The silence after they took her was deeper than the void between stars.
Not empty. Not still. But charged—like the air after lightning, thick with the scent of ozone and old magic, with the echo of something sacred. I stood in the doorway of the Obsidian Pit, my boots planted on the threshold, my fangs bared, my hands clenched into fists so tight the stone cracked beneath my grip. The chamber behind me was in chaos—guards shouting, Council members arguing, Cassian smirking like a serpent who’d just swallowed a bird whole—but I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the closed door, the wards flaring, the obsidian chains humming with venom and ancient magic.
She was in there.
Indigo.
My bondmate.
My equal.
My truth.
And they had locked her away like a monster.
“She unleashed forbidden magic,” one of the Council elders said, voice trembling. “She must be contained.”
“She stopped you,” I said, not turning. My voice was low. Cold. Final. “She exposed your murderer. She revealed the truth. And instead of honoring her, you chain her?”
“She’s contaminated,” another said. “The venom. The blood. She’s unstable.”
“And you’re blind,” I snapped, finally turning. My gaze swept across them—vampires in velvet, witches in ink-stained linen, werewolves in bone and fur—each one flinching under the weight of my fury. “She’s Eclipse. She’s the last heir of a coven you’ve spent centuries erasing. And she just proved Cassian guilty of treason and murder. But you’d rather believe a lie than face the truth.”
“The Council has spoken,” Cassian said, stepping forward, his silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, his smile sharp as a blade. “She will be held until the venom is purged. Until she’s deemed safe.”
“She’s already safe,” I growled. “She’s already mine.”
“Then why is she chained?” he asked, voice dripping with false concern. “Why is she infected? Why is she—”
“Because you poisoned her,” I said, stepping forward, my boots striking the stone once, twice, three times. “You attacked her. You framed her. You’ve spent two centuries hiding behind lies and blood. But it’s over.”
He didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Is it? Or is this just the beginning?”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned.
And walked away.
—
The residence was silent when I returned.
No torches. No servants. No sound. Just the low hum of the wards and the distant echo of the city beyond the veil. I didn’t go to my study. Didn’t summon Silas. Didn’t call for blood or council or war.
I went to her chamber.
The door was still open, the scent of her lingering in the air—indigo and iron, midnight and fire. Her tunic lay on the floor, torn from the fight. The mating mark on the collar pulsed faintly, still warm, still hers. I picked it up, pressed it to my chest, and inhaled—deep, slow, desperate—and for the first time in centuries, I let myself feel.
Fear.
Rage.
Love.
Not just for her.
But because of her.
She had changed me. Not with magic. Not with fate.
With truth.
And I would not lose her.
Not to Cassian.
Not to the Council.
Not to death.
—
The plan formed in silence.
No grand strategy. No political maneuver. No alliance-building.
Just action.
I didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t seek approval. Didn’t consult the Council.
I acted.
First, I went to the armory—beneath the eastern wing, hidden behind a false wall of obsidian. I took a silver dagger—my mother’s, passed down through the D’Vire line—and strapped it to my thigh. Then a vial of vervain-laced oil—to mask my scent. Then a black cloak, enchanted to bend light, to make me shadow.
Then I went to the archives.
The Obsidian Pit had been built centuries ago, designed to hold the most dangerous prisoners—traitors, assassins, abominations. But it had one flaw.
One weakness.
A maintenance shaft—narrow, forgotten, sealed with a false wall of stone. Only the High Sovereign and his lieutenant knew of it.
And now—
So did I.
—
I moved at midnight.
The residence was quiet—too quiet. No guards. No patrols. Just the low hum of the wards and the distant echo of the city beyond the veil. I slipped through the corridors like smoke, my boots silent on the stone, my cloak bending light around me. No one saw me. No one heard me. I was not a king.
I was a ghost.
And I was hunting.
The shaft was where the archives said it would be—behind a tapestry of the Blood Moon Rebellion, the threads frayed with age. I pressed my palm to the stone, whispered the incantation, and the wall melted—not crumbled, not exploded, but opened, like a wound in reality.
Darkness.
And then—
I stepped inside.
—
The tunnel was narrow—too narrow for comfort. The walls pressed in, the ceiling low, the air thick with the scent of mildew and old magic. A single torch flickered at the far end, casting long shadows across the stone. I moved slow, silent, my breath shallow, my senses sharp.
Every few feet, I paused, listening—no voices, no footsteps, no magic. Just silence.
And then—
A flicker.
From below.
Not light. Not sound.
But pressure.
The wards. The sigils etched into the stone. They were alive. And they were reacting.
Not to me.
To her.
“Hold on,” I whispered, pressing a hand to the wall. “I’m coming.”
—
The shaft ended in a grate.
Small. Rusty. Sealed with silver bolts. I knelt, drew the dagger, and worked the first one free—slow, careful, silent. The second. The third. The fourth. And then—
I pushed.
The grate groaned, but gave way, dropping into the chamber below with a soft thud. I didn’t hesitate. Just dropped down after it, landing in a crouch, my fangs bared, my senses sharp.
And then—
I saw her.
Chained to the wall.
Not silver. Not iron.
But obsidian—cold, draining, laced with venom. Her wrists, her ankles, her chest—bound to the stone, her body hanging just above the floor. Her hair was tangled, her skin pale, her lips chapped. But her eyes—oh, her eyes were awake.
Dark. Endless. Indigo.
And the mating mark—
Still glowing beneath her collar.
Faint. But unbroken.
“Kaelen,” she whispered, voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” I agreed, stepping forward. “I should be on a throne. I should be ruling. I should be safe.” I reached up, pressed my palm to the obsidian chain on her wrist. “But I’m here. Because you’re mine. And I don’t leave what’s mine behind.”
She didn’t flinch. Just watched me—those dark eyes searching, testing—then nodded. Once. A silent promise. A silent strength.
“The venom,” she said. “It’s spreading. You can’t touch me. Not without—”
“I don’t care,” I said, already working the lock with the dagger. “Let it burn. Let it kill me. I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
The chain snapped.
Then the second.
Then the third.
And then—
She was in my arms.
Not heavy. Not broken.
But hers.
Her body was cold, her breath shallow, her pulse fluttering like a dying bird. I pressed my forehead to hers, my fangs bared, my voice rough. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“You’re reckless,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “I’m in love.”
And then—
I moved.
Fast. Silent. relentless.
Up the shaft. Through the wall. Down the corridor. Past the silver case. Past the double doors of my private wing. Toward the only place I knew was safe.
My chambers.
—
The door locked behind us with a soft click.
I laid her on the bed—gently, carefully, like she was something sacred. But she wasn’t fragile. Not anymore. She was fire. She was storm. She was mine.
“Don’t,” she said as I reached for the dagger. “The venom—”
“I don’t care,” I said, already slicing through her tunic with my fangs. The wound on her shoulder was deep, the venom spreading, her skin already tinged with gray. I pressed my palm to the cut, my magic flaring, cold and sharp, burning away the poison. She gasped, arching into the pain, her fingers fisting in the sheets.
“Look at me,” I said, voice rough.
She did.
Her eyes—dark, endless—locked onto mine. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath shallow, her body trembling. She looked like a woman who had been taken.
And the worst part?
I wanted to be the one who took her.
“You don’t get to die,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“I wasn’t dying,” she said, breath shallow. “I was fighting.”
“And I’ll fight with you,” I said. “But you don’t get to leave me.”
My breath caught.
And then—
She kissed me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
But hard—her mouth crashing into mine, her fangs grazing my bottom lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. I tried to pull away, but she held me, relentless, her 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 her tunic. My body pressed into hers, desperate, needy.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. “Say it,” she demanded, voice rough. “Say you’re mine.”
“I—”
“Say it,” she 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.
She stilled.
Then—
She kissed me again.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
And when she pulled back, her 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.