The last time I stood on this balcony, I was bleeding.
Not from a wound. Not from a blade. But from the inside—ripped open by grief, by guilt, by the unbearable weight of surviving when so many had fallen. Torin. My mother. The countless nameless souls ground beneath the heel of the old Oath. I had come to Blackthorn Keep to break chains. I stayed to build something new. And now, as dawn bleeds gold across the horizon and the sea breathes below like a living thing, I stand here whole.
Not unscarred.
But whole.
My hand rests low on my belly—rounded now, taut with life, our son kicking strong beneath my palm. The bond hums beneath my skin, not screaming, not demanding, not begging. Just there. A second heartbeat. A vow etched in bone and blood. I don’t need to turn to know he’s behind me. I feel him—the heat of his body, the low growl in his throat, the weight of his gaze like a brand between my shoulder blades.
“You’re quiet,” Kaelen murmurs, stepping close. His hands slide around my waist, cool against the warmth of my skin, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Even for you.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” His lips brush my ear, fangs just grazing. “Could get you killed.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. Just lean back into him, letting his strength hold me. “It already did.”
He stills. His arms tighten. “You’re not dead.”
“No.” I turn in his embrace, slow, deliberate, until I’m facing him. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen from our kisses last night, his face streaked with ash from the final patrol. But he’s here. Alive. Present. Mine. “But I died the night I walked into this Keep with a blade in my boot and murder in my heart. That woman—the one who came to kill you—she’s gone.”
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 dawn breaking over the sea 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 wanted 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, Elara finds us in the sunroom.
She’s barefoot, her dark braid half-undone, her small hands clutching a wooden sigil staff almost as tall as she is. The morning sun spills through the ivy-covered windows, painting her in gold. She doesn’t speak. Just runs—small feet pounding the stone—until she throws her arms around my legs.
“Mama,” she says, voice muffled against my gown. “I had a dream.”
“Oh?” I kneel, pulling her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her hair—violets and sunshine. “What about?”
“You were flying.” She pulls back, those wide, dark eyes serious. “Over the sea. With wings made of fire. And Papa was with you. He wasn’t scary. He was… shining.”
My breath catches.
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Just watches us, those crimson eyes soft with something I can’t name. Not possession. Not hunger. Love.
“Maybe he was,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Maybe we both were.”
She nods, solemn. “And then you landed. And there was a baby. And you all held hands.”
My hand moves to my belly, feeling the steady kick beneath my palm. “That sounds like a good dream.”
“It was.” She looks at Kaelen. “Papa?”
“Yes, little wolf?”
“Are you happy?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Even though you don’t drink blood from the chalice anymore?”
He glances at me. “I drink from something better.”
She giggles—actual, unfiltered giggling—and throws her arms around his neck. He catches her, lifting her effortlessly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I don’t have to be a king to be happy. I just have to be your father.”
And that—
That is the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if he can be this—gentle, present, soft—then what does that make me?
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
Not a ghost.
Then what?
A mother.
A queen.
In love.
With the man who once was my enemy.
Later, we walk the cliffs—just us, no guards, no entourage. The sea roars below, the wind tearing at our clothes, the sky vast and endless. Elara runs ahead, chasing glowing fireflies through the tall grass, her laughter ringing like bells. Kaelen’s hand is in mine, his grip strong, his skin cool. I don’t need to speak. He knows what I’m thinking.
“It’s over,” he says, voice low.
“It’s not over,” I correct. “It’s just… different.”
“The war is.”
“Yes.” I stop, turning to face him. “But the fight isn’t. Mira’s rebellion is spreading. The Fae Courts are still divided. The humans are still afraid.” I place a hand over my belly. “And our son will inherit all of it.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then we’ll teach him how to fight. How to lead. How to love without fear.”
“And if he fails?”
“Then we’ll be there.” He pulls back, just enough to look at me. “Like we are now.”
My breath catches.
And the bond—
It pulses, low, insistent.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies 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 can protect what we’ve built—then I’d have to admit that I’m not just fighting for justice.
I’m fighting for hope.
And I’m not sure I know how.
“Look,” Elara calls, running back. She holds out her hand—a single firefly, glowing softly in her palm. “I caught one.”
“Let it go,” I say, smiling. “It’s not yours to keep.”
She hesitates. Then opens her hand. The firefly rises, spiraling into the sky, joining the others in their dance above the cliffs.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yes,” Kaelen says, watching it. “It is.”
And then—
He looks at me.
Really looks.
Not at the queen. Not at the warrior. Not at the mate.
At the woman.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough. “Even when you’re brooding.”
I don’t smile. Just step into him, pressing my forehead to 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 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 cliffs, with our daughter watching and our son 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 wanted 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.
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.
“You claimed me,” I whisper, my hand moving to his cheek. “On the night I came to kill you. With a smile and a whisper.”
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.
And then—
I say the words I’ve never said.
Not to my mother. Not to my father. Not to the ghosts who raised me in silence and shadows.
But to him.
“I love you,” I say, voice breaking. “Even though you’re a monster. Even though you’re mine. Even though I never wanted to.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just holds me tighter.
And whispers—
“No.”
My breath catches.
“You didn’t claim me,” he says. “I claimed you.”
And as the first light of dawn breaks over the cliffs, as the sea roars below, as our child kicks strong beneath my palm—
I believe him.