The silence after Lyria’s exile is heavier than the chaos that came before it. Not the quiet of peace, but the stillness of aftermath—the breath held between thunderclaps. We walk back to the chambers slowly, side by side, our hands not touching, but the bond humming between us like a live wire. I can still feel him—his presence, his warmth, the echo of his body inside mine, the ghost of his fangs on my neck. My skin is hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against it a reminder of what we’ve done. Of what we *are* now.
Not enemies.
Not captor and prisoner.
Not even just consort and king.
Something deeper.
Something real.
And the world is about to see it.
“The Council has summoned us,” Kaelen says, breaking the silence as we reach the private wing. “A session. Immediately.”
I stop. “Now?”
“Now.” His golden eyes burn into mine. “They want to see us. Together. After everything—Lyria’s betrayal, the stolen sigil, the bond flare—they need proof the union is stable. That we’re not just surviving it. That we’re *thriving*.”
My stomach tightens. “And if we don’t give them proof?”
“Then they’ll assume the bond is failing. That you’re still a threat. And they’ll accelerate the execution order.”
“Even after what just happened?”
“Especially after what just happened.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “Lyria was a Councilor. Her fall creates a power vacuum. They’ll look for weakness. For instability. And if they find it—”
“They’ll try to take you down.”
He nods. “And you with me.”
I exhale sharply. “So we play the part.”
“We don’t play,” he corrects. “We *are*.”
I lift my chin. “Then let them see it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then—almost imperceptibly—smiles. Not kind. Not warm. But something darker. Something that makes my stomach flip.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not hiding what’s mine.”
He turns, walking toward the chambers. “Dress appropriately. Something that shows the mark.”
I don’t answer. I just follow.
The wardrobe is still filled with clothes I didn’t choose—silks, velvets, leathers in shades of black, crimson, and violet. But now, I don’t see them as traps. I see them as weapons. As armor. As declarations.
I don’t grab the first thing I see.
I *choose*.
At the back, hidden beneath layers of fabric, I find it—a gown of deep onyx, the fabric so fine it shimmers like oil in moonlight. The neckline is high in the front, but dips into a dramatic V down the back, baring my spine to the waist. The sleeves are sheer, edged with black lace, and the left one is cut away entirely, baring my arm from shoulder to wrist.
Perfect.
I strip off the violet gown, stepping into the new one. It fits like it was made for me—tight through the waist, flaring slightly at the hips, the slit up the side revealing a flash of thigh with every step. I don’t need help fastening it. I don’t want his hands on me again—not yet. Not here.
I braid my hair loosely, letting strands fall around my face, then press my palm to the mark.
It flares under my touch—warm, alive.
Good.
I’m ready.
The Council Chamber is already filled when we arrive—twelve thrones carved from bone, obsidian, and living wood, each one a testament to power. The floor is black marble, polished to a mirror sheen, and in the center, the same runes from the sanctum are etched into the stone, dormant now, but still humming with residual power.
The air is thick with tension.
And anticipation.
They’ve heard. Of course they’ve heard. The bond flare. The shattered chandelier. The vines erupting from the walls. The way Cassien reported that I didn’t want to escape. The way Kaelen declared me his in front of the entire court.
They know something changed.
And they’re waiting to see what it is.
We walk in together—side by side, not hand in hand, but close enough that our arms brush with every step. The chamber falls silent. Every eye turns to us. Whispers ripple through the room like a shockwave. Thorned Blood. Half-breed. The assassin who failed. The king’s consort.
And then—
They see it.
My lip.
Swollen. Bruised. A faint smear of dried blood at the corner.
And my gown.
Torn at the shoulder—not from a fight, but from passion. From being ripped open by hands that couldn’t wait.
And my arm.
Bared. The mark—thorned vines curling around a fang—etched into my flesh, still warm to the touch, still pulsing with the aftermath of what we’ve done.
The room erupts.
Not in cheers. Not in outrage.
In *speculation*.
“Did they—?”
“It has to be—”
“Look at her lip. That’s not from a fight. That’s from a *kiss*.”
“And the tear—she didn’t just submit. She was *taken*.”
“Or she took *him*.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t look down. I hold my head high, my spine straight, my gaze forward. Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them *burn* with curiosity.
Kaelen doesn’t react. Just walks like a man who owns the world—because he does. He takes his seat to the right of the High Councilor’s throne. I’m expected to stand beside him. I don’t. I stay where I am, in the center of the chamber, where the runes lie beneath my feet.
“You summoned us,” Kaelen says, voice calm, commanding. “State your purpose.”
High Councilor Vex—no, not her. The older vampire who spoke after Lyria’s fall—stands. His name is Orin, I remember. Ancient. Powerful. A political survivor.
“The Supernatural Council has reviewed the incident involving Councilor Lyria Vex,” he says, his voice like gravel. “Her actions have been deemed a violation of Council law. She has been stripped of her title and exiled. The matter is closed.”
“And the Blood Sigil?” I ask, lifting my chin.
“It has been recovered. It will be returned to its rightful place.”
“And the lies?” I press. “The false accusations? The attempt to frame me?”
Orin’s gaze flicks to me. “The bond has spoken. The vision was clear. You were wronged. The Council acknowledges it.”
“Acknowledges it,” I repeat. “But does nothing.”
“Justice was served,” he says. “She is exiled. That is enough.”
“It’s not enough,” I say, voice sharp. “She tried to destroy me. She tried to break the bond. She tried to turn you against him.” I gesture to Kaelen. “And you’re just going to let her walk away?”
“She is no longer a threat,” Orin says. “And the bond stands. That is what matters.”
“The bond stands because *we* made it stand,” I say, stepping forward. “Not because of politics. Not because of fear. Because we *chose* each other. Despite the lies. Despite the hatred. Despite everything.”
The chamber goes still.
Even Kaelen turns to me, his golden eyes burning.
“You want proof?” I continue, lifting my arm, pressing my palm to the mark. “Here it is. Not just magic. Not just blood. But *truth*. I came here to kill him. And now I would die for him. That’s not fate. That’s not politics. That’s *love*.”
Whispers erupt.
Not just from the Council. From the observers. The spies. The nobles who’ve come to watch.
Love.
The word hangs in the air like a blade.
Forbidden. Dangerous. *Real*.
Orin doesn’t react. Just studies me, his ancient eyes unreadable. “The bond is recognized. The union is stable. That is all the Council requires.”
“Then you’re weak,” I say. “Because you don’t see the threat. You don’t see the war coming. Lyria was just the beginning. There are others who want him dead. Who want *me* dead. And they won’t stop until the bond is broken.”
“And what would you have us do?” Orin asks.
“Unite,” I say. “Not just through blood. Not just through law. But through *trust*. Through *strength*. Through *alliance*.” I look at Kaelen. “We’re not just a political union. We’re a *force*. And if you don’t stand with us, you’ll fall with us.”
Silence.
Then—
Orin nods. “The Council acknowledges your words, Blood Consort. The matter is closed.”
And just like that—
It is.
We leave the chamber in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a stone. The bond hums beneath my skin, steady, insistent, no longer a chain but something more complex. A tether. A thread. A current I can’t ignore.
When we reach the halls, Kaelen stops, turning to me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say, lifting my chin. “I did it for *us*.”
He studies me for a long moment, then—
He reaches out.
His fingers brush the torn sleeve of my gown, just above my shoulder, grazing the curve of my breast. A spark of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Like fire given form.”
My breath hitches.
“And you’re terrifying,” I whisper. “Like a storm given teeth.”
He smiles—dark, knowing. “Then let me destroy you.”
“You already have,” I say.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
We both turn.
Lyria stands at the end of the hall, her mercury gown shifting, her pale lavender eyes burning. She’s not supposed to be here. She’s exiled. Banished.
But she’s still standing.
Still fighting.
“You think you’ve won?” she asks, her voice trembling with rage. “You think the bond makes you untouchable?”
“You’re not welcome here,” Kaelen says, stepping in front of me.
“I don’t need welcome,” she spits. “I have *truth*.”
“You have nothing,” I say, stepping beside Kaelen. “You’re alone. You’re broken. And you’ll never have him.”
“No,” she agrees, her lips curling into a venomous smile. “But I know who *will*.”
My stomach drops.
“There’s another,” she says. “Another who wants him. Another who’s been waiting. And when they come—” she steps back, fading into the shadows, “—you’ll burn.”
And then she’s gone.
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen turns to me, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper.
“You should be.” He pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. “Because I won’t let anyone take you from me. Not now. Not ever.”
I press my palm to the mark.
It flares—warm, alive.
And I realize—
I’m not Rowan of the Thorned Blood anymore.
I’m not just a weapon.
I’m not just a prisoner.
I’m not just a consort.
I’m *his*.
And I’ve never been more free.
We return to the chambers in silence, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat. The court is quiet now, the guests gone, the ballroom dark. But I don’t feel the weight of it anymore.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I feel like myself.
Rowan of the Thorned Blood.
Daughter of Lysandra.
Consort of Kaelen D’Rae.
And for the first time—
I’m not afraid of what that means.
When we reach the chambers, he closes the door behind us, then turns to me, his golden eyes burning.
“You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.