The storm didn’t stop when we left Ravel’s compound. It followed us—howling through the moors, drenching the path back to the Spire, turning the world into a blur of rain and shadow. I rode with Kael in front of me on his black warhorse, my arms locked around his waist, my cheek pressed to his back. My shoulder throbbed where the rogue’s blade had pierced muscle, my side burned from the earlier cut, and every breath sent a sharp reminder that I wasn’t immortal. But I was alive. He was alive. And Ravel—
Was gone.
Exiled. Stripped of rank. Cast out into the wilds with nothing but his pride and the weight of his crimes. The Council would deal with the rest. But for now, the immediate threat was over. The bond had held. The truth had been proven. And I—
I had nearly died for him.
Again.
Kael hadn’t spoken since we left. Not a word. Just reached back once, his gloved hand covering mine where it rested against his stomach, his fingers tightening briefly before letting go. But I felt him. Felt the way his body leaned slightly into mine, the way his breath steadied when I shifted closer, the way his magic—faint, fractured, but still *there*—pulsed in time with mine beneath the downpour.
We didn’t return through the main gates. Dain led us through a hidden passage beneath the northern cliffs—ancient, narrow, slick with moss and old magic. The air inside was thick, suffocating, the walls carved with forgotten runes that flickered weakly as we passed. Lira brought up the rear, silent, her red eyes reflecting the dim glow of Dain’s torch. She hadn’t spoken either. Just watched me, studied me, like she was trying to understand how I’d walked into a death trap for a man I’d once sworn to destroy.
Maybe she never would.
Maybe I wouldn’t either.
We emerged in the lower crypts of the Spire—empty, echoing, the scent of dust and decay clinging to the stone. Dain lit the sconces as we passed, the flames sputtering to life like ghosts waking from long sleep. The silence was heavier here. Deeper. As if the walls remembered every betrayal, every execution, every lie ever whispered in this place.
And then—
—we reached the healing chambers.
The same room where I’d healed Kael after the Blood Court. Where he’d pressed Maeve’s restorative to my lips. Where we’d kissed in the dark, only to be interrupted by Dain’s warning.
History had a way of repeating itself.
Kael dismounted first, then turned and lifted me down, his hands lingering at my waist a second too long. I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. My legs were weak, my body trembling from blood loss and exhaustion, and the bond—still raw from Ravel’s attack—pulsed with a dull, aching heat beneath my collarbone.
“Sit,” he said, voice rough.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” He guided me to the low bed, his hands firm but not unkind. “You’re pale. Your pulse is thready. And you’re bleeding through your tunic.”
“So are you.”
“I heal faster.”
“Not this time.” I reached for the tear in his side, where silver wire had seared his skin. The wound was still angry, the flesh around it blackened from dark magic. “You’re poisoned. And not just physically.”
He didn’t argue. Just stood there, watching me, his gold-flecked eyes sharp, searching. “You should rest first.”
“So should you.” I pulled my dagger and sliced the fabric from my shoulder, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain lancing down my arm. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage I’d tied in the courtyard. “But neither of us will.”
He exhaled, low and slow, then moved to the shelves, pulling down vials, salves, and dried roots. His movements were stiff, pained, but precise. I watched him—his strong hands, the scars across his knuckles, the way his jaw clenched when he reached for a jar of crushed moonpetal, known to counter dark magic. He didn’t ask for help. Didn’t look at me. Just worked in silence, the torchlight casting long shadows across his face.
And then—
—he turned and knelt beside me.
His fingers brushed the wound on my shoulder, gentle, almost reverent. “This needs stitching.”
“Do it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just reached for the needle and thread, dipped it in antiseptic, and began.
The pain was sharp, immediate, but I didn’t make a sound. Just clenched my teeth and stared at the ceiling, focusing on the bond, on the way it hummed between us, fragile but *alive.* His touch was steady, clinical, but every time the needle pierced my skin, his breath hitched, his fingers trembled.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” I said, voice tight. “I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” he murmured, not looking up. “You’re made of fire. But even fire can be extinguished if it burns too long.”
“Then let me burn.”
He stopped. Looked at me. “You already are.”
And then—
—he kissed me.
Not like before. Not a claim. Not a challenge.
A *thank you.*
Soft. Slow. Reverent. His lips brushed mine, just a whisper of contact, but it sent a shock through the bond, through my blood, through my bones. I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into it, my hand lifting to frame his face, my thumb brushing the scar above his brow.
When he pulled back, his eyes were closed, his breath unsteady. “You came for me,” he said, voice breaking. “You fought for me. You bled for me. And you didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.” I cupped his face, forcing him to look at me. “You think I’d let you die? After everything? After Maeve? After my mother? After the truth?”
“You could’ve waited. Called for help.”
“And let you rot?” I shook my head. “No. You’re *mine.* And I don’t abandon what’s mine.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t mock. Just leaned his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin. “I hate that you risked yourself.”
“I hate that you got captured.”
“Fair.” He exhaled, then returned to stitching, his fingers careful, deliberate. “But next time—”
“There won’t *be* a next time.” I hissed as the needle pulled through. “Because next time, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
He didn’t answer. Just finished the last stitch, tied it off, and reached for the salve. His fingers were warm as he spread the ointment over the wound, his touch lingering, tracing the edge of my collarbone, the sigil beneath.
It flared—gold light bleeding through the skin.
“It’s stronger,” he said, voice low. “After the compound. After the bond broke and remade itself.”
“It didn’t break.” I looked down at him. “It was tested. And it held.”
“Because of you.”
“Because of *us.*” I reached for the vial of moonpetal salve. “Now let me return the favor.”
He hesitated. Then stripped off his tunic, revealing the network of scars across his chest—old wounds, new burns, the silver-seared gash along his ribs. I didn’t speak. Just dipped my fingers into the salve and began.
His skin was hot beneath my touch, the muscles tight with tension. I worked slowly, carefully, avoiding the worst of the damage, letting the magic in the salve do its work. But when I reached the wound on his side, he flinched.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“Not as much as watching you bleed.”
I didn’t answer. Just pressed my palm flat against the injury, letting my magic flow—crimson light spiraling, healing, *binding.* The bond flared in response, gold and crimson weaving together like threads of fate. His breath caught. His hand covered mine, holding it in place.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’re already drained.”
“And you’re still poisoned.” I didn’t pull away. “So shut up and let me heal you.”
He didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes, his head tilting back, his throat exposed. I could see his pulse there, rapid, uneven. And then—
—his free hand lifted, brushing the edge of my jaw. “Why do you keep saving me?”
“Because I hate you too much to let you die.”
“Liar.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “You save me because you *need* me. Because without me, the bond fractures. Because without me—”
“I fall apart,” I whispered, finishing the sentence. “Yes. Maybe. But that’s not the only reason.”
“Then what is?”
I didn’t answer with words.
Just leaned in and kissed him.
Not soft. Not gentle. Not a thank you.
A *claim.*
My lips crashed into his, hard and hungry, my fangs grazing his lower lip just enough to draw blood. His magic flared—crimson light spiraling around us, binding us, *claiming* us. The bond *roared,* heat flooding my veins, light exploding behind my eyes.
And then—
—a voice.
“Kael.”
Dain stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “The Council is calling an emergency session. They want to know what happened. What we’re going to do with Ravel. What we’re going to do with *you two.*”
Kael broke the kiss, but didn’t let me go. His forehead rested against mine, his breath hot on my skin, his blood on my lips.
“Tell them we’re not coming,” he said, voice rough. “Tell them the bond stands. Tell them the truth has been proven. And tell them—” He looked at me. “—that Parker Voss is no longer an envoy. She’s my queen.”
Dain didn’t flinch. Just nodded and left.
I didn’t move. Just stayed there, my hands on his chest, his on my waist, our breath mingling in the dark.
“You didn’t have to say that,” I said. “Not yet.”
“It’s not *yet.*” He cupped my face, his gold-flecked eyes locking onto mine. “It’s *now.* You fought for me. You bled for me. You saved me. And I’m not hiding what you are. Not from them. Not from anyone.”
“And what am I?”
“Mine.” His voice dropped to a growl. “My equal. My partner. My *queen.*”
My breath caught.
“You came here to destroy me,” he said, voice a velvet threat. “But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you *knows* the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “That you’re not just my bondmate.”
His breath was hot on my neck.
“You’re my *queen.*”
I didn’t shove him.
Didn’t slap him.
Didn’t run.
Just closed my eyes.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself believe it.
The wind howled outside. The wards hummed. 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.