The Blood Moon rose like a wound in the sky.
Full. Crimson. Heavy with magic. It bled across the cliffs of Blackthorn Keep, staining the stone, the sea, the very air with its glow. The wind carried whispers—old oaths, forgotten names, the echoes of battles long past. But tonight was not for ghosts.
It was for claiming.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, barefoot, dressed in a gown of silver silk edged with blackthorn thorns, the fabric light against my skin, the hem brushing the stone. My hair was unbound, wild, tangled with dried moonlight and crushed violets—Mira’s doing, her silent blessing. The sigil on my hip burned—not with pain, not with accusation—but with anticipation. Like it knew. Like it had waited for this.
And maybe it had.
Because this wasn’t just a ritual.
It wasn’t just tradition.
It was a vow. A promise. A choice.
And I was making it willingly.
Behind me, the Keep stood whole again—repaired, reborn, its spires no longer weapons but sentinels. The cracks in the stone were sealed with silver sigils, the gates reforged, the Bloodstone Chamber open and unguarded. No more secrets. No more lies. No more chains.
And inside—
The people.
Not just vampires. Not just werewolves or Fae or witches. But humans too. Free. Unchained. Unafraid. They filled the halls, the balconies, the courtyard, their faces turned toward me, toward the dais where Kaelen waited.
He stood tall, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the moonlight. No crown. No throne. No pretense. Just a man. A king. A mate.
And mine.
His eyes found me—crimson, sharp, hungry—and the bond screamed. Not with need. Not with desperation. With recognition. Like two halves of a whole finally coming together.
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 felt like a woman.
And that terrified me more than any lie, any oath, any blade 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 walked toward him, boots silent on the stone, the wind tugging at my hair, I knew one thing:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally reached the dais, when I stood before him, when our breaths mingled in the cold air—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just looked at me, those dark eyes seeing too much. Not my face. Not my body. But the storm inside me—the fear, the doubt, the wanting.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice low, rough. “The bond is already ours. The Oath is rewritten. You’re free.”
“I know,” I said, lifting my chin. “But I want to.”
“Not because the Council demands it. Not because the Blood Courts expect it. Not because the moon calls.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I choose to. Because I want the world to see. To know. To remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That I wasn’t taken.” I stepped closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. My hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “That I wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t claimed by force.” I lifted my gaze to his. “That I chose you. That I want you. That I love you.”
His breath caught.
And the bond—
It flared. Not with magic. Not with power. With truth.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just stared at 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—
He stepped back.
Just enough.
And he turned to the crowd.
“You’ve all come to witness,” he said, voice low, dangerous, carrying across the courtyard. “To see if the hybrid queen will finally be broken. If the vampire king will finally claim his prize.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
But he didn’t flinch.
Just kept going. “But this is not a conquest. This is not a possession. This is not a chain.” He turned back to me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not hunger. Not command. Love.
“This is a vow,” he said, voice raw. “A promise. A choice.”
And then—
He knelt.
Not on one knee.
On both.
Head bowed. Hands open. Fangs retracted.
And the silence—
It was deafening.
Not fear. Not shock. Not disbelief.
Respect.
Because he wasn’t just a king.
He was a man.
And he was offering himself.
To me.
“River,” he said, voice low, rough. “I do not claim you. I do not own you. I do not command you.” His hand lifted, slow, deliberate, palm up. “I choose you. I want you. I love you. And if you will have me—if you will stand with me, fight with me, live with me—then I will spend every breath, every drop of blood, every heartbeat proving I am worthy of you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It flared. Not with magic. Not with power. With truth.
Because he wasn’t just asking for my body.
He was asking for my heart.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt like a queen.
I didn’t answer with words.
Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and took his hand.
And then—
I knelt too.
Not in submission.
In unity.
Our hands clasped—skin to skin, pulse to pulse, bond to bond. The sigil on my hip burned—white-hot, searing—but not with pain. With recognition. With release.
And then—
We rose.
Together.
And the crowd—
It erupted.
Not with cheers. Not with applause.
With sound.
Voices rising, hands lifting, candles igniting. A wave of energy so intense it tore through the courtyard, white-hot, electric, crashing through the air, shattering the silence, cracking the stone beneath our feet.
And then—
The ritual began.
No priests. No elders. No Council. Just us. Just the moon. Just the bond.
I turned to face him, slow, deliberate. The gown slipped from one shoulder, baring my neck—the soft curve, the pulse, the skin that had never been marked. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“Do it,” I said, voice low. “Not because you can. Not because the moon demands it. But because I want you to.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until his breath ghosted over my skin. His fangs grazed my neck—sharp, sweet, not biting, not claiming—just feeling. Testing. Waiting.
“Say it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m not yours,” I said, voice breaking. “I’m with you. I’m for you. I’m in love with you. But I’m not yours.”
He didn’t flinch.
Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then let me show you,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
And then—
He bit.
Not hard. Not brutal.
Slow. Deep. A surge of heat so intense it stole my breath. My body arched into his, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my core clenching, already slick, already ready. The bond screamed—not with pain, not with magic—but with 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, on the dais, with the Blood Moon above us and the world watching.
I cried out, my body trembling, my breath ragged. He held me, groaning, his fangs still in my neck, 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—
The crowd began to chant.
Not his name.
Not mine.
Our bond.
River. Kaelen. River. Kaelen.
Over and over, rising like a tide, crashing against the cliffs, echoing across the sea. The wind carried it, the moon answered, the bond pulsed in time with the rhythm.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
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 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.
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, he traced the bite mark with his thumb—soft, reverent, not possessive. “It’s permanent,” he said, voice low. “The bond. The mark. The claim.”
“I know.” I turned to face him, slow, deliberate. “And I don’t regret it.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then let me show you,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
My breath caught.
And then—
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 our bed, with the Blood Moon still bleeding across the sky.
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 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.