The final claiming ritual was not held in the Bloodstone Chamber.
Not in the war room. Not in the throne hall. Not even in the vow chamber where we had knelt, bled, and whispered our truths the night before.
It was on the cliffs.
At dawn.
Where the sea roared below like a living thing, where the wind tore through my hair, where the first light of morning painted the sky in gold and violet and blood-red—colors of fire, of life, of endings and beginnings.
I stood barefoot on the edge, my gown of dark gray silk fluttering around me, the silver thorns at the hem catching the light. My hand rested low on my belly, feeling the steady kick of our son, his presence a quiet counterpoint to the storm inside me. The bond pulsed beneath my skin—not screaming, not demanding, not begging. Just there. A second heartbeat. A vow etched in bone and blood.
And behind me?
Kaelen.
He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stood close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the low growl in his throat, the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck. He was dressed simply—black trousers, open-collared shirt, no coat, no crown, no fangs bared. Just a man. A predator. A king who had knelt for me.
And mine.
“It’s time,” he said, voice rough, final.
I didn’t turn. “I know.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” I finally faced him. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen from our kisses the night before, his face streaked with ash from the patrol. But he was here. Alive. Present. Mine. “This isn’t just about us. It’s about balance. About justice. About rewriting the magic so it can never be used to enslave again.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until our bodies were nearly touching. His hand moved to my hip, over the sigil. It flared—hot, sharp—but not with pain. With recognition. With power.
“You’re not afraid,” he said, voice low.
“I am.” I placed my hand over his, pressing it against my hip. “But I’m not running.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. 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 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 cliffs, with the dawn breaking over the sea and our child 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. 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.
Stay 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.
Then—
We walked.
Not back to the Keep. Not to the ceremony hall. Not to the crowds waiting with bated breath and sharp eyes.
We walked to the edge of the cliff, where the stone gave way to air, where the wind howled, where the sea crashed against the rocks below like a warning.
And there, in the center of the ancient rune circle etched into the stone—older than the Keep, older than the Oath, older than the blood feud itself—we stopped.
“This is where it ends,” I said, voice low.
“And begins,” he said.
I stepped into the circle. He followed.
No words. No incantations. No sigils drawn in blood or breath.
Just us.
And the bond.
And the truth.
I turned to face him, slow, deliberate. The wind tore at my hair, at my gown, at the raw edges of my soul. The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing—not with pain, but with power. The bond pulsed, low, insistent, like a drumbeat beneath my skin.
“I claim you,” I said, voice steady. “Not as my king. Not as my mate. Not as my master.” I stepped closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. “I claim you as my equal. As my partner. As the man who held me when I broke. Who let me rewrite the world.”
His breath hitched.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
“Then take me,” he said, voice breaking. “Take my blood. Take my truth. Take my heart. But never take my choice.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just reached for the dagger at my hip—the same one I had once aimed at his heart. The same one I had carried into Blackthorn Keep with murder in my soul. I drew it slowly, the blade catching the dawn light, its edge sharp with intent.
And then—
I sliced my palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, alive. I let it drip onto the stone, watching as it pooled in the cracks of the rune circle, as it seeped into the ancient sigil, as it began to glow—silver, steady, new.
“I don’t want power,” I said, voice low. “I don’t want revenge. I don’t want chains.” I looked at him. “I want you. Not as my king. Not as my mate. Not as my master.” I stepped closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. “I want you as my equal. As my partner. As the man who held me when I broke. Who let me rewrite the world.”
His breath hitched.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
“Then take it,” I said, holding out my bleeding hand. “Take my blood. Take my truth. Take my heart. But never take my choice.”
He didn’t move. Just stared at me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not hunger. Not need. Worship.
And then—
He knelt.
Not in submission.
In offering.
He took my hand, slow, deliberate, and brought it to his lips. Not to bite. Not to claim. Just to taste. His tongue dragged over the wound—warm, wet, reverent—and the bond screamed, not with magic, not with rage, but with truth.
“I don’t want to own you,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t want to control you. I don’t want to chain you.” He looked up, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “I want to love you. Not as my queen. Not as my mate. Not as my possession.” He pressed my hand to his chest, over his heart. “I want you as my equal. As my partner. As the woman who made me afraid—not of death, not of war, but of losing you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It flared, white-hot, searing, not with pain, but with power.
And then—
I knelt.
Not in surrender.
In return.
I took his hand, slow, deliberate, and sliced his palm with my dagger. His blood was dark, thick, ancient—older than cities, older than wars, older than gods. I brought it to my lips, tasting iron and moonlight and something deeper—something that had once been rage, but was now love.
“I choose you,” I said, voice low. “Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. Not because of magic.” I pressed his hand to my chest, over my heart. “I choose you because you let me break you. Because you let me rewrite the Oath. Because you burned your brother to ash with your own blood.”
His breath caught.
And the bond—
It screamed.
Not with magic.
Not with rage.
With truth.
And then—
We kissed.
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, on the cliffs, in his arms, with the dawn burning above us and our child 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. 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 knelt 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.
Stay 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 claimed him.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
Not with the old ways.
But with love.
And as the sun rose over the cliffs, as the sea roared below, as the bond pulsed steady and strong beneath my skin—
I believed.