The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor of our chambers—*our* chambers, not his, not mine, but *ours*, a truth still strange on my tongue. The storm had passed. The battles were over. The Oath rewritten, the Council reformed, the Blood Courts reborn. And yet, as I sat on the rug before the flames, knees drawn to my chest, the silence felt unfamiliar. Not threatening. Not hollow. Just… soft.
Kaelen stood at the window, silhouetted against the night, his coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the dim light. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched the sea below, where the waves crashed against the cliffs in a rhythm older than blood, older than magic. The bond pulsed between us—low, steady, not screaming, not burning. Just… there. Like a second heartbeat beneath my skin. Like a promise kept.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep with a blade in my boot and murder in her 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 sat there, the fire warming my skin, the scent of blackthorn blossoms drifting from the vase on the sill, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
“You’re thinking,” he said, voice low, rough, breaking the silence.
I didn’t turn. “I’m remembering.”
“Of him?”
“Of all of it.” I finally looked at him. His face was streaked with ash, his eyes shadowed, his hands still blistered from tearing the silver chains. But he stood tall. Unbroken. “Torin.”
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “He died for us.”
“And we’ll live for him.”
“No.” I stood slowly, bare feet silent on the stone. “We’ll *fight* for him. For my mother. For every witch, werewolf, and Fae who’s been enslaved by this Oath.”
His breath caught. “And what do you plan to do?”
“Live,” I said, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. My hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Not fast. Not frantic. Just… there. Alive. *His.* “Not in shadows. Not in silence. But in the light. Together.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then stay.”
“Not because you command it,” I said, voice breaking. “Not because the bond demands it. But because I *choose* to.”
“Then choose me,” he murmured. “Not as your king. Not as your mate. As the man who loves you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
I didn’t answer. Just lifted my hand, slow, and brushed my fingers over his cheek—just once. A jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet. The bond flared. My core clenched.
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, on the rug before the fire, with the flames dancing in our shadows.
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. 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.
Later, we sat by the fire again, side by side, shoulders touching, hands close but not clasped. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Of breath. Of warmth. Of *us*.
“Mira sent a message,” he said, voice low. “The rebellion’s still spreading. The Blood District is free. The collars are gone. Virell is in chains.”
I didn’t smile. Didn’t cheer. Just nodded. “Good.”
“And?”
“And she said to tell you—” I turned to face him, slow, deliberate—“she’s not your ally. She’s not your subject. She’s not your *problem*.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not command. *Grief.*
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” I said, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. My hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Let her be free. Let her fight her own battles. Let her be seen.”
He didn’t answer. 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, on the rug, with the firelight dancing over our skin.
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 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.
Later, we lay together on the rug, limbs tangled, breath mingling, the fire low and warm. He traced the sigil on my hip 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, on the rug, with the firelight flickering over our skin.
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.
“I never thought I’d be happy,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just pulled me closer, until my head rested against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a vow. “Now you are.”
And as the fire crackled low, as the sea roared below, as the bond pulsed steady and strong beneath my skin—
I believed him.