The moment I hold her—really hold her—after the shattered mirror, after the lie, after the venomous whisper of Lira’s glamour still curling through the air like smoke—the bond screams.
Not in harmony.
Not in peace.
In rage.
It tears through me like a storm, a hurricane of need and fury and something so raw it scrapes my soul bare. My fangs descend, sharp and aching. My hands clench in the fabric of her coat, pulling her so close there’s no space, no breath, no thought—just her. Her scent. Her heat. Her pulse, hammering beneath my lips where I press them to her temple.
She doesn’t pull away.
Just trembles.
And that—
That undoes me.
Because she’s afraid. Not of me. Not of the bond. But of herself. Of what she wants. Of what she feels. And I—
I can’t stand it.
Can’t stand the way her breath hitches when I touch her. Can’t stand the way her magic flares beneath my hands, responding to me like it’s starved. Can’t stand the way she looks at me—like I’m both salvation and damnation.
And I know—
If I don’t take her now, I’ll lose her.
Not to Lira.
Not to Mab.
To herself.
So I do the only thing I can.
I lift her.
Not gently.
Not with care.
Like I’m claiming what’s mine.
One arm under her knees, the other around her back, I carry her across the room, her body rigid, her breath coming fast. I don’t speak. Don’t explain. Just move—fast, deliberate—until her back hits the wall, my body pressing into hers, caging her in.
“Kael—”
“Don’t,” I growl, my lips against her neck. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t feel like that.”
She gasps.
So do I.
Because she’s right there—on the edge. I can taste it. The way her pulse jumps beneath my fangs. The way her hands fist in my coat. The way her hips arch into mine, just slightly, just enough.
And I—
I lose control.
My mouth crashes into hers—hard, angry, needing. Not soft. Not sweet. A collision of teeth and tongue and desperation. She moans, the sound tearing from her throat, her body melting into mine, her legs wrapping around my waist like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat.
I don’t care.
Don’t care that this isn’t love.
Don’t care that this is rage.
Don’t care that this is the closest I’ve ever come to breaking her.
Because she’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world before I let her go.
My hands tear at her clothes—coat, blouse, the delicate lace of her chemise—until her skin is bare beneath my palms. She gasps, her back arching, her nails digging into my shoulders. I don’t stop. Just keep going—fingers sliding down, over her ribs, her hips, until I find her—drenched, trembling, ready.
“Gods,” I growl, my voice rough. “You’re soaked for me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just throws her head back, her throat exposed, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
And I—
I bite.
Not on her neck.
Not to mark.
On her shoulder—hard, deep, a snarl ripping from my throat as I taste her blood, sweet and wild, like moonlight and fire. She cries out, her body clenching around my fingers, her hips bucking, her nails raking down my back.
I don’t stop.
Just keep biting, keep stroking, keep claiming—until she comes, hard, her cry tearing through the room, her body shuddering in my arms.
And still—
I’m not done.
I spin her—fast, rough—until her front is against the wall, her palms flat, her breath coming fast. I shove her skirt up, rip her panties aside, and thrust inside—no warning, no gentleness, just need.
She gasps—my name, a plea, a curse—I don’t know.
And I—
I don’t care.
Just drive into her—hard, deep, relentless—my hips snapping, my cock filling her, stretching her, claiming her. Her moans are broken, desperate, her hands fisting against the stone, her body arching into every thrust.
“Kael—please—I can’t—”
“You can,” I snarl, my fangs grazing her neck. “You will. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
And I keep going—faster, harder, deeper—until the bond roars, a live wire fusing us together, making us one. My magic—dark, ancient, hers—swirls with hers, stolen Fae fire and vampire blood merging in a storm of power and desire.
I see flashes—
Her as a child, laughing in a sunlit garden.
Her mother’s voice, soft, singing in the dark.
A man’s hands, gentle, brushing hair from a fevered brow.
And then—
Pain.
Loss.
Regret.
Centuries of it, crashing over me like a wave.
“Magnolia,” I gasp, my thrusts deepening. “I—”
“Don’t think,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Don’t fight. Just feel.”
And I do.
My body melts into hers, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my heart hammering against her back. The bond thrums between us, a live wire, fusing us together, making us one.
And for the first time in centuries—
I’m not alone.
I’m not just a king.
I’m not just a monster.
I’m wanted.
I’m seen.
I’m hers.
And then—
I come.
Hard.
Blinding.
My groan rips from my throat, deep and guttural, as I pulse inside her, hot and thick, my fangs sinking into her neck—just once—not to mark, not to claim, but to feel.
And she—
She doesn’t push me away.
Just arches into me, her hands in my hair, her body still clenching, her breath coming in broken gasps.
And then—
I collapse.
Not on her.
Never on her.
But beside her, my arm around her waist, pulling her back against my chest, my face buried in her hair, my breath warm on her neck.
The bond hums between us—still fused, still alive—but different now.
Not just magic.
Not just fate.
Something deeper.
Something like love.
And I—
I don’t pull away.
Just hold her, my chest to her back, my arms tight around her waist, my breath slow, steady.
And then—
I feel it.
The wetness on her cheeks.
Not mine.
Hers.
My breath stills.
“Magnolia?” I whisper, turning her in my arms.
She doesn’t look at me. Just presses her face into my chest, her hands fisting in my coat, her body trembling.
And I—
I break.
My arms tighten around her, my lips pressing to her hair, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry. Gods, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just— I couldn’t—”
“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice raw. “Don’t apologize. Not for this. Not for wanting me.”
“I didn’t just want you,” I say, my voice rough. “I needed you. I’ve needed you since the moment I saw you. And if I didn’t have you—if I lost you—”
“You won’t,” she says, pressing her face into my chest. “Not if you stop trying to protect me from the truth. Not if you let me fight. Not if you let me choose.”
I don’t answer.
Just hold her, my arms tight around her waist, my breath warm on her neck.
And then—
She pulls back.
Looks at me.
And for the first time—
She doesn’t see the enemy.
She sees the man.
The one who tried to save her father.
The one who’s been fighting for her since the day she was born.
The one who loves her.
And I—
I don’t pull away.
Instead, I whisper—
“Then fight with me. Not against me. With me. As my mate. As my queen. As mine.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Hard. Angry. Needing.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just flare.
It explodes.
But this time—
It’s not rage.
It’s not fury.
It’s truth.
And I—
I let it burn.
Because if this is what it means to love her—
If this is what it means to be hers—
Then I’ll burn the world.
Again and again.
For her.
The night stretches on, long and silent, the torches flickering low, the shadows deep. We don’t speak. Don’t move. Just lie there, tangled in each other, our breaths slow, our hearts beating as one.
And then—
She stirs.
Just slightly. A soft sigh. A shift of her hips. Her bare leg brushes mine, and the bond flares—soft, gentle, recognizing.
She doesn’t wake.
Just nestles deeper into me, her back pressing into my chest, her hand sliding over mine, lacing our fingers together.
And I—
I almost break.
Almost roll her onto her back, pin her beneath me, kiss her until she forgets her father’s name, until she only knows mine.
But I don’t.
Because she’s asleep.
And I—
I’m still the king.
Still the man who let her father die.
Still the monster she came here to kill.
And if she wakes to find me watching her like this—like I’m starving, like I’d burn the world for one more breath of her—
Then she’ll run.
And I can’t lose her.
Not now.
Not after tonight.
So I slip out of bed—slow, careful—and dress in silence. Button my coat. Roll up my sleeves. The scar on my shoulder—Elara’s mark—itches, a ghost of a bond that died too soon. I don’t think about it. Not now.
Now, I think only of her.
Of the way she arched into my hand. The way she came apart beneath my mouth. The way she whispered my name as I filled her. The way she held me as I came—not with fear, not with hate, but with something that looked like trust.
And then—
I go to the kitchen.
Not the royal dining hall. Not the banquet chambers.
The kitchen.
Where the human servants work before dawn, where the scent of coffee and bread lingers in the air, where the world still feels real.
“Your Majesty,” the head cook says, bowing low. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee,” I say. “Black. And—” I hesitate. “And something sweet. She likes strawberries.”
The cook blinks. “The consort?”
“Yes,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “And don’t speak of this to anyone.”
He bows again. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
I wait—not pacing, not fidgeting, but standing still, my hands clasped behind my back, my gaze fixed on the stone wall—until the tray is ready. Porcelain cup. Silver pot. Plate of fresh strawberries, still dewy from the garden. A single croissant, warm from the oven.
I carry it myself.
No guards. No attendants. Just me, the tray, and the quiet.
Back in the wing, the sun is just beginning to rise, painting the balcony in soft gold. The connecting door is open. She’s still in bed, but awake now—sitting up, her hair a wild tangle, her eyes dark, fierce, alive.
She sees me.
And for a heartbeat—
I see it.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Shame.
Because she thinks last night was a mistake.
Thinks she betrayed her father.
Thinks she gave in.
And I—
I can’t let her believe that.
So I set the tray on the table, pour the coffee—black, just how I like it—and hand her the cup.
She takes it. Doesn’t speak.
Just stares at the steam rising from the surface, her fingers wrapped around the porcelain.
“Strawberries?” I ask, offering the plate.
She looks at it. Then at me. “You brought me breakfast?”
“I did,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because you’re hungry,” I say. “And because I wanted to.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just takes a strawberry, holds it between her fingers, her gaze fixed on the red flesh, the green stem.
And then—
I lean forward.
Take the berry from her fingers.
And feed it to her.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My thumb brushes her lower lip as she takes a bite, the juice glistening on her skin.
Her breath hitches.
So does mine.
The bond flares—not with need, not with hunger—but with something deeper. Tenderness.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Do what?”
“Pretend,” she says. “That last night meant something. That this—” she gestures between us “—is more than the bond. More than magic. More than fate.”
“And what if it is?” I ask, voice low. “What if it’s not just the bond? What if it’s us?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath mingling with mine.
And then—
She leans forward.
And licks the juice from my thumb.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Her tongue warm, soft, mine.
I freeze.
My cock hardens. My fangs press against my gums. My hands clench at my sides.
“Magnolia,” I growl.
“Don’t,” she says, pulling back. “Don’t make it mean something it doesn’t.”
“It means everything,” I say, stepping closer. “You felt it. Last night. The way we fit. The way the bond—”
“The bond is magic,” she snaps. “It’s not real. It’s not love.”
“And what if it is?” I demand. “What if the bond isn’t just fate? What if it’s truth? What if I’ve been fighting for you since the day your father died—not because of duty, not because of the Concord—but because I love you?”
She flinches.
“Don’t say that,” she whispers.
“Why not?” I ask. “Because it’s true? Because you feel it too? Because when I touch you, when I taste you, when I’m inside you—you don’t hate me. You want me.”
“I came here to kill you,” she says, voice breaking. “To make you pay for what you did. And now—”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I don’t know if I can,” she whispers.
And that—
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if she can’t hate me—
If she can’t kill me—
Then she’s already mine.
And I—
I won’t let her go.
“Then don’t,” I say, stepping closer. “Don’t fight it. Don’t run. Stay. Be my mate. Not because of the bond. Not because of the Concord. But because you want to.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her breath coming fast.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Silas stands there, his dark eyes sharp, his posture tense. “They’re coming,” he says. “The Council. They’ve called an emergency session. Lira’s demanding a public consummation. She says the bond isn’t valid unless it’s witnessed.”
My jaw tightens.
“She’s lying,” I snap.
“And the Council wants proof,” Silas says. “They’re already gathering in the Sanctum. If you don’t appear, they’ll assume the bond is false. The Concord could collapse.”
Magnolia turns to me, her eyes blazing. “You said you’d protect me.”
“I am,” I say. “But this—this is bigger than us. If the bond fails, the Lupari march. The witches seal their gates. Mab unleashes her assassins on every hybrid in Europe. You think you’re the only one she wants dead?”
Her stomach twists.
She hadn’t thought of that.
She’d been so focused on her father, on her vengeance, on me—
She’d forgotten there were others like her.
Others who’d burn if I walked away.
“You’re using me,” she whispers.
“I’m protecting you,” I say. “And them.”
“Then let me go,” she says. “Let me disappear. Let me vanish into the shadows where I belong.”
“And let Mab win?” I say. “Let her break the Concord? Let her slaughter thousands because you’re too afraid to face what you are?”
“I’m not afraid,” she hisses.
“Then prove it,” I say, stepping closer. “Stand with me. Fight with me. Be my mate—not just in blood, but in truth.”
The word hangs between us—mate—loaded with everything we haven’t said.
Not just bond.
Not just magic.
Something deeper.
Something like choice.
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns and walks out.