The knock at the door was soft. Respectful. But I didn’t move.
Not yet.
My hands were still on her hips, my body flush with hers, the echo of the kiss burning through me like wildfire. Her lips were swollen, her breath ragged, her storm-gray eyes wide and dazed. The bond roared between us—raw, unfiltered, a tidal wave of hunger and something deeper, something I refused to name. I could feel her pulse against my palm, her heat seeping through the fabric, the way her body arched into mine without permission.
She didn’t pull away.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let her go.
“We’ll be there,” I said again, voice low, rough, not taking my eyes off her.
The door clicked shut. Riven was gone. But the moment was shattered. The air between us had shifted—from desire to something sharper. Tension. Regret. Truth.
I stepped back, slowly, reluctantly, my hands sliding from her hips to her waist, then falling to my sides. The loss of contact was immediate, sharp, like a blade drawn from flesh. The bond flared—quiet, insistent—a reminder that we were never truly apart.
Tide didn’t speak. Just turned, walking to the hearth, her bare shoulder exposed where the gown had torn, the fresh bite mark pulsing faintly beneath the light. She stared into the fire, her back rigid, her fingers clenched at her sides. The coat I’d given her lay crumpled on the floor, discarded like a betrayal.
Good.
Let her hate me.
Let her rage.
It was safer than what I saw in her eyes when she looked at me—something soft. Something breaking.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, voice low, rough. “The mark. The coat. The kiss. You didn’t have to make it a spectacle.”
“It already was,” I said, stepping closer. “The moment we walked into that hall, we became a weapon. A threat. A spark over dry tinder. And if I don’t control the flame, someone else will.”
She turned, her eyes blazing. “You think this is about control? You think parading me like some kind of trophy proves something?”
“I think it keeps you alive,” I said. “The court sees a united front. A bond that can’t be broken. And that means they won’t try to break it.”
“And if they had?”
“Then I’d kill them,” I said simply. “Anyone who tries to take you from me dies.”
Her breath caught.
Not from fear.
From the way my voice dropped—low, rough, intimate.
From the way her body responded—heat pooling low in my belly, the bond flaring beneath her skin.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she whispered.
“I already did,” I said. “You’re mine, Tide. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
She wanted to argue. To rage. To summon lightning and tear the room apart.
But she didn’t.
Because she knew I was right.
And that was the worst part.
“I came here to destroy you,” she said, voice breaking. “To burn your house to the ground. To make you pay for what your father did.”
“And now?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Now I don’t know what I want,” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. Just reached for her, my hand lifting to brush a strand of wild hair from her face. My thumb traced her lower lip. The bond flared—warm, deep, aching. Her breath hitched. Her body leaned into my touch without permission.
And I hated that I didn’t pull away.
“Then let me show you,” I said.
And before she could answer, I kissed her.
Not like in the hall. Not for show.
This was real.
My mouth crashed into hers, hot and demanding, my fangs grazing her lip, drawing a bead of blood. The bond exploded—fire and lightning, hunger and rage, desire so sharp it was pain. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, her body pressing against mine, every inch of her screaming for more.
I groaned, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding down, gripping her thigh, lifting her—
And then—
A knock.
Hard. Insistent.
The door burst open.
Riven.
He froze in the doorway, his amber eyes wide, taking in the scene—her in my arms, her gown torn, her lips swollen, my hand on her thigh, my fangs still bared.
“I—” he started, then stopped, jaw clenching. “The Council requests your presence. Immediately.”
I didn’t release her. Just turned my head, my voice low, dangerous. “We’ll be there.”
He hesitated—then nodded, backing out, shutting the door.
Silence.
I slowly lowered her, my hands still on her hips, my eyes searching hers. “You’re not going to kill me,” I said again. “Not today.”
“No,” she whispered. “Not today.”
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, she wasn’t so sure.
And neither was I.
Now, standing in the suite, the fire reduced to embers, the torches dim, I watched her. The way her fingers trembled as she adjusted the torn fabric. The way her breath still hitched when she looked at me. The way her magic crackled just beneath the surface, like a storm waiting to break.
She was unraveling.
And I was the thread.
“We need to go,” I said, voice calm.
“I’m not ready,” she snapped.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
She glared at me—storm-gray eyes blazing—but didn’t argue. Just turned, moving to the wardrobe, pulling out a dark cloak. She wrapped it around her shoulders, hiding the mark, hiding the tear, hiding the truth.
Good.
Let her hide.
Let her pretend.
But I knew. And the bond knew. And soon, the whole world would know.
We walked through the corridors in silence, guards flanking us, whispers chasing our steps.
Did you see her shoulder?
He marked her.
They’ve consummated.
It’s real. The bond is real.
Let them talk.
Let them believe.
Because it was real.
Not just magic. Not just politics. Not just fate.
It was us.
The Council Chamber was colder than I remembered, the air thick with the scent of old magic and something darker—fear. The High Queen sat at the center, her silver crown gleaming, her eyes sharp as daggers. The elders stood in a half-circle, cloaked in their house colors. Lyra was there too, her silver-blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, her gown the color of moonlight and poison. She smiled when she saw us—soft, cruel—but I didn’t look away.
“Prince Kael Valen,” the High Queen intoned. “Tide of the Storm-Witch Line. You stand before the Council to answer for the instability of your bond. Explain.”
I didn’t hesitate. “The bond is not unstable. It is evolving. It is alive. It is rejecting artificial control.”
“And the ritual?” an elder demanded. “The chalice cracked. The runes failed.”
“Because the bond refused to be forced,” I said. “It is not a chain. It is a weapon. And we will not be controlled.”
“Then how do we know it won’t break?” another asked. “How do we know this isn’t treason in disguise?”
I turned to Tide. “Show them.”
She looked at me—eyes wide, uncertain—but didn’t argue. Just stepped forward, rolling up her sleeve, revealing the bite mark on her shoulder. Fresh. Red. Swollen. A claim. A truth.
The chamber erupted.
“She bears his mark!”
“The bond is sealed in blood!”
“There will be no further doubt!”
Lyra’s smile faltered. She looked away.
Good.
Let her see.
Let her know she lost.
The High Queen raised a hand. “Enough. The bond stands. But it must be strengthened. Not by force. By truth.”
My jaw tightened. “What truth?”
“A blood memory,” she said. “One of you must share a memory through blood. A true memory. Not magic. Not illusion. Truth.”
All eyes turned to me.
And I knew what she was asking.
Not just a memory.
A sacrifice.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Tide turned to me, her eyes wide. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I don’t, they’ll find another way to break us. And I won’t let that happen.”
She didn’t argue. Just stepped back, her fingers clenched at her sides.
A silver blade was placed in my palm—cold, sharp, etched with Valen runes. The ritual required a cut—deep enough to draw blood, not enough to cripple. A symbol of surrender. Of unity.
I held the blade over the ritual basin—a shallow dish of black stone filled with liquid silver. The bond hummed, reacting to the proximity of blood magic.
And then—
I dragged the blade across my palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, humming with centuries of power. It dripped into the basin, sizzling as it met the silver liquid. The runes on the walls flared to life, glowing crimson.
“Focus,” the High Queen said. “Let the memory rise. Let it be seen.”
I closed my eyes.
And let it come.
Not the memory of the dungeon. Not the memory of my father’s cruelty. Not the memory of the whip.
No.
I showed them the one I’d never spoken of. The one I’d buried beneath centuries of control and silence.
A boy—seventeen, pale, sharp-featured—standing in the garden behind the Valen estate, hidden among the black roses. Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows. And there she was—her. My mother. Not the woman I’d known—the cold, distant queen who’d obeyed my father without question. No. This was the woman before. The one who’d hummed lullabies. The one who’d held me when I was small. The one who’d whispered, “You’re not like him, Elion. You never will be.”
She was dying.
Consumed by blood rot—a disease my father had hidden, refused to cure, because she’d defied him. She lay on a stone bench, wrapped in velvet, her skin pale, her breath shallow. I knelt beside her, holding her hand, my tears falling onto her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
She smiled—weak, fragile. “You already have, my son. You’ve stayed true. You’ve stayed kind. And that is more than I ever did.”
“I don’t want to be kind,” I said, voice breaking. “I want to be strong. I want to destroy him.”
“Then do it,” she said. “But not with hate. With love. With truth. With the woman who will one day stand beside you.”
“What woman?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Just reached up, brushing a tear from my cheek. “Break the chain, Elion. Not the man.”
And then—
She was gone.
The memory faded. The chamber was silent.
And then—
Tide spoke.
Quiet. Shattered. Raw.
“She knew,” she whispered. “She knew about the bond.”
I opened my eyes, turning to her. “I didn’t know she’d seen it. I didn’t know she’d spoken it.”
“She said the same thing to me,” Tide said, tears burning her eyes. “In the journal. ‘Break the chain. Not the man.’”
My breath caught.
Not from grief.
From hope.
Because in that moment, I knew—
We weren’t just fighting fate.
We were fulfilling it.
The High Queen stood. “The memory is true. The bond is true. And you,” she said, pointing at me, “are not your father.”
No one argued.
No one doubted.
Even Lyra looked away.
“You may go,” the Queen said. “But remember—the bond must be sealed in seven days. Or war begins.”
We left in silence, the weight of the memory pressing between us. Back in the suite, the door clicked shut behind us, and I didn’t wait.
“You didn’t have to show them that,” she said, voice low. “That was private. Sacred.”
“It was necessary,” I said. “And it was true.”
“You loved her,” she said. “Your mother.”
“I did,” I said. “And she loved me. In her own way.”
She stepped closer, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” I admitted.
And then—
She rose on her toes.
And kissed me.
Not like before. Not angry. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
Her lips were cool, but the kiss was fire. Her hands slid up my chest, tangling in my robes, pulling me closer. The bond roared to life, a tidal wave of sensation—her taste, her scent, the way her body arched into mine, begging for more.
I deepened it, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other to her waist, pulling her flush against me. She moaned, the sound swallowed by my mouth, her body trembling—not from cold, but from need.
And then—
I pulled back.
“Wait,” I said, breathless.
“Why?” she whispered, her eyes searching mine.
“Because I want you to see me,” I said. “All of me. Not just the prince. Not just the vampire. But the man. The boy. The one who failed. The one who still hopes.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at me—storm-gray eyes wide, uncertain.
I cut my palm again, fresh blood welling. Then I pressed it to her lips.
“Drink,” I said. “And see.”
She hesitated—then parted her lips, her tongue brushing my wound.
And I showed her.
Every memory. Every scar. Every moment of shame, of grief, of longing.
And when it was over, she didn’t speak.
Just buried her face in my chest, her body trembling.
And I held her.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t just surviving.
I was claiming.
And I wasn’t letting go.
Not of her.
Not of us.
Not of the storm.