The dream is always the same.
Fire. Blood. Her voice—shattered, screaming my name as the world burns around us. I run toward her, but the flames part like living things, holding me back. I scream. I fight. I bleed. But I can’t reach her. And then she’s gone—swallowed by smoke and shadow—and I wake, drenched in sweat, my fangs aching, my chest hollow.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I don’t dream of fire.
Tonight, I dream of *her*.
Not the avenger. Not the weapon. Not the queen.
My *mate*.
Her body beneath mine. Her heat wrapped around me. The way she arched, gasping, as I filled her—again and again—until we were both trembling, broken, *complete*. The way she whispered, *“I’m yours,”* like a vow. The way her scent—jasmine and smoke—filled my lungs as I sank my fangs into her neck, sealing the bond, marking her as mine.
And then—
The silence.
I wake slowly, the echo of pleasure still humming in my veins. My arm is draped over her waist. My face is buried in her hair. Her back is pressed to my chest, warm, soft, *real*. The bond pulses—deep, steady, *complete*. No more fever. No more pain. No more waiting.
We are mated.
She is mine.
And for the first time in centuries, I feel… whole.
I press a kiss to her shoulder. Breathe her in. She stirs, a soft sigh escaping her lips. My cock stirs too, thickening against her ass. I want her again. Now. Slow. Deep. I want to worship every inch of her, to taste her again, to feel her come apart beneath me. But I don’t move. Don’t wake her. Let her rest. Let her heal. The bite was deep. The claiming was fierce. She gave herself to me—completely, desperately—and I took her like a man starved.
And gods, I was.
Centuries of control. Centuries of silence. Centuries of watching her from the shadows, loving her in secret, waiting for the day she’d come back to me. And now—now she’s here. In my bed. In my arms. Marked. Bound. *Mine*.
I should be satisfied.
But I’m not.
Because beneath the joy, beneath the relief, beneath the raw, animal pride of having *claimed* her—there’s fear.
Fear that she’ll wake and remember.
Remember the journal. Remember the prophecy. Remember *her mother*.
Remember that I let her believe I killed her.
I shift slightly, just enough to see her face. Her lashes flutter. Her lips part. She’s dreaming. Of what? Me? Us? Or is she already regretting it?
I trace the bite mark on her neck—dark, swollen, perfect. A brand. A vow. A promise. The High Fae will recognize it. The Council will have no choice but to accept the bond. No more marriage decrees. No more threats. No more seven-day countdown.
We are bound.
Legally. Magically. *Eternally*.
And still, I’m afraid.
Because Morgana Fireblood doesn’t forgive. She doesn’t forget. And if she decides I betrayed her—
She’ll kill me.
And I’ll let her.
My hand moves—down, over her hip, her thigh, the curve of her ass. I want to wake her. Want to feel her again. Want to hear her moan my name. But I don’t. I just watch her. Memorize her. The way her chest rises and falls. The way her fingers curl into the sheets. The way her scent wraps around me, thick and sweet.
And then—
She’s gone.
Not moving. Not waking.
Just… gone.
The bond—still humming, still pulsing—suddenly feels thin. Fragile. Like a thread stretched too far.
I open my eyes.
The bed is empty.
She’s not here.
“Morgana?”
No answer.
I sit up. The sheets are warm. She just left. But where—
And then I see it.
On the pillow.
A note.
Three words.
Your mother died protecting my secrets.
The air leaves my lungs.
Not mine.
I didn’t write that.
I never said that.
But I know who did.
Mab.
Queen of the Unseelie. Master of lies. Weaver of shadows. She’s been watching. Waiting. And she chose *this* moment—when Morgana was most vulnerable, most open, most *mine*—to twist the knife.
Because she knows.
She knows the truth.
That my father was weak. That he confided in Seraphina. That she died not just to protect *me*—but to protect the knowledge that the Blood King was a puppet, that the Council was rotten, that the prophecy was real.
And Mab knows that if Morgana believes I let her mother die for *my* secrets—
She’ll destroy me.
I throw off the sheets. Dress in seconds—black coat, steel-gray wool, boots that silence my steps. I don’t call for guards. Don’t alert the castle. This is between us. Between *her* and me.
And I will not lose her.
Not now.
Not after everything.
The bond hums—faint, distant, but still there. She’s in the castle. Moving fast. Headed for the east wing. The servant’s passages. The outer gate.
She’s trying to run.
Again.
And this time, I won’t let her.
I move—fast, silent, a shadow through the halls. I don’t use the corridors. Don’t risk being seen. I slip into the servant’s passages—narrow, dark, lined with iron sigils. I know every turn, every trap, every hidden door. I was the one who designed them. Built them. *To keep her safe.*
And now I’ll use them to bring her back.
I feel her before I see her—her anger, her pain, her *betrayal*. The bond flares as I near the east gate, a pulse of fire and fury. She’s close. Just beyond the final ward.
And then—
The gate opens.
She steps through—black leather, daggers at her hips, hair wild, eyes blazing gold. The moonlight catches the bite mark on her neck, dark and swollen. *Mine.* And yet—she’s trying to leave.
“Morgana.”
She freezes.
Doesn’t turn.
“You’re not running,” I say, stepping into the moonlight. “Not again.”
She turns. Slow. Deliberate. Her hand goes to her dagger. “You let her die for your secrets.”
“I didn’t.”
“The note—”
“A lie,” I say, stepping closer. “Planted by Mab. She’s been watching. Waiting. She wants us broken.”
“And you expect me to believe you?” Her voice is raw. “You let me think you killed her. You let me hate you. You let me believe you were a monster—”
“Because you *needed* to,” I snap. “You needed the rage to survive. The vengeance to keep you strong. If I’d told you the truth—if I’d said, *‘I love you, I’ve always loved you, your mother died to protect my father’s lies’*—you’d have broken. You’d have run. Or you’d have tried to die.”
“And that’s better?” she demands. “Letting me believe you were a killer? Letting me *hate* you?”
“Yes,” I say, stepping closer. “Because hatred kept you alive. And I’d rather be your enemy than lose you.”
She laughs—short, bitter. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”
“I do,” I say, closing the distance. “Because if you die—*I* die. The bond won’t survive it. And neither will I.”
“Then let it,” she hisses. “Let it burn. Let us both die. Maybe then I’ll be free of you.”
My chest cracks.
But I don’t flinch.
“No.” I grab her arm. Not rough. Not gentle. *Claiming.* “You don’t get to leave. Not now. Not after everything.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
“I said—”
“I heard you.” I pull her closer. “But I don’t care.”
She tries to twist free. I don’t let her. My other hand moves—up, behind her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. I tilt her face up. Her eyes blaze. Her breath hitches. Her heat flares—unbidden, *needing*.
“You feel that?” I murmur. “That’s not magic. That’s *you*. Your body knows the truth. You’re mine.”
“I’ll never be yours,” she gasps.
“You already are.” I lean down. My lips brush her ear. “You came here to burn me alive. And you did. You burned the lie. The hatred. The fear. But not me. Not us.”
She trembles. Her hand is still on her dagger. But she doesn’t draw it.
“You don’t get to rewrite the past,” she whispers. “You don’t get to say, *‘I did it for you,’* and expect me to forgive you.”
“I don’t want forgiveness,” I say. “I want *you*. Not as my enemy. Not as my victim. As my *mate*.”
“You don’t get to have both.”
“I already do.” I press my forehead to hers. “You’re in my blood. In my bones. In my *soul*. You’ve been there since the day you were born. And I will not let you walk away.”
She closes her eyes. A tear slips free. “I can’t trust you.”
“Then don’t.” I kiss the tear away. “Trust the bond. Trust your body. Trust the way you burned for me tonight. The way you screamed my name. The way you *came* for me.”
She shudders. “That was a mistake.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t love you.”
“You will.”
She opens her eyes. “You’re so sure.”
“I’ve waited centuries,” I say. “I can wait a little longer.”
And then—
She spits in my face.
I don’t flinch. Don’t wipe it away. Just hold her. Let it slide down my cheek. Let her see that nothing—*nothing*—will make me let go.
“You want to hate me?” I say, voice low. “Do it while you’re still mine.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wild.
And then—
She breaks.
Not physically. Not with a blade.
With a sob.
One sharp, broken sound—like a bone snapping. And then she’s in my arms, her face buried in my chest, her body shaking. I hold her. Tight. Close. *Mine.* I don’t speak. Don’t comfort. Just let her feel me—my heartbeat, my breath, the pulse of the bond.
She’s not running.
She’s not fighting.
She’s *here*.
And that’s enough.
Minutes pass. An hour. The moon moves across the sky. The castle breathes. The bond hums—soft, steady, *insistent*.
Finally, she pulls back. Wipes her face. Doesn’t look at me.
“I’m not staying because I forgive you,” she says, voice raw. “I’m not staying because I love you.”
“I know.”
“I’m staying because I need the truth. All of it. Not just the journal. Not just the prophecy. Everything.”
“You’ll have it.”
“And if I decide to kill you?”
“Then do it.” I step back. Open my arms. “But know this—when you strike, you won’t just be killing the man who let you hate him. You’ll be killing the man who’s loved you since the day you were born.”
She looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time, I see it—not just anger, not just pain—but *doubt*.
Doubt that I’m the monster.
Doubt that she knows who I am.
Doubt that she knows who *she* is.
“You’re not making this easy,” she whispers.
“I never promised I would.”
She turns. Starts walking back toward the castle.
I follow.
Not behind. Not in front.
Beside.
Our shoulders brush. The bond hums. The night is silent.
And for the first time—
I let myself hope.
Because she didn’t run.
She came back.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
When we reach my chambers, she stops at the door. Doesn’t enter. Just stands there, her back to me, her hand on the ward.
“I need space,” she says. “I need to think.”
“Take it.”
She looks over her shoulder. “Don’t follow me.”
“I won’t.”
She opens the door. Steps inside. Closes it behind her.
I don’t leave.
Just stand there. Listening. Feeling. The bond hums—faint, distant, but still there. She’s not running. Not tonight.
And tomorrow—
I’ll give her the truth.
All of it.
Even if it breaks her.
Even if it breaks me.
Because she’s right.
I don’t get to decide what she can handle.
But I’ll be there when she finds out.
Always.
I turn. Walk down the hall. Toward my own chambers. But I don’t go in.
Instead, I stop at the alcove across from her door. Sit. Wait.
Let her think. Let her rage. Let her *hate* me.
But let her know—
I’m not going anywhere.
Not this time.
Not ever.
The night passes.
I don’t sleep. Don’t move. Just watch. Wait. Feel.
And when dawn finally bleeds through the high windows, I rise.
Walk to her door.
Press my palm to the ward.
“Morgana,” I say. “I’m here.”
No answer.
But the bond hums—soft, steady, *alive*.
And I know.
She’s still mine.
And I’ll spend the rest of my existence proving I’m hers.