The first time I saw her, she was standing at the edge of the training circle, barefoot in the dew-wet grass, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, her small hands clenched around a wooden sigil staff almost as tall as she was. The morning sun spilled over the cliffs, gilding the ivy that climbed the walls of the new school, painting the stone in soft gold. Birds sang in the trees. Children laughed in the courtyard. And there—small, fierce, unafraid—was my daughter.
Our daughter.
Elara.
She was five years old. Old enough to remember her name. Old enough to know her mother. But not old enough to understand what it meant to be the child of a queen who had once carried a blade in her boot and murder in her heart.
Not yet.
But she would.
I stood at the edge of the garden, my hand resting low on my belly—our son, still growing, still kicking, still strong. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, steady, warm, not screaming, not demanding, just… there. Like a second heartbeat. Like a vow etched into my bones. I felt Kaelen before I saw him—his presence, his heat, the low growl in his throat as he stepped up behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“She’s watching you,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
I didn’t turn. “I know.”
“You think she knows?”
“Knows what?”
“That you’re teaching her to fight.”
I finally turned in his arms, slow, deliberate, until I was facing him. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, his face streaked with ash from the night’s patrol. But he was here. Alive. Present. Mine.
“I’m not teaching her to fight,” I said, voice soft. “I’m teaching her to survive.”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched 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 kissed me.
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 tangle 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 tears through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, in the garden, with our daughter watching and our son stirring beneath my 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 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, I walk into the training circle, boots soft on the stone, my cloak flaring behind me. The children fall silent—not out of fear, not out of obedience, but out of respect. They know who I am. Not just the queen. Not just the mate of the vampire king. But the woman who rewrote the Oath. Who broke the chains. Who fought for them.
And they want to be like me.
Elara stands at the front, her small chest puffed out, her jaw set, her eyes fierce. She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, like I’m something possible.
“Today,” I say, voice low, steady, carrying across the circle, “we learn the first rule of magic.”
“What’s that?” a boy calls from the back—Liam, son of a former brothel worker, his hands still marked with the scars of branding.
“Intent,” I say, stepping forward, slow, deliberate. “Magic doesn’t care about power. It doesn’t care about blood. It doesn’t care about rank.” I stop in front of Elara. “It cares about intent.”
She doesn’t blink. Just holds my gaze.
“When you cast a sigil,” I continue, “you’re not just drawing a symbol. You’re making a promise. You’re speaking a truth. And if your heart isn’t in it—” I kneel, so I’m at her level—“the magic will fail.”
She swallows. “Like when I tried to light the candle?”
I nod. “Like that.”
“But I *wanted* it.”
“Did you?” I place a hand over her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. “Or did you just want to impress me?”
Her breath hitches.
And the bond—
It pulses, low, insistent.
Because she’s my daughter. And she’s already learning to hide.
“You don’t have to impress me,” I say, voice soft. “You just have to be true.”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, those dark eyes seeing too much.
And then—
She lifts the staff.
Slow.
Deliberate.
And she draws the sigil in the air—simple, clean, glowing faintly silver. No fire. No smoke. No sound.
But the candle at the center of the circle?
It ignites.
Not with a crackle.
Not with a roar.
But with a soft, steady flame.
The children gasp.
But I don’t.
Just smile.
And pull her into my arms.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “That’s how you do it.”
She clings to me, small, fierce, real. “Did I do it right?”
“You did it true.”
And that—
That’s enough.
Later, we sit in the sunroom—a room filled with ivy and moon-blooming jasmine, the scent thick and sweet. 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 Elara, 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 children 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 children, 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 future,” I say, voice soft. “Together.”
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.