The morning after felt like a dream—soft, golden, unreal. We didn’t speak much. Didn’t need to. Kaelen carried me from the Bloodstone Chamber like I weighed nothing, his arms tight around me, my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still buried deep inside me as we moved through the quiet halls of Blackthorn Keep. The bond pulsed between us, steady and warm, no longer a chain but a current—alive, breathing, *ours*.
He took me to his chambers—a vast, shadowed suite with vaulted ceilings, black stone walls, and a bed so large it looked like a battlefield. He laid me down gently, then stretched out beside me, pulling me against his chest. I didn’t resist. Just pressed my face into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the scent of dark amber, iron, and *him*. His hand moved over my hip, tracing the sigil, and for the first time, it didn’t burn. It just… warmed. Like it was finally home.
We slept tangled together, limbs intertwined, breaths syncing. No nightmares. No fear. Just peace.
And when I woke, he was already gone.
The bed was cold. The room empty. The bond still hummed, but it felt… distant. Like a whisper instead of a scream. I sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from my bare skin, my body aching in the sweetest way—thighs sore, core still pulsing with the ghost of his touch, lips swollen from his kisses.
And then—
My stomach dropped.
Because I remembered.
The new Oath. The rewritten runes. The Council. Lyra. Malrik’s allies still out there. The war wasn’t over. Not yet. We’d broken the chain, but the players were still in motion. And Kaelen—
He was a king.
And kings didn’t get to stay in bed all day, tangled in the arms of their mates.
I dressed quickly—dark trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots laced tight. Practical. Unremarkable. No gowns. No silks. No vulnerability. Then I reached for the leather pouch hidden beneath the mattress. The blackthorn flower was still there, petals soft, scent faint. A reminder. A weapon. A key.
But I didn’t need it anymore.
Not for destruction.
For justice.
I tucked it into the seam of my sleeve and left the room.
The Keep was alive with tension—guards moving in silence, attendants whispering behind hands, the air thick with the scent of iron and fear. The Council had summoned us. Both of us. Not as enemies. Not as allies.
As *mated*.
And they wanted answers.
I found Kaelen in the war room—standing at the obsidian table, surrounded by maps, runes flickering above like dying stars. He wore his coat, black and severe, buttons fastened to the throat, fangs just visible in the low light. He didn’t look at me when I entered. Just kept staring at the map of the Blood District, where Malrik’s influence had pulsed like a diseased heart.
Now, it was gone.
Erased.
But something else had taken its place.
Power.
And not just his.
Ours.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
“I was asleep,” I said, stepping closer. “With you.”
He finally looked at me. Those crimson eyes—dark, knowing—locked onto mine. “We have a Council meeting in an hour.”
“And?”
“And they’ll expect us to be united. To be *mated*.”
“We are.”
“Not in the way they think.” He turned back to the map, fingers tracing the edge of the Blood District. “They’ll want proof. A claim. A bite.”
My breath caught. “You want me to let you bite me?”
“I don’t *want* anything,” he said, voice rough. “I’m thinking of strategy. Of power. Of how to keep you safe.”
“And if I say no?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the map, jaw clenched, fangs bared. The bond flared—hot, sharp, *painful*—but not from need. From something else.
Control.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a woman.
I felt like a pawn.
“You don’t get to decide for me,” I said, voice low. “Not anymore.”
“I’m not deciding,” he said. “I’m protecting.”
“By turning me into your trophy? By letting them see your fangs in my throat?”
“By making them fear you,” he snapped, turning to me, eyes blazing. “By making them know you’re not just some hybrid saboteur. You’re my *mate*. You’re my *equal*. And if they try to touch you, they’ll answer to me.”
“And if I don’t want your protection?”
“Too bad,” he growled. “You’re mine. Whether you like it or not.”
The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing. I gasped, doubling over. Sweat broke across my brow. My vision blurred.
He didn’t move. Just watched. “Liar,” he murmured. “You want it. You want *me*.”
“I want *freedom*,” I said, lifting my head, glaring. “I want to be more than your claim. More than your weapon. More than your *mate*.”
“Then what do you want?” he demanded, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. “To walk away? To pretend none of this happened? To go back to hating me?”
“Maybe,” I said, voice shaking. “Maybe I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”
The bond *shattered*.
Not in pain.
Not in loss.
In *rage*.
He snarled, fangs bared, shadows writhing around him like a second skin. “Say that again,” he growled, voice raw. “Say you wish I were dead.”
“I do,” I said, stepping closer, not backing down. “I do, Kaelen. I came here to destroy you. To break your Oath. To free my bloodline. And now? Now I’m *yours*? Bound by magic, by fate, by *this*?” I pressed a hand to my hip, to the sigil, to the bond. “You took everything from me. My mission. My rage. My *hate*.”
“And gave you something better,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Freedom. Justice. *Love*.”
“Don’t say that word,” I hissed. “You don’t get to say that. Not after everything.”
“Why not?” He stepped closer, until our bodies were pressed together, his cock hard against my thigh, his breath hot on my neck. “You came in my mouth last night. You screamed my name when I was inside you. You said you were *mine*. And now you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
“It was *sex*,” I said, voice breaking. “Not love. Not loyalty. Just… need.”
“Liar,” he whispered, hand moving to my hip, pressing down, firm, unrelenting. The sigil flared—hot, sharp—but it didn’t burn. Not really. It just… shifted. Like it knew. Like it *recognized* him. “You don’t just *need* me. You *want* me. You *crave* me. You *burn* for me.”
“And you?” I demanded, stepping closer, not backing down. “You don’t just want me. You want to *own* me. To *control* me. To make me your queen so you can still be your king.”
He didn’t deny it. Just stared at me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not command. *Grief.*
“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I want to own you. I want to control you. I want to make you mine in every way possible. Because if I don’t—if I let you go, if I let you walk away—I’ll lose you. And I can’t survive that. Not again.”
My breath caught.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he said, voice low. “You think I don’t see the way you pull away? The way you hesitate? The way you look at me like I’m still the monster you came to destroy?”
“Because you *are*,” I said, voice breaking. “You’re still him. The king. The predator. The killer.”
“And you’re still her,” he said, stepping closer, until our bodies were pressed together, his cock hard against my thigh, his breath hot on my neck. “The warrior. The rebel. The woman who’d rather die than serve.”
“Then why did you stop?” I demanded, voice shaking. “Why didn’t you just take me that first night? Why didn’t you claim me when you had the chance?”
“Because I *loved* you,” he snarled, fangs bared, eyes blazing. “Because I didn’t want you like *them*. Like prey. Like a conquest. I wanted you to *choose* me. To *want* me. To *burn* for me the way I burn for you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not with pain.
Not with need.
With *truth*.
He loved me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because I was *me*.
And I—
I loved him.
Not despite everything.
But because of it.
Because he’d denied his nature. Because he’d let me break him. 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 take me,” I whispered, voice raw.
He didn’t move. Just stared at me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not hunger. Not possession. *Grief.*
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I said, voice breaking. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Oath. But because I *choose* you. Because I *want* you. Because I *burn* for you.”
And then—
He attacked.
Not with words.
Not with magic.
With his body.
He grabbed me—fast, brutal, *desperate*—one hand in my hair, the other at my hip, pulling me against him, his mouth crashing down on mine. Not a kiss. Not a caress. 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 war room, with the maps and runes and power surrounding 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.
He broke the kiss, breath uneven, eyes dark. “You’re not leaving this room,” he growled. “Not until you’re marked. Not until you’re *mine*.”
“Then mark me,” I said, voice rough. “But not because I have to. Because I *want* to.”
He didn’t answer. Just lifted me—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and carried me to the obsidian table. He laid me down gently, then stretched out over me, his body a wall of heat, his breath hot on my neck. My skin prickled. My core clenched. My fingers dug into his coat.
“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 table, 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 table.
“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’m yours,” I gasped, my body arching into him. “Always. Only. *Yours*.”
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 hate when we fight,” I whispered, voice raw.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just bit my neck—sharp, sweet, *claiming*—and I felt it. The mark. The bond. The truth.
“Then don’t stop loving me,” he said, voice rough.
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.