The first light of dawn slipped through the high arched windows of our chamber like liquid gold, spilling across the stone floor, catching the dust motes in its glow. It painted stripes across Kaelen’s bare chest where he lay beside me, one arm still draped possessively over my waist, his breathing deep and even in sleep. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched the rise and fall of his ribs, the faint scar that ran from his collarbone to his sternum—a relic of some long-ago battle I didn’t know the story of. His gold eyes were closed, his face relaxed, unguarded in a way I’d never seen before. No mask of control. No cold authority. Just… peace.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this fortress with murder in my heart, I let myself believe that peace wasn’t a lie.
The curse was broken.
Not by blood. Not by magic. Not by death.
By choice.
By love.
And gods, it terrified me.
Not because I didn’t mean it. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because love had always been the enemy. The weakness. The thing my mother had warned me against. The thing that had gotten her killed. And now—
Now, I had chosen it.
I had chosen *him*.
And I had no idea how to live in the aftermath.
Kaelen stirred, his fingers flexing against my hip, his body shifting closer. I held my breath. Waited. And then his eyes opened—slow, heavy with sleep, but instantly focused on me. Not with suspicion. Not with challenge. With something softer.
Recognition.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“So are you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t smile. Just lifted his hand, his thumb brushing the fresh bite mark just below my ear—the one he’d placed there in the Moonfire Hall. The one that declared to the world I was his. Not by force. Not by magic. But by choice. His touch was gentle, reverent, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he pressed too hard.
“You’re real,” he said, his voice low.
“So are you,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just pulled me closer, his body warm against mine, his scent—storm and iron—wrapping around me like a vow. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Just buried my face in his neck, my breath warm against his skin. The bond hummed between us, not with need, not with denial, but with something deeper. Something like *belonging*.
And then—
He moved.
Not with urgency. Not with hunger. But with care.
His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my hip, down my thigh. Then up again—slow, deliberate, tracing the edge of the sigil branded into my skin. It still throbbed faintly, a pulse of heat beneath the surface, a reminder of everything we’d survived. Everything we’d chosen.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Good,” he said, his voice rough. “Because I’m not done touching you.”
And then he kissed me.
Not like before. Not like the desperate, claiming kisses we’d shared in the Moonfire Hall, where fire and storm had spiraled out of control, where the bond had roared to life like a wildfire. This was different.
Slower.
Deeper.
Softer.
His lips met mine, hot and demanding, but not with possession—with *tenderness*. His tongue slid against my lower lip, not forcing entry, but asking. And when I opened for him, he didn’t take. He *worshiped*.
His hand moved again—up my spine, over my shoulder, into my hair, fisting gently, tilting my head back. His other hand traced the sigil on my thigh, then moved higher, his thumb brushing the edge of my hip, just beneath the waistband of the silk shorts I’d slept in. I gasped—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against my lips.
“So are you,” I whispered.
He didn’t argue. Just kissed me again—deeper, slower, a vow sealed in breath and heat. His hand slid beneath the fabric of my shorts, his palm warm against the bare skin of my ass, his fingers spreading, pulling me against him. I could feel him—hard, thick, pressing against my thigh—and gods, it made me ache.
But he didn’t rush.
Didn’t push.
Just held me. Touched me. *Knew* me.
And then—
He stopped.
Pulled back. Looked at me.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me if you want this. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the curse is gone. But because *you* want it.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just reached for him—my hands on his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar, my nails lightly scraping. “I want you,” I said, my voice breaking. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. But because I *love* you. Because you saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid. As *me*. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.”
He didn’t smile.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, a vow sealed in breath and heat. And then his hands moved—down my back, over my hips, beneath the waistband of my shorts, pulling them down, one slow inch at a time. I lifted my hips, helping him, my breath catching as the cool air hit my skin. And then—
He was naked.
Me.
Us.
And the world fell away.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t claim. Just *touched*.
His hands traced the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the swell of my hips. His fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, then higher—slow, deliberate—until he found me. Wet. Aching. Ready.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Not just your body. Not just your power. *You*. All of you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just arched into his touch, my breath catching as his thumb circled my clit, slow and steady, building the fire one spark at a time. My magic hummed beneath my skin, not with denial, not with resistance, but with *truth*. I could feel it—his love, his need, his surrender. And I gave it back. My relief, my shame, my *love*—pouring into him like a river.
And then—
He kissed me again.
And his fingers slid inside me.
Two. Then three. Slow. Deep. Curling just right. I moaned—deep, broken—my body arching off the bed, my hands clutching the sheets. He didn’t stop. Just kept moving—his fingers, his thumb, his mouth—until I was trembling, until I was begging, until I was on the edge.
“Kaelen,” I gasped. “Please—”
“Not yet,” he murmured, his lips against my neck. “I want to feel you come on my hand. I want to taste you. I want to *know* you.”
And then—
He lowered his head.
His mouth found me—hot, wet, relentless. His tongue circled my clit, then flicked, then pressed. His fingers kept moving—slow, deep, relentless. I screamed—raw, broken—my body arching off the bed, my fingers clutching his hair, my magic flaring, lightning crackling at my fingertips.
And then—
I came.
Not with fire. Not with storm.
But with *peace*.
It washed over me—slow, deep, all-consuming. My body trembled. My breath caught. My vision whited out. And when I came back, he was still there—kissing me, touching me, holding me—his eyes burning into mine.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. Because you *chose* to be.”
“I did,” I whispered, my hands rising to his face, my fingers tracing his jaw. “And you’re mine. And I’ll choose you. Every time.”
He didn’t smile.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, a vow sealed in breath and heat. And then he moved—over me, between my legs, his body a wall of storm and iron. I reached for him—my hands on his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar, my nails lightly scraping.
“Tell me,” I said, my voice breaking. “Tell me if you want this. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the curse is gone. But because *you* want it.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Just looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into the Moonfire Hall. Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because you’re *worthy*. Because you’re strong. Because you’re *mine*.”
And then—
He entered me.
Slow. Deep. All the way.
I gasped—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders. He didn’t move. Just held me—deep inside, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath warm against my skin. And then—
He started to move.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
Each thrust was a vow. Each breath a promise. Each touch a claim. Not of ownership. Not of dominance. But of *love*.
And when I came again—harder, deeper, brighter—he was right there with me, his body arching, his roar echoing through the chamber, his seed spilling inside me, hot and thick.
The bond flared—not with need, not with desperation, but with *truth*.
We didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just held each other—breathing, trembling, *alive*.
And then—
He pulled out, rolled to his side, and pulled me into his arms, holding me like I was something fragile, something precious. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Just buried my face in his neck, my breath warm against his skin.
And for the first time since I’d become who I was meant to be, I let myself believe it.
That I wasn’t just surviving.
I was *alive*.
And I would fight—
For him.
For us.
For every breath, every touch, every claim.
Because the curse wasn’t just in my blood.
It was in my heart.
And the only way to break it was to stop running.
To stop fighting.
To stop pretending I didn’t want him.
Because I did.
Not just to survive.
Not just to break the curse.
But because he saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid.
As *me*.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.