The dawn didn’t wake me.
It found me.
Not with the usual violence of sunlight breaking through drapes, not with the sharp sting of a new day’s burden. This dawn was soft. Quiet. It slipped through the broken ceiling of the old archive—the chamber that had once been Vexen’s sanctum, now remade into something else, something new—and painted the ruins in gold and shadow like a benediction. It touched the splintered oak, the mended grimoires, the Hollow Throne where I had sat and claimed not power, but truth.
And it touched him.
Kael—no, Elion—lay beside me, his body a warm weight against mine, his breath steady, his face unguarded in sleep. We hadn’t returned to the suite. Not after last night. After the fire, after the truth, after the way his hands had mapped every inch of me like I was scripture, like I was salvation, like I was home—we had walked back here. Not in silence. Not in urgency. But in stillness. The kind that comes after war. After loss. After love.
We had lain down on the stone where the throne stood, not as rulers, but as survivors. As lovers. As two people who had carried the weight of centuries and finally let it go.
And now, in the quiet of the morning, I watched him.
Not with suspicion. Not with the old, sharp edge of vengeance that had once lived in my chest. But with wonder.
His face was still pale—vampire pallor, untouched by sun or time—but it wasn’t cold. Not anymore. There was warmth in the curve of his mouth, in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, in the way his lashes fluttered just once as he dreamed. His hand was over mine, our fingers tangled, our pulses aligned. The bond hummed between us—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Peace.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let myself feel it—the rise and fall of his chest, the coolness of his skin against mine, the way my body still ached in the best possible way, like I’d been claimed, not conquered.
Like I’d been chosen.
And then—
He opened his eyes.
Obsidian. Unreadable. But beneath it—something warmer. Something I couldn’t name.
“You’re watching me,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, not answering. “You were supposed to be my ruin.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just turned onto his side, his free hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive. “And I am,” he said. “And my salvation.”
My breath caught.
Not from anger.
From the way his voice dropped—low, rough, intimate.
From the way my body responded—heat pooling low in my belly, the bond flaring beneath my skin.
“Say it again,” I whispered.
“And I am,” he repeated, slower this time, “and my salvation.”
I leaned into his touch, my eyes closing, my body arching toward his. “I don’t want to go back,” I said. “Not to the suite. Not to the court. Not to the world.”
“Then we won’t,” he said. “We’ll stay here. In the ruins. In the quiet. In the truth.”
“And the world?”
“Can wait,” he said. “It’s waited centuries. It can wait one more day.”
But it wouldn’t.
And we both knew it.
The silence stretched, not heavy, not broken, but full. Like the space left behind when something vital is filled—not just gone, but replaced. The fire in the hearth had been relit, the torches burned bright, the drapes drawn open to let the light flood in. The suite no longer felt like a prison. It felt like a home.
And this place—this broken, sacred chamber—felt like a beginning.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, opening my eyes. “You could walk away. You could disappear. You don’t owe me anything.”
He didn’t answer. Just rolled me onto my back, his body hovering over mine, his weight solid, real, mine. His hands framed my face, his eyes searching mine. “I don’t walk away,” he said. “Not from you. Not from this. Not from the truth.”
“And if the truth changes?”
“Then we change with it,” he said. “But we don’t run.”
My chest ached.
Not from fear.
From the truth in his voice.
From the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing left that mattered.
“And if I falter?”
“Then I’ll hold you,” he said. “And if I fall, you’ll carry me.”
“And if we both fall?”
“Then we fall together,” he said. “And we rise together.”
The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—and this time, I didn’t fight it.
I let it pull me in.
Not with magic.
Not with command.
With need.
I reached for him—slow, deliberate—my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone, the hard planes of his chest. He didn’t move. Just let me touch him, like he was giving me time to remember, to believe, to choose.
And I did.
I pulled him down, my mouth finding his, not with desperation, not with anger, but with truth. 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, his obsidian eyes searching mine. “We did it,” he said. “We broke the chain.”
“And found something else,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, more real. His hands slid under my shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine, the heat of his touch searing through me. I gasped, my body trembling, my breath ragged. The bond flared—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Need.
I tore at his coat, my fingers fumbling with the buttons, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He didn’t stop me. Just let it fall, then shrugged it off, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was giving me time to change my mind. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
His shirt followed—white, crisp, now undone, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that marked his past, the pulse of his heart beneath his skin. I touched him—slow, reverent—my fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone, the ridges of his abdomen, the heat of his body under my hands.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice hoarse.
“Neither are you,” he said, his hands sliding to my hips, pulling me against him. “You were supposed to be my ruin.”
“And I am,” I whispered. “And my salvation.”
And then—
I 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 lifted me—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and carried me to the bed. The firelight danced over his skin, casting shadows that moved like living things. He laid me down gently, his body hovering over mine, his eyes searching mine, asking permission, waiting for me to say no.
I didn’t.
Just reached for him—slow, deliberate—and pulled him down.
His weight settled over me, solid, real, mine. His hands slid under my shirt, peeling it off, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my stomach, my ribs, my breasts. I arched into his touch, my breath catching, my body trembling. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—and then—
His mouth found my neck.
Not with fangs.
With kisses.
Soft. Slow. Real.
Each one sent fire through me, each one deepened the bond, each one pulled me closer to the edge. His hands moved lower, unfastening my pants, sliding them down, his fingers brushing the inside of my thigh, making me gasp, making me need.
“Elion,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
He lifted his head, his obsidian eyes searching mine. “Say it again.”
“Elion,” I said, louder this time. “I need you. Not the prince. Not the vampire. You.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me—deep, desperate, real.
And then—
He moved.
Slow. Deliberate. Reverent.
His body sliding against mine, his hands guiding me, his mouth never leaving my skin. And when he finally entered me—slow, deep, whole—I cried out, not from pain, but from the sheer, unbearable truth of it.
This wasn’t conquest.
This wasn’t vengeance.
This was love.
His rhythm was steady, deep, unhurried, each thrust a promise, each movement a vow. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Connection.
I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, my hands gripping his back, my body arching into his. The storm answered—lightning crackling over our skin, the air thick with power, the room trembling with the force of it. But I didn’t care. Not anymore.
Because I was seen.
Because I was loved.
And because for the first time in my life—I was free.
He kissed me—soft, slow, real—his lips 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, his obsidian eyes searching mine. “We did it,” he said. “We broke the chain.”
“And found something else,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body shielding mine, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hummed—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Love.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the drapes, painting the room in gold and shadow, I knew—
The mission had changed.
The enemy was gone.
And the world—
Was finally ready to burn.
Not with hate.
But with light.
I didn’t sleep.
Not right away.
Just lay there, my head on his chest, my hand resting over his heart, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath my fingers. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held me—tight, possessive, mine. The bond hummed between us, warm, deep, alive, a current of something neither of us could name.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice hoarse.
He turned his head, his lips brushing my forehead. “Neither are you.”
And then—
I let myself believe it.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because he was good. Because he’d tried. Because he’d wept.
Because he’d loved her.
And now—
He loved me.
And that was enough.