The silence after the storm was worse than the chaos.
Not empty. Not peaceful. But charged—thick with heat, with hunger, with the echo of what had almost happened. My body still thrummed from Kael’s touch—the ghost of his hands on my waist, the press of his chest against mine, the way my hips had arched into him without permission. My lips were swollen, my breath ragged, my skin burning where he’d kissed me. The bond roared beneath my skin, not in warning, not in pain, but in triumph. As if it had finally won.
And maybe it had.
We stood in the ruins of the watchtower, rain still drizzling from the broken sky, wind whispering through the shattered glass. The storm had passed, but its aftermath lingered—icy stone beneath my boots, damp fabric clinging to my skin, the scent of ozone and blood thick in the air. Kael was beside me, close enough that our arms brushed, his presence a steady weight against my side. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there.
And I hated that I didn’t want him to move.
“We should go,” I said, voice low, rough. “The Council will want answers.”
“Let them wait,” he murmured, thumb brushing the nape of my neck. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
He didn’t argue. Just guided me down the narrow staircase, his hand steady, his steps deliberate. The corridors were dim, lit only by flickering sconces, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old magic. Servants scurried past, eyes down, whispers trailing behind us like smoke.
There she is.
The storm-witch.
Did you see what she did to the archives?
They say she tried to kill herself.
No. I heard she was fighting with him. That he had her pinned—
I clenched my jaw, magic crackling beneath my skin. One word. One spark. I could silence them all.
But I didn’t.
Because Kael was right. I was exhausted. Not just from the storm, not just from the fight with Vexen’s vision, but from the war inside me. The one I’d been losing since the moment our hands touched in the Grand Atrium.
We reached the suite. The fire had been lit, casting long shadows across the black marble floor. The bed—still unmade—loomed like a sacrificial altar.
“Sit,” Kael said, guiding me to the chaise near the hearth.
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
His voice wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t a request either. It was a command. One I found myself obeying.
He knelt, pulling off my soaked boots, then reached for the hem of my gown.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, pulling back.
“You’re soaked,” he said, unfazed. “You’ll catch cold. Or worse—Storm Sickness. The bond won’t tolerate it.”
“I can undress myself.”
“Clearly,” he said, eyes flicking to my trembling hands, “you can’t.”
Before I could protest, he lifted the gown over my head, leaving me in nothing but my undergarments—damp, clinging, revealing too much. I crossed my arms, but he didn’t look. Just reached for a thick woolen robe, wrapping it around my shoulders.
His fingers brushed my collarbone.
The bond flared.
Not with desire. Not with anger. But with something quieter. Something that made my breath catch.
Concern.
He felt it too.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, tucking the robe around me. “But I want to.”
He stood, moving to the side table, pouring a glass of heated blood wine. “Drink. It’ll help.”
I took it, sipping slowly. The warmth spread through my chest, calming the storm in my veins. The ring on my finger pulsed, faintly, in time with my heartbeat.
“Why did you save me?” I asked, staring into the fire. “In the archives. You didn’t have to. You could’ve let the storm take me.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just watched me, his obsidian eyes unreadable.
Then, softly: “Because you’re mine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And you keep pretending it’s not true.”
I looked away. “It’s not real. It’s magic. Politics. A lie.”
“Then why does it feel like the only real thing in my life?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
The door burst open.
A servant—pale, breathless—stumbled in. “Your Grace! My lady! The High Queen summons you to the Council Chamber. Immediately.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Lyra,” the servant said. “She claims… she claims Prince Kael gave her his bond scar. She’s demanding recognition.”
My stomach dropped.
“No,” I said, standing. “She’s lying.”
“Then prove it,” Kael said, voice low. “And make sure the world knows the truth.”
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 Lyra’s claim. She says you marked her. That you gave her your bond scar. Is this true?”
All eyes turned to Kael.
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Then let her show it,” Lyra said, stepping forward. “Let them see the mark. Let them see the truth.”
She reached for the neckline of her gown—and tore it open.
And there it was.
A scar.
Just below her collarbone. Pale. Raised. Shaped like a crescent moon—the symbol of a vampire’s bond.
The chamber erupted.
“She bears his mark!”
“He’s already claimed her!”
“The bond is a lie!”
My breath caught.
Not from shock.
From rage.
Because I knew it. I’d seen it before. A fake. A glamour. A trick. The scar wasn’t real. It was illusion—crafted by Fae magic to seduce, to manipulate, to destroy.
But the court didn’t know that.
They believed.
And if I didn’t act, they’d tear us apart.
“Liar,” I said, stepping forward. “That’s not real.”
Lyra laughed—soft, brittle. “Prove it.”
“I don’t have to,” I said. “But I will.”
I raised my hand, summoning a bolt of lightning—small, controlled, precise—and directed it at the scar.
The moment it touched her skin—
The glamour shattered.
The scar dissolved into smoke, revealing unmarked flesh beneath. The chamber fell silent. Even Lyra froze, her smile faltering, her eyes wide with shock.
“It was a glamour,” I said, voice cold. “A lie. Just like you.”
“She’s a witch!” Lyra spat. “She could’ve faked the test!”
“Then let her test you,” the High Queen said, voice sharp. “Let the bond decide.”
“What?” Lyra paled. “No—”
But it was too late.
Kael stepped forward, his voice low, dangerous. “Place your hand on her scar, Tide. Let the bond judge.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I stepped forward, reaching out—and pressed my palm to the spot where the scar had been.
The bond flared.
Not with warmth. Not with recognition.
With rejection.
Fire ripped through my veins. Lightning crackled over my skin. My vision whited out. And then—
Nothing.
No connection. No pull. No truth.
“She bears no mark,” I said, stepping back. “Only illusion.”
The chamber erupted again—but this time, in outrage.
“Deception!”
“Treason!”
“She sought to undermine the bond!”
Lyra backed away, her face twisted in fury. “You think this changes anything? You think you’ve won? He’ll never love you. He’ll never want you. You’re just a weapon. A pawn. A storm waiting to be broken.”
“And you’re nothing,” I said, stepping forward. “No mark. No claim. No truth. Just a desperate woman clinging to a lie.”
“Enough,” the High Queen said, raising a hand. “Lyra of House Sylas, you are hereby stripped of your title and banished from the Fae High Court for deception and treason. Leave now, or be executed.”
Lyra didn’t argue. Just turned, her gown swirling, and fled the chamber.
Silence.
And then—
Kael turned to me, his obsidian eyes dark, unreadable. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” I said. “She was trying to destroy us.”
“And you protected us,” he said, stepping closer. “You fought for us.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that was the worst part.
“I’m not yours,” I whispered.
“You are,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’m not going to let you run from it.”
“I hate you,” I said, tears burning my eyes.
“Then why do you taste like mine?”
And before I could answer, he pulled me into his arms.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
And I didn’t fight it.
I buried my face in his chest, my body trembling, my breath hitching. His arms tightened around me, his scent—night and blood and something uniquely him—filling my senses. The bond hummed, warm, deep, alive.
“I hate you,” I sobbed. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”
“I know,” he murmured, stroking my hair. “And I’ll make you hate me every day if it keeps you alive.”
“I don’t want to hate you,” I whispered. “I don’t want to want you. I don’t want to feel this.”
“Too late,” he said, pulling back, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You already do.”
I looked up at him, my storm-gray eyes searching his. “What happens now?”
“Now?” he said, his voice low, rough. “Now, we survive. We fight. We burn the world down together.”
“And the bond?”
“It’s not a chain,” he said. “It’s a weapon. And we’re going to use it.”
“To what end?”
“To break the real monster,” he said. “To free your mother’s soul. To burn my father to ash.”
I stared at him. “You’d do that? For me?”
“Not for you,” he said. “For us.”
And in that moment, I believed him.
Not because he’d said the right words.
But because I could feel it—through the bond, through his touch, through the way his heart beat against mine.
He wasn’t my enemy.
He was my partner.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether that was salvation… or damnation.
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine—soft, slow, real.
And I didn’t pull away.
Because maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want to.
Back in the suite, the door clicked shut behind us, and I didn’t wait.
“You didn’t have to let me do that,” I said, turning to him. “You could’ve exposed her yourself.”
“I could have,” he said. “But I wanted you to see it. To feel it. To know that you’re not just surviving. You’re fighting. You’re winning.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then I’ll fight for you,” he said. “Even if you hate me for it.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, rising on my toes—and kissed him.
Not like before. Not angry. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips were cool, but the kiss was fire. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, his body pressing against mine. The bond roared to life, a tidal wave of sensation—her voice, her magic, her love, flooding through us like a river breaking its banks.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
For the first time, I didn’t run.
For the first time, I let myself believe—
That maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t come here to destroy him.
Maybe I’d come here to save him.
And in saving him… save myself.
He pulled back, his thumb brushing my cheek. “We’ll find the truth,” he said. “Together.”
“Together,” I whispered.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the drapes, painting the room in gold and shadow, I knew—
The mission hadn’t changed.
The enemy hadn’t changed.
But I had.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.