The air in the Sanctum is thick with incense—myrrh, dragon’s blood, crushed night-bloom petals—burning in silver censers that hang from the vaulted ceiling like hanged men. The stained-glass windows, fractured with ancient runes, cast fractured light across the black marble floor, painting the room in hues of crimson and shadow. The Blood Claim runes beneath my feet pulse faintly, still humming with residual power from the last time they flared—when Kaelen and I were bound, when I tried to kill him, when the magic chose me instead.
And now—
They want us to *complete* it.
The Supernatural Council has decreed it: the Blood Sharing Ritual must be performed before the next moonrise. A public act. A sacred rite. A final seal on the bond. Without it, the union is considered unstable. Without it, I am still a threat. Without it, the execution order remains active.
They’ve given us twelve hours.
I stand at the edge of the sanctum, my back straight, my hands clasped in front of me, the locket from Mira hidden beneath my sleeve. “Traitor. Orin.” The words burn in my mind like a brand. I haven’t told Kaelen everything yet. Not about the Hollow King. Not about Orin’s role in my mother’s death. Not about Mira being alive. I’ve given him the vision—the memory I pulled from the bond—but he’s still processing it. Still grieving. Still rage-fueled and silent.
And I need him focused.
Because tonight isn’t just about the ritual.
It’s about survival.
It’s about power.
It’s about proving to the Council that we are not just bound by magic—but by *choice*.
The doors groan open.
I don’t turn. I don’t flinch.
I feel him before I see him.
The bond hums, a low, steady thrum beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat. Then his footsteps—deliberate, measured, echoing across the stone. He stops beside me, close enough that our arms brush, his presence a wall of heat and shadow.
“You’re tense,” he says, voice low.
“I’m ready.”
He turns his head, golden eyes burning into mine. “You don’t have to do this in front of them.”
“I do.” I lift my chin. “They need to see it. They need to *know*—the bond isn’t a cage. It’s a weapon. And we’re the ones who wield it.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing.
Then—
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the mark on my wrist. The touch is electric. My magic stirs—vines twitching beneath my skin, eager, restless. His breath hitches, just once, but I hear it. I feel it. The bond flares, heat pooling low in my belly, my pulse skipping.
“You’re afraid,” he murmurs.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.”
I turn to him. “I’m afraid of what happens if we don’t do this. If they break us apart. If Orin wins.”
His jaw tightens. “He won’t.”
“Then prove it.”
He stares at me. And then—
He smiles. Not kind. Not warm. But something darker. Something that makes my stomach flip.
“You always were dangerous,” he says.
“And you,” I whisper, stepping closer, “were always mine.”
The Council begins to arrive—vampires in velvet and shadow, fae wrapped in illusions, werewolves with eyes glowing amber, witches with sigils etched into their skin. They take their seats in the semicircle of bone thrones, their whispers curling through the air like smoke. I don’t look at them. I don’t acknowledge them. I keep my gaze forward, my spine straight, my magic simmering beneath my skin.
And then—
Orin enters.
High Councilor Orin. Ancient. Powerful. A political survivor. He walks like a man who owns the world—because he thinks he does. His silver hair is pulled back, his face lined with centuries of lies, his eyes cold, calculating. He takes his seat at the center, his gaze flicking to me, then to Kaelen.
And for a heartbeat—
I see it.
Doubt.
Not in me.
In *him*.
He didn’t expect me to survive the Hollow King. He didn’t expect me to uncover the truth. He didn’t expect Kaelen to *believe* me.
Good.
Let him doubt.
Let him fear.
Because I’m not here to play the victim.
I’m here to burn his world down.
The High Priestess of the Blood Rite steps forward—a vampire elder with eyes like cracked obsidian, her hands wrapped in silver thread. She raises her arms, and the chamber falls silent.
“By the decree of the Supernatural Council,” she intones, “the Blood Claim between Kaelen D’Rae, Vampire King, and Rowan of the Thorned Blood, shall be sealed through the sacred act of Blood Sharing. Let the bond be made whole. Let the union be recognized. Let the magic bear witness.”
She turns to us. “Step forward.”
We do.
Side by side. Not hand in hand. But close enough that our arms brush with every step. The runes beneath our feet flare—white-hot—searing into the stone, into our skin. The bond ignites, a wave of heat crashing through me, so intense I gasp, my magic flaring—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my wrists, my arms, my neck.
The Council murmurs.
Orin watches, his expression unreadable.
The High Priestess raises a silver dagger—etched with runes, its edge glowing faintly. “The bond is sealed through blood. Through breath. Through life given and received. Kaelen D’Rae, offer your blood.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He rolls up his sleeve, baring his forearm, the hard lines of muscle, the scars that mark a life of war. He takes the dagger, pressing the edge to his skin. A single drop of blood wells—dark, thick, ancient—and falls onto the runes.
The magic reacts.
The runes flare—crimson—spreading like veins across the floor, pulsing with power. The air crackles. The torches flicker. And then—
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” the High Priestess says, turning to me. “Drink.”
All eyes are on me.
Orin. The Council. The spies. The nobles.
They’re waiting to see if I’ll refuse. If I’ll fight. If I’ll prove I’m still a threat.
But I don’t.
I step forward.
I kneel.
And I press my lips to the cut.
His blood is warm—unnaturally so—thick with power, with age, with something dark and intoxicating that floods my senses the moment it touches my tongue. I suck gently, drawing more into my mouth, and the bond *explodes*.
Heat crashes through me—so intense I cry out, my back arching, my magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, wrapping around us, binding us in a cage of living shadow and living plant. The air crackles with power, the runes on the floor blazing to life, the chandelier above us shattering in a rain of black crystal.
And I feel it—
Not just magic.
Not just blood.
But *him*.
His memories. His pain. His centuries of loneliness. The weight of the throne. The guilt over my mother’s death. The way he’s loved me since the moment I walked into his court with a blade at his throat.
And beneath it all—
Hope.
It floods the bond, a wave so intense I sob, my body convulsing, my magic flaring out of control. I don’t fight it. I don’t pull away. I drink deeper, taking more of him, letting him fill me, claim me, *own* me in the most intimate way possible.
And then—
I climax.
Not from touch. Not from friction.
From the psychic surge of the bond, from the flood of his blood, from the sheer, unbearable *rightness* of it.
I cry out, my head falling back, my magic erupting—vines lashing out, cracking the walls, shattering the mirrors, wrapping around us, pressing us together. The Council gasps. Orin stands, his eyes wide with shock.
And Kaelen—
He groans.
Low. Primal. A sound that vibrates through my bones.
He cups my face in his hands, his golden eyes burning into mine. “You felt that,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You felt *me*.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. I just nod, tears streaming down my face, my body still trembling with the aftershocks.
“Then take more,” he says, pressing his wrist to my lips again. “Take all of me.”
And I do.
I drink until the cut closes, until his blood sings in my veins, until the bond is no longer a thread—but a *chain*. Unbreakable. Unyielding. *Ours*.
The High Priestess raises her arms. “The bond is sealed. The union is recognized. Let no one question it.”
The Council is silent.
Then—
One by one, they rise. Bow. Leave.
All except Orin.
He stands, his expression cold, his eyes burning. “This changes nothing,” he says, voice low. “The bond may be sealed, but the truth remains. She is a half-breed. A weapon. A threat.”
I stand, wiping the blood from my lips, my magic still humming beneath my skin. “And you,” I say, stepping forward, “are a traitor. You helped cover up my mother’s murder. You used her death to control Kaelen. And now you’re using the Hollow King to destroy us.”
He laughs—cold, brittle. “You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.” I press my palm to the mark. “The bond doesn’t lie.”
And then—
I push.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send the vision—Kaelen weeping, my mother’s blood on his hands, Orin’s cold words—through the link, down the thread that ties me to him, into the minds of every Council member still in the chamber.
The High Priestess gasps. The werewolf Alpha snarls. The Seelie envoy steps back, his illusion flickering.
And Orin—
He staggers, his hand flying to his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You can’t—” he whispers. “You can’t do this.”
“I just did.” I step closer. “You’re finished. Your lies are exposed. Your power is gone. And if you come for me again—” I press my palm to the mark, “—I’ll make you *feel* it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns, striding out of the sanctum, his cloak billowing behind him like a funeral shroud.
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen 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*.