The storm didn’t stop when Ravel left the Chamber of Echoes. It followed me—howling through the corridors of the Spire, rattling the torches in their sconces, tearing through the ancient wards like they were paper. My body was still weak, my magic frayed at the edges, my breath coming in shallow pulls that ached deep in my ribs. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The trial had been called. The Council demanded blood. And I—
I was ready.
Kael tried to slow me. Tried to carry me. Tried to cage me in his arms and whisper that I needed rest, that I needed time, that I needed *him.* But I shook him off—gently, because I could feel the fear in his touch, the way his fangs retracted just a fraction too fast, the way his claws sheathed and unsheathed like a man fighting to keep control.
“I’m not fragile,” I said, my voice low, rough. “I’m not broken. And I’m not running.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his presence a wall of heat and power. The bond pulsed between us—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath our skin, not with urgency, not with heat, but with quiet, unshakable certainty. We weren’t just bonded.
We were *united.*
The Spire was quiet as we walked—too quiet. No whispers. No sidelong glances. No scents of fear or intrigue. Just silence. The kind that comes before a reckoning. The kind that knows something is about to break.
We didn’t go to my chambers. Not the ones I’d claimed when I first arrived, the ones still littered with files and daggers and the scent of vengeance. We went to the northern tower. To *his* suite. To the room where we’d made love for the first time, where I’d whispered, *“I’m yours,”* where he’d whispered, *“And I’m yours. Forever.”*
Where I’d nearly died.
And come back.
The fire was already lit—low, steady, crackling in the hearth. The black silk sheets were turned down. His coat hung over the chair. The book—ancient, leather-bound—still lay open on the table, its pages filled with his precise, angular script. It wasn’t a throne room.
It was a home.
And for the first time, I let myself believe I belonged here.
Kael closed the door behind us, the wards clicking into place with a soft, final sound. Then he turned, his gold-flecked eyes searching mine. “Sit,” he said, voice rough.
“I’m not tired.”
“Liar.” He stepped forward, his hands lifting to the tear in my tunic, where blood had dried in dark streaks. “You’re pale. Your pulse is thready. And you’re bleeding through your bandages.”
“So are you.”
“I heal faster.”
“Not this time.” I reached for the vial of Maeve’s restorative on the nightstand, uncorked it, and pressed it to my lips. The liquid was bitter, thick, laced with crushed moonpetal and old magic. It burned going down, but I didn’t flinch. Just swallowed, feeling the faint spark of energy ripple through my veins.
“You should rest,” he said, watching me.
“I will.” I set the vial down. “After the trial.”
“And if you don’t survive it?”
My breath caught.
He didn’t look away. Just stepped closer, his hand lifting to the mark beneath my collarbone. It flared—gold light bleeding through the fabric—then dimmed, like a heartbeat steadying. “You think I can live in a world where you don’t exist? Where your fire doesn’t burn beside mine? Where your hands don’t touch me like I’m something worth saving?”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for him, my fingers brushing the scar above his brow, the one I’d traced the night we made love. The night I’d let myself believe in us.
“You came here to destroy me,” he murmured, his 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?” I whispered.
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “You’re my *queen.* And I’m not letting go.”
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.
But the moment didn’t last.
A knock came at the door—sharp, urgent. Not Dain. Not Lira.
Someone official.
Kael didn’t move. Just held me tighter, his fangs elongating, his claws instinctively sheathing and re-sheathing. “Enter,” he called, voice cold, dangerous.
The door opened.
Dain stepped inside, his wolf-gold eyes wide, his posture tense. Behind him, Lira—her wrists still bound in silver cord, her red eyes reflecting the torchlight. She didn’t speak. 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.
“The Council has set the trial for dawn,” Dain said, stepping forward. “Blood Court. Duel to the death.”
My blood ran cold.
“For what crime?” Kael demanded.
“Treason,” Lira said, her voice quiet. “Conspiring with the Fae. Stealing Council secrets. Destabilizing the bond.”
“And the champion?” I asked.
Dain hesitated. “Ravel.”
“Of course.” I exhaled, low and slow. “He wants me dead. And he wants the bond broken. And he thinks a duel will do it.”
“It might,” Lira said. “He’s old. Powerful. And he knows your weaknesses.”
“He knows *nothing,*” I said, stepping forward, my storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. “He knows only lies. Only fear. Only blood. And I’ve already burned through worse.”
“You’re not at full strength,” Dain said, voice tight. “Your magic’s drained. Your body’s weak. And the bond—”
“Is stronger than ever,” I snapped. “And it’s not just *mine.* It’s *ours.* And if he wants to fight me—” I turned to Kael. “—he’ll have to fight *us.*”
Kael didn’t argue. Just stepped beside me, his body pressing into mine, his fangs bared, his claws extended. “Then let the trial begin,” he said, voice deadly calm. “And let the bond be the judge.”
Dain nodded, then left.
Lira lingered. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet. “For everything. For what I did. For what I said. For—”
“You don’t get to apologize,” I said, stepping forward. “Not now. Not after everything. But if you want to make it right—” I reached into my tunic and pulled out the journal—aged, brittle, the cover scorched at one corner. “—keep this safe. If I don’t come back, take it to the Storm Court. Let them know the truth.”
She didn’t argue. Just took the journal, her fingers trembling. “I will.”
And then she was gone.
The door closed.
The silence returned.
And then—
—Kael turned to me, his hand lifting to the tear in my tunic. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” He didn’t wait for permission. Just unfastened the fabric, sliding it from my shoulders, revealing the network of scars, the fresh burns, the silver-seared gash along my ribs.
My breath caught.
Not from pain.
From *recognition.*
These weren’t just wounds.
They were a history.
A life.
A woman who had fought alone for too long.
And now—
Now he was letting me see it.
His fingers brushed the worst of the damage, light, careful. I flinched, but didn’t pull away. Just exhaled, low and slow, my eyes closing.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not as much as watching you bleed.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pressed his palm flat against the injury, letting his magic flow—crimson and gold spiraling, healing, *binding.* The bond flared in response, gold and crimson and white weaving together like threads of fate. My breath caught. His hand covered mine, holding it in place.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You’re already drained.”
“And you’re still poisoned.” He didn’t pull away. “So shut up and let me heal you.”
I didn’t argue.
Just closed my eyes, my head tilting back, my 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 and gold spiraling around us, binding us, *claiming* us. The bond *roared,* heat flooding my veins, light exploding behind my eyes.
And then—
—he lifted me.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
But *carefully.*
His arms slid beneath my knees, his other hand cradling my back, and he carried me to the bed, laying me down with a tenderness that made my chest ache. He didn’t climb on top of me. Didn’t cage me. Just knelt beside me, his hand brushing the mark beneath my collarbone, his eyes searching mine.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice raw.
“You won’t.”
“I don’t want to rush this.”
“Then don’t.” I reached for him, my fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “Just… stay.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his breath unsteady, his fangs retracted, his claws sheathed.
And then—
—he kissed me.
Slowly. Gently. Reverently.
Like I was something precious. Something sacred. Something *his.*
And I let him.
Let his lips trace mine. Let his hands slide up my sides, beneath my tunic, over the curve of my ribs. Let his breath warm my skin, his scent fill my lungs, his magic harmonize with mine.
And then—
—I pulled him down.
Not roughly. Not desperately.
But *finally.*
His body met mine, solid, warm, *real.* His chest pressed to mine, his hips settling between my thighs, his breath catching as I arched into him.
“Parker,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“I’m here.” I framed his face, my thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t speak.
Just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, more certain.
And I kissed him back.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
Not because of war.
But because I *wanted* to.
Because I *needed* to.
Because for the first time in ten years—
I wasn’t fighting.
I was *choosing.*
His hands moved slowly, reverently, undressing me with a care that made my breath hitch. The tunic. The trousers. The dagger at my belt. Each piece removed like a vow, like a promise, like a surrender.
And when I was bare, he didn’t stare.
He didn’t devour.
He just… *looked.*
His gold-flecked eyes traced every line, every scar, every curve, like he was memorizing me. And then—
—he lowered his head.
Not to my mouth.
But to my collarbone.
To the mark.
And he kissed it.
Soft. Slow. Reverent.
And the bond—
It *ignited.*
Not with fire.
Not with magic.
With *truth.*
And I knew—
This wasn’t just surrender.
It wasn’t just desire.
It wasn’t just fate.
This was *love.*
And I wasn’t afraid of it anymore.
“I’m yours,” I breathed, my hands tangling in his hair.
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me again—deep, slow, endless.
And the world fell away.
The war.
The lies.
The vengeance.
It all faded, until there was only this.
Only us.
Only the bond.
Only the truth.
And as his body covered mine, as his hands claimed me, as his mouth whispered my name like a prayer—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t run.
I just…
Let go.
The fire snapped shut, plunging the room into near darkness. Only the faint glow of the wards and the bond lit the space, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.
And then—
—he whispered.
So soft I almost missed it.
“I love you,” he said.
And for the first time in ten years—
I believed that, too.
But the dawn came.
Not with fanfare. Not with a fanfare of trumpets or a call to arms. But with light—soft, pale, spilling through the narrow window in the northern tower, painting the stone in hues of silver and ash. The storm had passed. The moors were quiet. The Spire stood, wounded but unbroken.
I sat up, the sheet pooling around my waist, my skin glowing in the early light. I looked like a queen—my spine straight, my gaze sharp, my storm-gray eyes blazing with purpose. Not the woman who had bled for him in the courtyard. Not the girl who had come to destroy him.
But the woman who had chosen me.
And I had never seen anything more beautiful.
“They’ll be waiting,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “The trial. The duel. The Council.”
“Let them wait.” He sat up, reaching for me, his fingers brushing the mark beneath my collarbone. “Let them see us together. Let them see what happens when you try to break what fate forged.”
I turned to him, my eyes searching mine. “You’re not afraid?”
“Of what? The Council? The packs? Ravel’s ghost?” I stood, pulling her to her feet, my hands on her hips, my forehead resting against hers. “I was afraid before. Afraid of losing control. Afraid of being weak. Afraid of needing you.” I kissed her—soft, slow, certain. “But not anymore. Because I *am* weak. And I *do* need you. And I’m not hiding it.”
Her breath caught.
“You came here to destroy me,” I 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?” she whispered.
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” My lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You’re my *queen.* And I’m not letting go.”
She didn’t shove me.
Didn’t slap me.
Didn’t run.
Just closed her eyes.
And for the first time in ten years—
She let herself believe it.
We dressed in silence—her in a fresh black tunic, her sigil-stone at her belt, her blades strapped to her thighs. Me in a dark coat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fangs retracted, claws sheathed. We didn’t need armor. Didn’t need weapons. We had each other. And that was enough.
The corridors were quiet as we left the northern tower, our boots echoing against the stone. The Spire was still waking—torchlights flickering, shadows retreating, the scent of old magic and fresh blood lingering in the air. But the whispers had changed.
“She’s back.”
“They survived.”
“The bond held.”
I didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge them. Just kept walking, my hand brushing hers with every step, the bond pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.
And then—
—we reached the Blood Court.
The arena was already prepared—a circular ring carved from black stone, ringed with torches that burned with blue flame. The air was thick with the scent of blood-wine and old magic, the ground slick with the remnants of past duels. The Council gathered in silence, their seats elevated around the ring, their eyes sharp, calculating.
And at the center—
Ravel.
He stood, his crimson robes swirling, his red eyes gleaming with triumph. Beside him stood a vampire elder—tall, gaunt, his fangs elongated, his hands stained with centuries of blood. His name was Vossen. A Blood Champion. A killer.
“The accused,” Ravel announced, his voice echoing through the chamber, “Parker Voss, stands charged with treason against the Supernatural Council. She has consorted with the Fae, stolen Council secrets, and destabilized the sacred bond between the High Arbiter and his bondmate. For these crimes, she is sentenced to death—unless a champion steps forward to fight in her name.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber. “Who will defend her?”
Dead silence.
No one moved. No one spoke. Not the werewolf Alphas. Not the Fae envoy. Not even Dain, who stood at the edge of the ring, his wolf-gold eyes dark with tension.
And then—
—I stepped forward.
My boots echoed against the stone as I walked into the ring, my coat gone, my sleeves rolled to the elbows, my fangs retracted, my claws sheathed. I didn’t look at Ravel. Didn’t acknowledge Vossen. Just turned to Parker, who stood at the edge of the arena, her black tunic clinging to her frame, her sigil-stone at her belt, her storm-gray eyes locked on mine.
“I am her champion,” I said, voice low, deadly calm. “And I will fight for her life.”
A murmur rippled through the Council. Vossen sneered. Ravel smiled.
“So be it,” Ravel said. “The trial begins. Blood to blood. Life to life. The victor claims the truth.”
The torches flared. The wards hummed. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, not with fear, but with *fire.*
Vossen attacked first.
Fast. Brutal. A blur of motion—fists, claws, fangs—aimed to cripple, to maim, to kill. I didn’t block. Didn’t dodge. Just took the hits, letting the pain ground me, letting the wolf rise, letting the vampire hiss.
A fist to the ribs. A claw across the chest. A fang sinking into my shoulder.
Blood spilled. Thick. Hot. My own.
But I didn’t fall.
Because I wasn’t fighting for myself.
I was fighting for *her.*
For the way her body had arched into mine in the ruins. For the way she’d whispered, *“Don’t leave me,”* in her sleep. For the way she’d stood in the Chamber of Echoes, unbroken, unafraid, and said, *“Now I fight with you.”*
For the truth.
And then—
—I struck.
Not with magic. Not with the bond.
With *teeth.*
I lunged, my fangs tearing into his neck, my claws raking down his spine. He roared, twisting, trying to throw me off, but I held on, feeding—not on blood, but on pain, on rage, on the raw, unfiltered *need* to protect what was mine.
We crashed to the ground, rolling, snarling, biting. The stone cracked beneath us. The torches flickered. The Council gasped.
And then—
—I broke his neck.
Not killed him. Not yet.
Just dislocated it. Just enough to make him scream. Just enough to make him *beg.*
I stood over him, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my fangs, my claws extended, my gold-flecked eyes blazing. “Yield,” I growled. “Or I’ll tear out your throat.”
He didn’t answer. Just spat blood, his red eyes filled with hate.
So I did.
One clean rip. One final scream.
And then—
—silence.
Vossen’s body fell to the stone, lifeless. The torches dimmed. The wards stilled.
And the Council—
They didn’t cheer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
They just *watched.*
Ravel stood, his crimson robes swirling, his face unreadable. “The champion has won. The accused is… *cleared.*” The word tasted like poison on his tongue.
But I didn’t care.
Because Parker was already moving—stepping into the ring, her boots soft against the blood-slick stone, her storm-gray eyes locked on mine. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for me, her fingers brushing the wound on my chest, the blood still flowing.
“You’re hurt,” she said, voice low.
“It’s nothing.”
“Liar.” She pulled a dagger from her belt, sliced her palm in one clean motion, and pressed it to my chest, right over the wound.
And the world *exploded.*
Her magic—crimson, wild, untamed—flooded into me, not like a river, but like a storm. It burned through my veins, searing away the pain, the blood loss, the fracture. I could feel it—her blood, her power, her *life*—pouring into me, harmonizing with my own. The bond flared white-hot, the sigils on our skin glowing like twin stars. The wolf stilled. The vampire quieted. And the man—
The man *survived.*
But it wasn’t just healing.
It was *connection.*
I could feel her—her fear, her anger, her resolve. Her memories. Her mother’s face. The flames. The vow. And beneath it all—
A longing so deep it ached.
For me.
“Parker,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand harder, her blood mixing with mine, her magic binding us deeper than ever before.
And then—
—the door burst open.
Dain stood in the archway, his expression stunned. “Kael. We have a problem.”
“Not now,” I growled.
“It’s Lira,” he said. “She’s gone. And Ravel—he’s moving. He’s calling the packs. He’s saying the bond is a threat. That it needs to be severed—by force.”
My chest tightened.
But Parker didn’t pull away.
Just kept her hand on my chest, her blood in my veins, her magic in my soul.
“Let him come,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Let him try. Because this time—” She looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes blazing. “—we fight *together.*”
I didn’t answer.
Just pulled her into a fierce embrace, my mouth on her neck, my fangs grazing her skin, not to claim, not to mark—but to *promise.*
And the bond—
It *pulsed.*
Not with warning.
With *power.*
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And that was enough.