.
I reached into the pouch, fingers trembling, and pulled it out. The petals were soft, dark, edged with silver. I stepped forward, slow, and knelt beside Kaelen, placing the flower on Torin’s chest, just above his heart.
He didn’t look at me. Just pressed his hand over mine, blood and fire mixing, heat rushing through me. The bond flared—white-hot, electric—but not with need. Not with desire.
With *grief*.
With *honor*.
With *vow*.
“He loved someone,” Kaelen said, voice low. “A Fae spy. He never told anyone. But I knew. I saw the way he looked at her. The way he held himself when she was near.”
My breath caught.
“I’ll tell her,” he said. “When this is over. I’ll tell her he loved her. That he died for us. That he was the bravest man I’ve ever known.”
I didn’t answer. Just stayed where I was, my hand still under his, my breath unsteady. The fire rose higher, curling around Torin’s body, lifting him, carrying him toward the sky. His face was peaceful. His chest still. His spirit—
Free.
And then—
It was gone.
The flame vanished. The runes dimmed. The blood stopped flowing. Only ash remained—silver, soft, drifting on the wind like snow.
Kaelen stood, slowly, his coat unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his face streaked with blood and ash. He didn’t speak. Just turned to me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
Not anger.
Not command.
*Grief.*
And then—
He pulled me into his arms.
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 ash falling around us.
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.
And then—
I pulled back.
Just enough.
And I looked at him.
Really looked.
Not at the king. Not at the predator. Not at the monster.
At the man.
The one who had held me through the worst of it. Who had denied his nature. Who had let me break him. Who had burned his brother to ash with his own blood.
And I knew—
This wasn’t about revenge.
Not anymore.
It was about justice.
For my mother.
For Torin.
For all of us.
“We fight them together,” I said, voice steady.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded. “As equals.”
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I felt like a queen.