The silence after the ritual was not peace. It was aftermath—the kind that follows a storm, when the wind has died but the sky still trembles, when the earth is scorched but not yet cooled. The Council Hall stood frozen in the wake of truth, every representative silent, their eyes wide, their hands clenched, their pride shattered. The sigils on the floor still glowed faintly, a soft indigo pulse like the heartbeat of a sleeping god. The silver bowl had cracked down the center, its dark blood now dry, its magic spent. And in the center of it all—Indigo.
She stood barefoot on the marble, her back straight, her breath steady, her hand still laced with mine. The mating mark on her neck burned with quiet fire, no longer hidden beneath fabric, no longer doubted. It was real. Unmistakable. Unbreakable. And so was she.
Cassian was gone.
Not dead. Not yet.
But broken.
The guards had dragged him away after the memory played—after the Council saw my grief, my helplessness, the way I’d cradled her body, screaming into the void. He hadn’t fought. Hadn’t spoken. Just smiled, blood on his lips, his eyes hollow with the knowledge that his lies were ashes. They’d thrown him into the Obsidian Pit, this time without chains, without venom—just silence, and the weight of what he’d done.
And now—
Now there was only us.
Me.
And her.
—
“The Council is adjourned,” the witch representative said, her voice hoarse. “Until further notice.”
No one argued. No one moved. The representatives rose slowly, like sleepwalkers, their eyes still on Indigo, on the mark, on the ruins of the ritual circle. One by one, they filed out, their footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. The werewolf Alpha paused at the archway, turned, and gave her a single nod—deep, solemn, acknowledging. The fae representative didn’t look back. Just vanished in a ripple of illusion, her silk gown dissolving into shadow.
And then—
It was just us.
And Silas.
He stood in the shadows, arms crossed, half-fae eyes sharp with something I couldn’t name. Not relief. Not triumph. But watchfulness. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he knew this wasn’t over.
It wasn’t.
Because the war hadn’t been about Cassian.
It had been about her.
And now—
Now I had to decide what came next.
—
“You should rest,” I said, turning to Indigo. My voice was rough, still raw from the ritual, from the bond, from the sheer need that had been building since the moment our hands touched. “You’re still healing. The venom—”
“Is gone,” she said, stepping closer. Her fingers brushed the scar above my heart, the one from a battle centuries ago, the one that still ached when she was near. “And so is the lie.”
I didn’t flinch. Just let her touch me—explore, claim, take. Her hands were cold, but her magic was warm, humming beneath her skin, feeding the bond. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I said. “Not anymore.”
“I’m not proving,” she said. “I’m choosing.”
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 growled, rolling her beneath me, my body pressing into hers, my hands fisting in her hair. The bond flared, white-hot, blinding, ours. I gasped, arching into her, my legs tightening around her waist, my hips grinding against hers, seeking friction, seeking more.
And then—
She pulled back.
Breathless. Swollen-lipped. Blood on her mouth.
“I choose you,” she said, voice low. “Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because you’re true.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I kissed her again.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
And when I pulled back, my voice was rough with something like reverence. “And I’m yours.”
—
We walked back to the residence in silence.
No guards. No escorts. No ceremony. Just us—hand in hand, boots clicking once, twice, three times on the stone, the scent of old magic still clinging to our skin. The city beyond the veil was quiet, the streets empty, the torches low. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what we would do next.
And I—
I already knew.
—
The door to my chambers locked behind us with a soft click.
Indigo didn’t hesitate. Just turned, pressed me against the wood, and kissed me—deep, hungry, endless—her hands fisting in my tunic, her body pressing into mine. I didn’t fight. Just let her take me, claim me, consume me. My hands slid down, over her hips, to the curve of her ass, pulling her harder against me. She gasped, arching into the friction, her magic surging.
“Say it again,” she murmured, voice rough.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
She growled—low, deep, Mine—and then—
She unbuttoned my tunic.
Slow. Deliberate. Ours.
I reached for hers, but she batted my hand away. “No,” she said. “Let me.”
And then—
She did.
One button at a time. Her fingers brushing my chest, cold and hard, scarred from centuries of war. My breath hitched. My fangs bared. But I didn’t stop her. Just let her touch me—explore, claim, take.
“You don’t get to decide what I do,” I said, voice low.
“No,” she agreed. “But the bond does.”
And then—
She kissed me.
Not hard. Not angry.
But soft—a press of lips, a whisper of want, a promise. My hands fisted in the sheets. My breath came fast. And then—
She rolled me beneath her.
Not with force. Not with magic.
But with need.
For truth.
For justice.
For me.
Her body pressed into mine, hard and hot despite the cold, her fangs grazing my throat, just a whisper of pressure, a promise of what was to come. My legs parted, inviting, begging. Her hand slid down, over my hip, to the curve of my ass, pulling me harder against her. I arched into the friction, gasping, my magic surging.
“Say it again,” she murmured, voice rough.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
She growled—low, deep, Mine—and then—
She entered me.
Not fast. Not rough.
But slow—one inch at a time, filling me, claiming me, making me hers. I gasped, my back arching, my hands fisting in her hair. The bond flared, warm and alive, a pulse of heat that made me cry out.
And then—
She moved.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
Every thrust was a promise. Every breath a vow. The mating mark glowed beneath her collar, not with possession, not with claim.
Love.
And when I came—shattering, screaming, hers—the bond didn’t flare.
It sang.
And as she followed, her fangs sinking into my neck—not to feed, not to claim, but to bind—I didn’t fight.
Didn’t pull away.
Just let her take me, mark me, keep me.
And when we finally lay tangled, breathless, blood on our mouths, skin on skin, she pressed her 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 her.
I wanted to keep her.
And I would.
No matter the cost.
—
She fell asleep in my arms, her breath slow and steady against my chest, her body warm, her magic humming beneath her skin. I didn’t sleep. Just watched her—those sharp cheekbones, that stubborn jaw, the faint scar above her lip from a fight years ago. She looked like a queen. Like a warrior. Like the woman who had walked into my life and torn it apart.
And I—
I didn’t want to fix it.
I wanted to burn it down.
Because I wasn’t just the High Sovereign.
I was hers.
And she was mine.
—
At dawn, I left her sleeping.
Not to abandon. Not to betray.
But to act.
I dressed in silence, my boots soft 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 Council Hall was empty when I arrived, the torches low, the air thick with the scent of old magic. The ritual circle was still cracked, the silver bowl shattered, the sigils faded but not dead. I stepped into the center, bare feet pressing against the cold stone, and let the power rise—not in a surge, not in a blast, but in a whisper.
And then—
I called them.
Not with sound.
Not with light.
But with blood.
The High Sovereign’s blood. The D’Vire line. The voice that had ruled the Dominion for centuries.
And they came.
One by one, the Council representatives filed in—vampires in velvet, werewolves in furs, fae in illusion-woven silk, witches in ink-stained linen. They didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just took their seats, their eyes on me, their expressions unreadable.
And then—
Silas appeared in the shadows, arms crossed, half-fae eyes sharp with urgency.
“You’re really doing this,” he said, voice low.
“I have to,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, testing—then nodded. “Then say it fast. Before she wakes up and comes looking for you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my boots striking the stone once, twice, three times.
“Representatives,” I began, voice cold, final. “The traitor has been exposed. The lie has been broken. The bond has been proven.” I paused. “And now, I relinquish my title as High Sovereign of the Nocturne Dominion.”
The chamber erupted.
Voices. Shouts. Demands for explanation.
“You cannot abdicate,” the witch representative said, standing. “The Dominion needs a ruler. The balance must be maintained.”
“The balance is broken,” I said. “It has been for centuries. We’ve ruled through fear. Through blood. Through lies. And it has led us to this—Cassian’s poison, the Eclipse Coven erased, a woman nearly killed for daring to speak the truth.” I turned, my gaze sweeping across them. “I will not be that ruler. Not anymore.”
“Then who will?” asked the werewolf Alpha, his voice deep, rough.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just turned to the archway.
And there she was.
Indigo.
Barefoot on the stone, her hair tangled, her skin flushed, her eyes dark with sleep and something deeper. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just walked—slow, steady, hers—into the chamber, her boots clicking once, twice, three times on the marble.
And then—
I dropped to one knee.
Not in submission.
Not in weakness.
But in truth.
“Indigo of the Eclipse Coven,” I said, voice rough, “last heir of a bloodline erased, savior of a bond broken, wielder of time and shadow—will you rule beside me? Not as my subject. Not as my prisoner. But as my equal? As my queen?”
The chamber stilled.
Every eye turned to her.
And then—
She smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. Mine.
And she stepped forward.
Not to me.
But to the Council.
“I will not rule,” she said, voice low, steady. “I will not take a throne built on blood and lies. But I will stand beside him. Not because he asked. Not because the bond demands it. But because I choose to.” She turned, those dark eyes locking onto mine. “And if you want to see a queen—” She stepped down, knelt in front of me, and pressed her forehead to mine. “—then look at me.”
The bond didn’t flare.
It sang.
And as the Council stared—shocked, silent, seeing—I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
And I would not be denied.