One year.
It’s been one year since I stood on the balcony of Blackthorn Keep, rain-washed and raw, and declared that I would no longer be a weapon in someone else’s war. One year since I rewrote the Oath, shattered the chains, and claimed Kaelen not as my king—but as my equal. One year since I stopped running from the bond and started letting it breathe, letting it grow, letting it become something I never thought possible: love.
And now?
Now I stand on the same balcony, barefoot, my hand resting low on my belly, feeling the quiet flutter beneath my palm. The morning sun spills over the cliffs, gilding the sea, painting the stone in soft gold. The Keep is alive—not with the tension of war, not with the weight of secrets, but with the hum of peace. Birds sing in the ivy. Guards laugh in the courtyards. The scent of blackthorn blossoms drifts through the air, sweet and sharp, like a promise kept.
And inside me?
A life.
Our life.
I close my eyes, breathing deep. The bond pulses beneath my skin—steady, warm, not screaming, not demanding, just… there. Like a second heartbeat. Like a vow etched into my bones. I feel him before I see him—his presence, his heat, the low growl in his throat as he steps onto the balcony behind me.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice rough with sleep, with hunger, with something deeper.
I don’t turn. “So are you.”
He moves closer, slow, deliberate, until his chest brushes my back, his arms sliding around my waist, his hands covering mine on my belly. His fangs graze my shoulder—just once, soft, reverent. Not to bite. Not to claim. Just to feel.
“How is she?” he murmurs, lips brushing my skin.
“He,” I correct, smiling. “And he’s kicking.”
Kaelen stills. Then—
“Again?”
“Again,” I say, pressing his hand lower, guiding it to where the little foot pushes against my ribs. “There. Feel that?”
And then—
It happens.
A tiny, insistent nudge. A flutter. A thump.
Kaelen’s breath catches.
And the bond—
It screams.
Not with pain.
Not with need.
With joy.
“Gods,” he whispers, voice breaking. “That’s… that’s real.”
I turn in his arms, slow, deliberate, until I’m facing him. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his face streaked with ash from the night’s patrol. But he’s here. Alive. Present. Mine.
“It’s real,” I say, voice soft. “We’re real.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. Not my face. Not my body. But the storm inside me—the fear, the hope, the wanting.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it steals my breath. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already ready.
He groans, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like mine.”
And then—
The world shifts.
The wind stills. The sea calms. The bond—
It screams.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tears through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, on the balcony, with the sun rising over the cliffs and our child stirring beneath my skin.
I cry out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He holds me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I want it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it’s over, when the wind returns, when the sea roars, when the bond settles into a quiet, insistent hum—
I’m still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still his.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. Blood streaks his cheek—my blood, his blood, ours. “Better?” he asks, voice rough.
I don’t answer. Just stare at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, like I’m something precious, not prey.
And that?
That’s 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 don’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stand there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I have to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I don’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lift my head, when I meet his eyes in the dim light, when I see the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I don’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wants to say yes.
Wants to arch into him.
Wants to beg.
But I don’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 stay still.
Stay silent.
And when he finally leans in, when his lips hover over mine, when his breath ghosts over my skin—
I don’t say yes.
But my body arches into his.
Later, we sit in the sunroom—a new addition to the Keep, all glass and light, filled with ivy and moon-blooming jasmine. The council has been reformed. The Blood District is free. Mira leads a council of human and witch representatives, her voice sharp, her magic bright. The werewolves govern their packs with autonomy. The Fae Courts watch, wary, but silent. And us?
We rule.
Not as king and queen.
As partners.
As equals.
As parents.
Kaelen sits beside me, one hand on my knee, the other holding a report from the border patrols. He’s reading, but I can feel his attention—on me, on the curve of my belly, on the life growing inside me.
“They want to name a district after Torin,” he says, voice low.
I look up. “And?”
“I said yes.”
My breath catches.
Because it’s not just a name.
It’s a legacy.
“Mira’s building a school there,” I say. “For hybrid children. For orphans. For anyone who’s been cast out.”
He nods, not looking up. “Good.”
“And the Fae spy—Elara.”
“She’s working with the Winter Court,” he says. “Reforming their laws. She sent a message. Said Torin would be proud.”
My eyes burn.
And the bond—
It pulses, low, insistent.
Because Torin didn’t die for nothing.
He died for a future.
And we’re living it.
“Do you think he knew?” I ask, voice breaking. “That this would happen?”
Kaelen finally looks at me. “I think he hoped.”
And that—
That’s enough.
I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers with his. His skin is cool, his grip strong, his fangs just visible in the light. “Do you ever miss it?” I ask. “The power? The control?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No. I miss the silence. The certainty. But I don’t miss ruling alone.”
“And now?”
“Now I have you.” He lifts our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “And soon, I’ll have him.”
Our son.
Our future.
“And what will you tell him?” I ask. “When he asks about us? About the Oath? About the war?”
Kaelen is quiet for a long moment. Then—
“I’ll tell him the truth.”
“That I came to kill you?”
“That you came to break the Oath.” He turns to me, those crimson eyes dark with something I can’t name. “And that I fell in love with the woman who tried to destroy me. That you didn’t just free your bloodline—you freed me.”
My breath catches.
And the bond—
It flares. Not with magic. Not with power. With truth.
Because he’s right.
I didn’t just break the Oath.
I broke him.
And in the breaking, we found each other.
“And what else?” I ask, voice soft.
“I’ll tell him,” he says, leaning closer, until our breaths mingle, “that his mother was the only woman who ever made me afraid. Not of death. Not of war. But of losing her.”
My eyes burn.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it steals my breath. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already ready.
He groans, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like mine.”
And then—
The world shifts.
The wind stills. The sea calms. The bond—
It screams.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tears through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, in the sunroom, with the jasmine blooming around us and our child stirring beneath my skin.
I cry out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He holds me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I want it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it’s over, when the wind returns, when the sea roars, when the bond settles into a quiet, insistent hum—
I’m still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still his.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. “Better?” he asks, voice rough.
I don’t answer. Just stare at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, like I’m something precious, not prey.
And that?
That’s 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 don’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I sit there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I have to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I don’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lift my head, when I meet his eyes in the dim light, when I see the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I don’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wants to say yes.
Wants to arch into him.
Wants to beg.
But I don’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 stay still.
Stay silent.
And when he finally leans in, when his lips hover over mine, when his breath ghosts over my skin—
I don’t say yes.
But my body arches into his.
That night, we stand on the balcony again, the sea roaring below, the stars sharp in the sky. The Keep is quiet now—no alarms, no battles, no blood. Just peace. Just us. Just our child, growing strong beneath my skin.
“Mira sent a message,” Kaelen says, voice low. “The rebellion’s still spreading. The collars are gone. The brothels are closed. Virell is in chains.”
I don’t smile. Don’t cheer. Just nod. “Good.”
“And?”
“And she said to tell you—” I turn to face him, slow, deliberate—“she’s not your ally. She’s not your subject. She’s not your problem.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just studies me, those crimson eyes dark with something I can’t name. Not anger. Not command. Grief.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” I say, stepping closer, until our bodies are nearly touching. My hand moves 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 doesn’t answer. Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then let me show you,” he murmurs. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
My breath catches.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it steals my breath. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already ready.
He groans, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like mine.”
And then—
The world shifts.
The wind stills. The sea calms. The bond—
It screams.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tears through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, on the balcony, with the sea roaring below and the stars above.
I cry out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He holds me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I want it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it’s over, when the wind returns, when the sea roars, when the bond settles into a quiet, insistent hum—
I’m still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still his.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. “Better?” he asks, voice rough.
I don’t answer. Just stare at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, like I’m something precious, not prey.
And that?
That’s 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 don’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stand there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I have to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I don’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lift my head, when I meet his eyes in the dim light, when I see the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I don’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wants to say yes.
Wants to arch into him.
Wants to beg.
But I don’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 stay still.
Stay silent.
And when he finally leans in, when his lips hover over mine, when his breath ghosts over my skin—
I don’t say yes.
But my body arches into his.
And then—
I pull back.
Just enough.
And I look at him.
Really look.
Not at the king. Not at the predator. Not at the monster.
At the man.
The one who held me through the worst of it. Who denied his nature. Who let me break him. Who burned his brother to ash with his own blood.
And I know—
This isn’t about revenge.
Not anymore.
It’s about justice.
For my mother.
For Torin.
For all of us.
“Our child will know love,” I say, voice soft. “Like we do.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
Slow. Deep. A vow.
And as the stars burn above us, as the sea roars below, as the bond pulses steady and strong beneath my skin—
I believe him.