The blood oath ritual had ended in silence.
Not with fire. Not with fury. But with truth.
Kaelen’s blood had sizzled in the silver bowl, ancient and potent, the magic of the Nocturne Dominion pulsing through the chamber like a storm held at bay. When he offered his hand to me—palm open, blood dripping, fangs bared in something between pain and reverence—I didn’t hesitate. I took it. Pressed my palm to his. Let our blood mingle in the bowl, let the bond between us flare, not with need, not with desire, but with recognition.
The Council had watched. Cassian with narrowed eyes. Lira with a smirk that faltered when the sigils on the floor flared indigo. The werewolf Alpha had bowed his head. Even the witch representative—cracked obsidian eyes now wide—had nodded once, slow and deliberate.
It was done.
Not just a bond.
A vow.
A promise, sealed in blood and magic, witnessed by the entire Supernatural Council.
And as we walked out—Kaelen’s hand still in mine, his presence a storm at my side—I didn’t feel fear.
I felt claiming.
—
The attack came at midnight.
Not with fanfare. Not with warning.
But with chaos.
I was in my chamber, the Black Sigil pulsing beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat, when the wards screamed.
Not a whisper. Not a hum.
A shriek—high, piercing, laced with fae illusion and vampire venom. I was on my feet in an instant, magic flaring, the Mark of the Eclipse burning beneath my collar. The mating mark—still unbitten, still unclaimed by fang, but real—pulsed in time with my pulse, a live wire fused to my spine.
And then—
Explosion.
Not in the residence.
But in the city.
A blast ripped through the northern gate, the sound muffled by wards but felt in the bones, in the blood, in the very air. The ley lines beneath Vienna surged, a shockwave of raw magic that made the obsidian walls tremble. I grabbed my boots, threw on a tunic, and ran—down the corridor, past the silver case, past the double doors of Kaelen’s private wing—just as the alarms began to wail.
He was already there.
At the northern gate, backlit by torchlight, his black cloak soaked through, his fangs bared, his presence a storm no one dared approach. The remnants of Cassian’s forces—mercenaries, rogue vampires, fae assassins—had breached the outer wards. Bodies littered the courtyard, their blood mixing with the downpour. Silas stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The air was thick with the scent of iron and ozone, of magic and death.
Kaelen didn’t turn as I approached. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, where the first pale light of dawn bled through the clouds.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, rough. “It’s not safe.”
“Neither is your study,” I said, stopping a few feet behind him.
He stilled.
Then—
He turned, those molten gold eyes locking onto mine. Rainwater streamed down his face, his hair slicked back, his jaw tight. He looked like a king. Like a predator. Like the man who had carried me, kissed me, claimed me.
And for the first time, I didn’t look away.
“You came to fight,” he said, stepping closer. “To protect me.”
“I came to finish this,” I said, voice steady. “With you.”
He studied me—those golden eyes searching, testing—then nodded. “Then stay behind me. Or I’ll carry you back myself.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do,” I snapped.
“No,” he agreed. “But the bond does.”
And then—
The first wave hit.
Not from the gate.
But from above.
Fae assassins—cloaked in illusion, wings of shadow—descended from the sky, daggers in hand, poison on the blade. I reacted on instinct, my magic flaring, a pulse of indigo energy slamming into the first one midair. He flew back, hitting the wall with a sickening crack. The second came at me from the side—fast, silent, deadly—but Kaelen was faster. He moved like a storm, fangs bared, hands like claws, ripping the assassin apart before he could draw breath.
And then—
Chaos.
Vampires lunged from the shadows. Werewolves howled in the distance. Fae illusion warped the air, shifting reality, making the ground tilt, the torches flicker, the sky bleed crimson. I stopped time—just for a second—long enough to see the truth: Cassian wasn’t here. But his mark was. His magic. His poison.
I broke the illusion with a pulse of Eclipse power, the air snapping back into place, the assassins stumbling, disoriented. Kaelen was at my back, his hand on my hip, his breath cold against my neck. “Stay close,” he murmured. “Or I’ll tie you to the bedpost.”
“You don’t own me,” I hissed.
“No,” he agreed. “But the bond does.”
And then—
The final wave hit.
A vampire commander—tall, scarred, fangs dripping with venom—charged at Kaelen, blade aimed at his heart. I moved without thinking, stepping in front of him, my body a shield. The blade pierced my side—just below the rib, deep, burning with poison. I gasped, staggering, but didn’t fall. The Black Sigil flared, a pulse of indigo light that threw the commander back, hard, into the stone wall.
Kaelen caught me before I hit the ground.
“Indigo—” His voice was raw, not with anger, but with something deeper. Fear.
“I’m not dying,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Not today.”
He didn’t answer. Just lifted me, one arm under my thighs, the other at my back, carrying me back through the rain, through the blood, through the silence. His fangs were bared, his eyes molten gold, his grip unyielding. And I—
I didn’t fight.
Didn’t pull away.
Just pressed my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—cold fire, old blood, something darker, richer—and let him carry me.
—
He laid me on the bed in his chamber—gently, carefully, like I was something fragile. But I wasn’t. Not anymore.
“Don’t,” I said as he reached for the dagger. “I’ll heal.”
“Not fast enough,” he growled, already slicing through my tunic with his fangs. The wound was deep, the poison spreading, my skin already tinged with gray. He pressed his palm to the cut, his magic flaring, cold and sharp, burning away the venom. I gasped, arching into the pain, my fingers fisting in the sheets.
“Look at me,” he said, voice rough.
I did.
His eyes—golden, molten—locked onto mine. Rainwater still clung to his lashes, his hair slicked back, his jaw tight. He looked like a king. Like a predator. Like the man who had knelt in the rain and sworn he’d rather be damned than live without me.
And I—
I didn’t look away.
“You don’t get to die,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“I wasn’t dying,” I said, breath shallow. “I was fighting.”
“And I’ll fight with you,” he said. “But you don’t get to leave me.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
But hard—his mouth crashing into mine, his fangs grazing my bottom lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. I tried to pull away, but he held me, relentless, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming, consuming.
And then—
The bond erupted.
Fire ripped through me, not pain, but pleasure—white-hot, blinding, inescapable. My knees buckled. My hands fisted in his tunic. My body pressed into his, desperate, needy.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. “Say it,” he demanded, voice rough. “Say you’re mine.”
“I—”
“Say it,” he growled.
And then—
I did.
Not because I was broken.
Not because I was weak.
But because it was true.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
He stilled.
Then—
He kissed me again.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
And when he pulled back, his voice was rough with something like reverence. “And I’m yours.”
—
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away.
Just kept kissing me—soft, deep, endless—his hands moving over my body, careful, reverent, like I was something sacred. He peeled off my tunic, his fingers brushing the wound, his magic flaring, cold and sharp, healing, claiming. The mating mark pulsed beneath my collar, a live wire, feeding on the touch, on the need, on the sheer want that had been building since the moment our hands touched.
And then—
He unbuttoned his own tunic.
Slow. Deliberate. Ours.
I reached up, my fingers brushing his chest, cold and hard, scarred from centuries of war. His breath hitched. His fangs bared. But he didn’t stop. Just let me touch him—explore, claim, take.
“You don’t get to decide what I do,” I said, voice low.
“No,” he agreed. “But the bond does.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not hard. Not angry.
But soft—a press of lips, a whisper of want, a promise. His hands fisted in the sheets. His breath came fast. And then—
He rolled me beneath him.
Not with force. Not with magic.
But with need.
For truth.
For justice.
For me.
His body pressed into mine, hard and hot despite the cold, his fangs grazing my throat, just a whisper of pressure, a promise of what was to come. My legs parted, inviting, begging. His hand slid down, over my hip, to the curve of my ass, pulling me harder against him. I arched into the friction, gasping, my magic surging.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice rough.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
He growled—low, deep, Mine—and then—
He entered me.
Not fast. Not rough.
But slow—one inch at a time, filling me, claiming me, making me his. I gasped, my back arching, my hands fisting in his hair. The bond flared, warm and alive, a pulse of heat that made me cry out.
And then—
He moved.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
Every thrust was a promise. Every breath a vow. The mating mark glowed beneath my collar, not with possession, not with claim.
Love.
And when I came—shattering, screaming, his—the bond didn’t flare.
It sang.
And as he followed, his fangs sinking into my neck—not to feed, not to claim, but to bind—I didn’t fight.
Didn’t pull away.
Just let him take me, mark me, keep me.
And when we finally lay tangled, breathless, blood on our mouths, skin on skin, he pressed his forehead to mine and whispered—
“You’re not mine.”
I stilled.
Then—
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Mine. “You’re already marked.”
And I knew—
This wasn’t just about vengeance.
Or politics.
Or the bond.
This was about us.
And for the first time—
I didn’t want to destroy him.
I wanted to keep him.
And I would.
No matter the cost.