The air in the Bloodstone Chamber still hummed with the aftermath of magic—like the breath after a scream, like the silence after a storm. The runes on the altar glowed silver now, not crimson. The Oath was rewritten. The bond had shattered, transformed, reborn. And yet—
It pulsed.
Not with the old hunger, not with the desperate need to dominate or survive. But with something softer. Deeper. Something that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t understand.
Kaelen stood before me, his hand still pressed to my hip, his thumb moving in slow circles over the sigil. It didn’t burn anymore. Not from lies. Not from fear. Just… warmed. Like it was alive. Like it was happy.
I should have pulled away.
Should have stepped back, reminded him who I was, who he was, what we’d just done. I’d rewritten the Oath. Freed my bloodline. Proved my mother’s legacy wasn’t in destruction, but in justice.
And yet—
I didn’t move.
My body stayed rooted, my breath uneven, my core still tight from the climax that had ripped through me the moment our lips met. I’d come in his arms—again—without him even touching me there. Without his hands between my thighs, without his mouth on my neck, without his cock buried deep inside me.
And I wanted it.
I wanted him.
Not as a weapon. Not as a mission. Not as a means to an end.
But as a man.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice low, rough.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. “You’re ready.”
I lifted my head, meeting his gaze. His crimson eyes were dark, not with hunger, not with possession—but with something quieter. Something that looked like reverence. “I don’t want this to be about the bond,” I said, voice shaking. “I don’t want this to be because we’re fated. Because we’re bound. Because magic demands it.”
He didn’t answer. Just reached up, slow, deliberate, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “Then let it be about this,” he said. “Let it be about you arching into me. About your breath catching when I touch you. About the way your scent changes—wolf, witch, *need*—when I’m near.”
My breath hitched.
“Let it be about the way you looked at me when you rewrote the Oath,” he continued, voice rough. “Like you were seeing me for the first time. Not the king. Not the monster. But the man who would burn the world for you.”
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My skin was on fire. “I don’t want to be owned,” I said, voice breaking.
“You’re not,” he said, stepping even closer, his chest brushing mine. “You’re not mine because I took you. You’re mine because you chose me. Because you stayed. Because you fought for me. Because you *rewrote* the Oath to save us both.”
My eyes burned.
Not from tears. Not from pain.
From the weight of it. The truth of it.
I had chosen him.
Not in spite of everything.
But because of it.
Because he hadn’t killed me when he could have.
Because he’d denied his nature when it would have been easier to take.
Because he’d held me through the fever, the grief, the rage.
Because he’d burned his brother to ash with his own blood and still stood before me, whole.
And because, when I’d kissed him in the Bloodforge, when I’d broken against him, he hadn’t claimed me.
He’d let me break.
And now—
Now I wanted to be claimed.
Not by magic.
Not by fate.
But by choice.
By desire.
By need.
“Then show me,” I said, voice low. “Not as the king. Not as my mate. As the man who wants me.”
His breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
He didn’t speak.
Just stepped back—just enough—and reached for the buttons of his coat.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Each one undone with a quiet click, the sound echoing in the chamber. The black fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the faint scar across his ribs—a wound from centuries ago, long healed, but never forgotten.
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t tear at his clothes like a predator.
He undressed like a man who knew he was being watched. Who wanted to be seen.
Who wanted to be known.
My breath came faster.
My core clenched.
My fingers curled into my palms, aching to touch him.
And then—
He reached for mine.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
His fingers brushed the collar of my tunic, then moved to the first button. “May I?” he asked, voice low.
I didn’t answer.
Just nodded.
And then—
He undressed me.
Each button undone with the same care, the same reverence. The fabric parted, revealing the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the scar on my hip—a mark from a childhood fight, hidden beneath the sigil. His fingers traced it, just once, before moving lower, to the laces of my trousers.
My breath hitched.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough. “Not because you’re mine. But because you’re you. Strong. Fierce. Unbroken.”
I didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Just stood there, trembling, as he knelt before me, pulling the trousers down my legs, one at a time, his hands warm against my skin. My boots followed. Then my underclothes.
And then—
I was bare.
Not just in body.
But in soul.
And he didn’t look away.
Just stared at me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not hunger. Not lust. Not even love.
Devotion.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said, standing, his own trousers falling away. “But I want to. Not because the bond demands it. Not because I need to claim you. But because I want to know you. Every inch. Every scar. Every breath.”
And then—
He pulled me into his arms.
Not roughly. Not violently.
Gently.
One arm around my waist, the other behind my head, pulling me against him, his body a wall of heat, his breath hot on my neck. My skin prickled. My core clenched. My fingers dug into his shoulders.
“I’ve never done this,” I said, voice shaking. “Not like this. Not with someone I—” I couldn’t finish.
“I know,” he said, pressing his forehead to mine. “And I’ve never *wanted* to. Not until you.”
His lips brushed mine—soft, slow, a whisper of a kiss. Not demanding. Not claiming. Just… asking.
And I answered.
Not with words.
But with my mouth.
I kissed him—slow at first, then deeper, my tongue sliding against his, my body arching into his. He groaned, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip, sharp and sweet. I tasted blood—mine, his, ours—and the bond flared, white-hot, electric, crashing through me, pooling between my legs.
He broke the kiss, breath uneven, eyes dark. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice rough.
“You won’t,” I said, pressing my hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’re not that man anymore.”
He didn’t answer.
Just lifted me—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and carried me to the edge of the altar. The stone was cool beneath my back, but his body was hot, his skin a furnace against mine. He knelt between my legs, his hands moving up my thighs, slow, reverent, his thumbs brushing the inside of my hips.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low.
I did.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not on the mouth.
On the inside of my thigh.
Soft. Slow. A whisper of lips against skin. Then higher. Closer. Until his breath was hot against my core, until I could feel the wetness between my legs, until I was trembling, breathless, needing.
“Kaelen—” I gasped.
And then—
His mouth was on me.
Not rough. Not frantic.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His tongue traced the seam of my pussy, then circled my clit, once, twice, before pressing down, firm, unrelenting. I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into the stone. He didn’t stop. Just kept going, his tongue moving in slow, steady circles, his hands holding my hips down, his fangs grazing my inner thigh.
“Gods,” I moaned, my head falling back. “Kaelen, I—”
And then—
I came.
Not quietly. Not gently.
With a cry, with a shudder, with my body arching off the altar, my fingers clawing at the stone. He didn’t stop. Just kept licking, kept tasting, kept drinking me in until I was gasping, breathless, ruined.
And when I finally stilled, when my breath came in shallow gasps, when my body trembled with the aftershocks—he pulled back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.
“You taste like mine,” he murmured, voice rough.
And then—
He stood.
His cock was hard—long, thick, veined, the tip glistening with pre-cum. I reached for him, my hand trembling, but he caught my wrist, pressing it to the altar.
“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “Let me give you this first.”
And then—
He entered me.
Slow.
Deep.
One inch at a time, until he was fully buried inside me, his body pressed to mine, his breath hot on my neck. I gasped, my body stretching, adjusting, accepting. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath uneven.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned. “So warm. So mine.”
I didn’t answer.
Just wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my core clenching around him.
And then—
He moved.
Slow at first, then deeper, then faster, each thrust driving me higher, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through me. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place, his fangs grazing my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
I didn’t.
Not yet.
But I arched into him, my body answering for me.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not with pain.
Not with need.
With connection.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—again—right there, around him, with his cock buried deep inside me.
I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his back. He groaned, low and deep, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“River,” he growled, voice breaking. “I’m—”
And then—
He came.
Not quietly. Not gently.
With a roar, with a shudder, with his body pressing deep inside me, his seed flooding me, hot and thick. I felt it—every pulse, every spasm, every drop—and the bond flared again, white-hot, electric, crashing through us both.
And then—
Stillness.
He collapsed on top of me, his body a wall of heat, his breath hot on my neck. I didn’t push him away. Just wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, my fingers tangling in his hair.
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
He lifted his head, those crimson eyes locking onto mine. Not with hunger. Not with possession. But with something quieter. Something that looked like love.
“I’m yours,” I whispered, voice raw.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “No,” he said, voice rough. “We’re each other’s.”
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep with a blade in my boot and murder in my heart, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I didn’t feel like a queen.
I felt like a woman.
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 lay there, his body still buried inside 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.