The Blood Moon Festival was never supposed to happen again.
At least, not like this.
Once, it had been a night of terror—a sacred vampire rite held under the crimson moon, where captured werewolves were paraded before the Blood Courts, their heat cycles exploited, their bodies used as vessels for blood oaths and dark rituals. It was the night my mother died. The night the Duskbane Oath was sealed in her blood. The night I learned that power wasn’t just taken—it was stolen.
But now?
Now the Blood Moon rose over Blackthorn Keep not in blood, but in light.
Not in chains, but in celebration.
And I—River Duskbane, witch-blooded, wolf-touched, queen not by birth but by fire—stood at the center of it all, my hand in Kaelen’s, our bond pulsing beneath the skin like a second heartbeat.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. We stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching as the square transformed—lanterns of silver and black strung between spires, the scent of crushed violets and moon-blooming jasmine thick in the air, children laughing as they chased glowing fireflies through the ivy. The Keep had never looked so alive. So free.
I didn’t answer right away.
Just watched the people—werewolves dancing barefoot in the grass, witches casting soft sigils that bloomed into light, humans and Fae mingling without fear. No collars. No cages. No silence. Just music. Laughter. Life.
And yet, beneath the joy, I felt it—the weight of memory, the ghost of grief, the echo of a scream I still heard in my dreams.
“It feels like a betrayal,” I said finally, voice low. “To celebrate this night.”
Kaelen didn’t flinch. Just turned to me, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not guilt. Not defensiveness. Understanding.
“It’s not a betrayal,” he said, voice rough. “It’s a reclamation.”
I looked at him. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I know.” He didn’t look away. “But I’m saying it anyway. Because you’re not the only one who’s lost someone to this moon. You’re not the only one who’s bled for it.” His free hand moved to his chest, over the scar beneath his coat—the one he’d burned into his own flesh the night he killed Malrik. “And if we don’t take this night back, if we don’t turn it into something ours… then they win. The ones who built their power on your mother’s death. On Torin’s sacrifice. On every life they’ve crushed.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie, any oath, any blade ever could.
Because if I let myself believe him—if I let myself believe that we could heal, that we could build something new on the bones of the old—then I’d have to admit that I wasn’t just fighting to destroy.
I was fighting to live.
And I wasn’t sure I knew how.
“Dance with me,” he said, pulling me forward before I could protest.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.” His voice dropped, low, dangerous. “Before you start thinking again. Before you find another reason to pull away.”
I didn’t resist.
Couldn’t.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel his hands on my waist, his breath hot against my neck, the slow, deliberate way he pulled me against him, until there was no space between us.
The music shifted—a deep, pulsing rhythm, slow and sensual, the kind that made your blood hum. The kind that made the bond scream.
And then—
We moved.
Not fast. Not frantic.
Slow. Deliberate. A dance of power and surrender, of push and pull, of teeth and tongue and breath held too long. His hand slid down my spine, just once, a whisper of touch that made my core clench. My fingers tangled in his coat, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my breath hitching.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
“I’m not afraid.”
“No.” His hand tightened on my waist. “You’re alive.”
And that—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if I wasn’t afraid, if I wasn’t angry, if I wasn’t running—then what was I?
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
Not a ghost.
Then what?
A woman.
In love.
With the man who had once been her enemy.
The music swelled. The crowd parted. And all around us, the Blood Moon cast its crimson glow over the stone, the ivy, the faces of those who had once cowered in fear—and now danced in defiance.
And then—
She appeared.
Elara.
Our daughter.
She stood at the edge of the circle, barefoot, her dark hair loose, her small hands clutching a silver lantern. She didn’t speak. Just watched us, those wide, dark eyes seeing too much.
Kaelen didn’t stop dancing.
Just slowed, until we were barely moving, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling.
“She’s staring,” I whispered.
“Let her.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “She should see this. See us.”
“See what?”
“That love isn’t weakness.” His voice dropped. “That power isn’t always a blade. That a queen can be soft. That a king can kneel.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
Because he was right.
And I hated that.
Hated that he could unravel me with words. With touch. With the quiet certainty in his voice, the way he looked at me—not like prey, not like property, but like something precious.
And then—
She ran.
Not away.
Toward us.
Small feet pounding the stone, her lantern swinging, her face lit with something I hadn’t seen before—joy.
“Mama!” she cried, throwing her arms around my legs.
I knelt, pulling her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her hair—violets and sunshine. “Hey, little wolf.”
She looked up, her eyes bright. “Are you dancing?”
“We were.”
“Can I dance too?”
I glanced at Kaelen.
He didn’t smirk. Didn’t smirk. Just watched us, those crimson eyes soft with something I couldn’t name. Not possession. Not hunger. Love.
“Of course,” he said, voice low. “But only if you let me lead.”
Elara giggled—actual, unfiltered giggling—and held out her hands. Kaelen took one. I took the other.
And we danced.
Not a slow, sensual waltz.
A wild, spinning, laughing mess of a dance—the kind that made her shriek with delight, the kind that made my belly ache from laughter, the kind that made the bond hum with something warm, something bright, something good.
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 I was fighting.
I felt like I was home.
Later, we sat by the fire—a great bonfire in the center of the courtyard, its flames licking the night sky, casting long shadows over the stone. Elara curled against my side, half-asleep, her small hand clutching mine. Kaelen sat beside me, his coat flaring in the wind, his arm around my shoulders, his fangs just visible in the firelight.
“She’s beautiful,” Mira said, dropping onto the stone beside us. She wore a simple tunic of dark gray, her hair braided tight, a vial of moon venom tucked into her belt. No crown. No title. Just power.
“She is,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from Elara’s face.
“Looks like you,” Mira added. “But she’s got his eyes.”
I didn’t answer.
Just watched the flames, the way they danced, the way they burned.
“You’re brooding again,” Mira said.
“I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.” She leaned closer. “You know, you don’t have to earn this. The peace. The love. The family. It’s not a trick. It’s not a trap. It’s just… yours.”
My breath caught.
Because she was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie, any oath, any blade ever could.
“What if I don’t deserve it?” I whispered.
“Then you’re an idiot.” She nudged me with her shoulder. “You fought for this. You bled for this. You rewrote the Oath, broke the chains, claimed your mate. You don’t get to stand here and pretend you don’t deserve happiness.”
“And what if it’s taken from me?”
“Then you fight for it again.” She didn’t look at me. Just stared into the fire. “And again. And again. Until there’s nothing left to take.”
And that—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because she wasn’t just talking about me.
She was talking about herself.
About the rebellion.
About the life she’d built from nothing.
And I knew—
She wasn’t just my ally.
She was my sister.
And I wasn’t alone.
“You’re not alone,” Kaelen said, as if reading my thoughts. His arm tightened around me. “You never were.”
“You say that like it’s a comfort.”
“Isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer.
Just leaned into him, my head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Not human. Not wolf. Not even truly vampire.
But his.
And mine.
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 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, by the fire, with our daughter sleeping against my side and the Blood Moon burning above us.
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 sat 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 arches into his.
Later, I carried Elara to bed, her small body limp with sleep, her breath soft against my neck. Kaelen followed, silent, his presence a shadow at my back. We laid her down together, tucking her beneath the covers, brushing the hair from her face.
“She’ll be a fighter,” he said, voice low.
“She already is.”
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, in our daughter’s room, with the Blood Moon burning through the window 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 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.
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.