The full moon hung low over the Obsidian Spire, a silver disc suspended in the ink-black sky, its light spilling like liquid over the ancient stone battlements. It painted the northern cliffs in ghostly hues, turned the moors into a sea of shifting shadows, and pulsed through the wards like a second heartbeat. Tonight, the lunar energy was strong—too strong. It tugged at the wolf beneath my skin, whispering of freedom, of the hunt, of the wild howl that had once been my only truth.
I stood on the highest balcony, the wind slicing through my open coat, the cold biting into bare skin. I hadn’t dressed for warmth. I’d dressed for control. Shirtless. Boots laced tight. Claws retracted. Fangs sheathed. Every muscle coiled, every breath measured. The hybrid instability—the flaw I’d hidden for decades—wasn’t just a threat when Parker was gone. It was a constant, gnawing presence, a beast that wore two faces and answered to no master.
But tonight, it wasn’t just the moon pulling at me.
It was *her.*
Parker.
She was below, in the training yard, pushing herself through the forms again. I could feel her through the bond—her magic flaring in bursts of crimson, her breath sharp and fast, her pulse a steady drum beneath her skin. She didn’t sleep. Not really. Not since Maeve’s death. Not since the truth had shattered the walls she’d spent ten years building.
And I didn’t stop her.
Let her fight. Let her rage. Let her burn.
As long as she stayed alive.
I pressed my palms to the cold stone railing, my knuckles white, my spine rigid. The wolf snarled in my skull, demanding release. The vampire hissed, craving blood. And beneath it all—the bond—pulsing, not with warmth, but with *distance.*
She wasn’t here.
And without her—
I was unraveling.
“You’re going to break something,” a voice said from behind me.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just kept my eyes on the horizon, on the way the moonlight bled into the mist. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”
Dain stepped onto the balcony, his boots soft against the stone. He didn’t approach. Just stood a few paces back, his wolf-gold eyes reflecting the moonlight, his posture tense. “Neither are you. Not like this. Not alone.”
“I’m not alone.”
“You are.” He hesitated. “She’s in the yard.”
“I know.”
“Then why aren’t you with her?”
“Because she doesn’t need me.”
“Liar.” He stepped closer. “She nearly died healing you. She gave you her blood, her magic, her *life.* And you think she doesn’t need you?”
My jaw clenched. “She needs the bond. Not me.”
“The bond *is* you.” Dain’s voice was low, firm. “It’s not just magic. It’s emotion. It’s trust. It’s *truth.* And you’re standing up here, pretending you don’t feel it.”
“I feel it.” My voice was rough. “Every second. Every breath. Every time she looks at me and I see the war in her eyes—hate and want, rage and need. I feel it. And I can’t—”
I stopped.
Couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t admit that the man who had ruled with cold precision, who had buried his pain beneath layers of power, was terrified.
“Can’t what?” Dain pressed.
“Can’t lose control,” I whispered. “Not with her. Not when she’s finally starting to believe me. Not when she’s finally fighting *with* me.”
“Then stop pretending you’re invincible.” He stepped beside me, his gaze on the training yard below. “She’s not the only one who’s afraid.”
I didn’t answer.
Just watched her.
Parker moved like a storm given form—fast, brutal, relentless. Her twin blades sang through the air, slicing silence into pieces. Her black tunic clung to her frame, sweat-slicked, her storm-gray eyes blazing with fire. She wasn’t training. She wasn’t drilling.
She was punishing herself.
For surviving. For trusting. For wanting.
And for the worst part—
The part she still couldn’t admit.
That she *needed* me.
“She’s going to break,” Dain said quietly.
“So am I.”
He turned to me then, his expression unreadable. “Then say it. Tell her the truth. Not about the bond. Not about the mission. About *you.*”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do.” He stepped back. “She saved your life. Now save hers. Before it’s too late.”
And then he was gone, his boots echoing against the stone, leaving me alone with the wind, the moon, and the truth I’d spent decades running from.
I didn’t go to her.
Not yet.
First, I went to the Chamber of Veins.
The ritual chamber was silent, the air thick with the scent of old magic and dried blood. The sigils carved into the stone floor still glowed faintly, remnants of the bond’s power. I stood in the center, my bare feet on the cold stone, my hands clenched at my sides. The memory of her body arching into mine, of her breath catching, of her magic answering to mine—it was all still here. In the walls. In the air. In the pulse of the bond.
I closed my eyes.
And I let go.
Not of control.
But of the lie.
The truth was simple, and it had been there all along.
I couldn’t survive without her.
Not just because the bond stabilized my hybrid nature. Not just because her magic harmonized with mine. But because she was the first person in thirty-four years who had looked at me and not seen a monster.
She had seen me.
Kael.
Not the High Arbiter. Not the hybrid. Not the ruler.
Just a man.
And I was terrified of what that meant.
I left the chamber and walked to the training yard. My boots echoed against the stone, too loud, too slow. The torches flickered like dying stars. The wards hummed, reacting to the surge of unstable power.
And then—
—I saw her.
Parker stood over a ruined dummy, her chest heaving, her knuckles split, blood dripping into the frost. Her blades were at her feet, discarded. Her head was bowed, her hair falling like ink over her shoulders. She didn’t hear me. Didn’t sense me. Just stood there, breathing, bleeding, *breaking.*
“You’re going to break something,” I said, voice low.
She didn’t turn. Just wiped the blood from her hands onto her trousers. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” I stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “You’re not fine. You’re exhausted. You’re drained. You’re *dying* inside, and you won’t let anyone see it.”
She finally looked at me, her storm-gray eyes blazing. “And you’re one to talk. Standing on balconies like a ghost. Hiding in chambers like a coward. Pretending you don’t feel it.”
“I feel it.” My voice was rough. “Every second. Every breath. Every time you look at me and I see the war in your eyes—hate and want, rage and need. I feel it. And I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” she snapped.
“Can’t lose control,” I whispered. “Not with you. Not when you’re finally starting to believe me. Not when you’re finally fighting *with* me.”
She stilled.
And then—
—she laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “You think *you’re* the one who’s losing control? You think *you’re* the one who’s afraid?”
“I know I am.”
“Then why do you hide it?” Her voice cracked. “Why do you stand there like a statue, like you’re made of stone? Like you don’t *feel*?”
“Because if I feel it,” I said, stepping closer, “if I let myself *feel*—the wolf takes over. The vampire demands blood. And the man—”
“The man what?”
I didn’t answer with words.
I answered with truth.
“The man *needs you.*” My voice broke. “Without you, I turn feral. Without you, I lose myself. Without you—” I reached out, my hand trembling as I brushed the mark beneath her collarbone. “—I die.”
She didn’t pull away.
Just stared at me, her eyes wide, her breath shallow, her pulse jumping beneath my fingers.
“You think I don’t see it?” I asked, voice low. “The way you tremble when I touch you. The way your breath catches when I say your name. The way your magic dances beneath your skin when we’re close. You’re not the only one who’s afraid, Parker. I’m terrified. Of this. Of us. Of how much I *want* you. Of how much I *need* you. Of how much I—”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I can’t stop.” I stepped closer, caging her against the dummy, my hands braced on either side of her head. “You came here to destroy me. But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you *knows* the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” My lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You’re my *queen.* And I’m not letting you go.”
She didn’t shove me.
Didn’t slap me.
Didn’t run.
Just trembled.
And then—
—she leaned into me, her forehead resting against mine, her breath mingling with mine, her hands gripping my arms like she was afraid I’d disappear.
“Then don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t let me go.”
The bond—
It *flared.*
Not with magic. Not with fire.
With *connection.*
I could feel her—the weight of her grief, the fire of her rage, the fragile, trembling hope that had taken root in her chest. I could feel the journal pressed against her ribs, her mother’s words still burning in her skull. I could feel Maeve’s death, the loss of her last anchor, the way it had hollowed her out.
And I could feel the bond—woven between us, not just by fate, but by choice. By truth. By the moment she had stopped fighting and said, *“Now I fight with you.”*
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” I said, voice low.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you do.” I shifted closer, my chest pressing to hers, my arms sliding around her waist, pulling her against me. “You can lean. You can rest. You can *feel.*”
“I can’t.”
“You already are.”
She was silent for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost missed it—
“I’m afraid.”
My breath caught.
“Of what?”
“Of this.” Her voice trembled. “Of you. Of the bond. Of how much I *want* you. Of how much I need you. Of how much I—”
She stopped.
But I knew.
And I didn’t push.
Just held her tighter, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to say it. Not yet. But I know.”
She didn’t answer.
Just leaned into me, her body softening, her breath steadying, her hands curling around mine.
And for the first time in thirty-four years—
I didn’t feel alone.
The moon hung low. The wind howled. The bond pulsed between us, warm, insistent, *alive.*
And I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And that was enough.