The Sanctum is silent now—empty, echoing, the air thick with the scent of blood, magic, and incense. The shattered chandelier lies in pieces on the black marble, black crystal glittering like frozen stars. The vines I summoned still curl around the pillars, the thrones, the very bones of the room, thorns embedded in stone, leaves glistening with dew. My magic didn’t retreat. It *claimed*.
Just like I did.
Just like *we* did.
The Blood Sharing Ritual is complete. The bond is sealed. The Council has seen it. Felt it. *Believed* it. And Orin—
Orin is broken.
Not dead. Not yet. But exposed. Stripped of his power. His lies laid bare for all to see. He walked out of this room a shadow of the man he was, his cloak dragging behind him like a shroud. And when the last of the Council members bowed and filed out, their whispers thick with awe and fear, I didn’t feel triumph.
I felt relief.
But not peace.
Because I know Orin. I’ve seen the way he moves, the way he waits, the way he strikes when you’re weakest. He won’t go quietly. He’ll regroup. He’ll plan. He’ll come for us again—when we’re distracted, when we’re vulnerable, when we think we’ve won.
And this time, he won’t send werewolves.
He’ll come himself.
Kaelen stands beside me, his hand resting on the small of my back, his presence a constant hum through the bond. He hasn’t spoken since the Council left. Just watched me, his golden eyes burning, his expression unreadable. But I feel it—the shift in him. The weight lifting. The centuries of guilt, of control, of isolation, cracking like ice beneath a rising sun.
He’s not the same man who chained me in the dungeon.
He’s not the same king who let me believe he killed my mother.
He’s something else now.
Something *alive*.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my spine through the fabric of my gown.
“I’m thinking about Orin.”
“So am I.”
“And?”
He turns to me, his hand sliding up to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. “And I’m done waiting.”
My breath catches. “You’re going after him.”
“No.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “*We* are.”
I lift my chin. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m not protecting you.” His voice drops, rough, intimate. “I’m fighting *with* you. Because this isn’t just your war. It’s ours.”
And for the first time—
I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
But because of the way he looks at me. Like I’m not just his consort. Not just his equal. But his *partner*.
“Then we do it my way,” I say.
“Your way?”
“No more secrets. No more lies. No more holding back.” I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of his presence. “We go to the source. We find Mira. We make Orin face what he’s done.”
He studies me for a long moment, then—
He nods. “Then we start tonight.”
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.
Kaelen 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*.
We don’t sleep.
Not yet.
Instead, we plan. Maps spread across the table. Scrolls of ancient bloodlines. Ledgers of Council movements. Kaelen’s spies have been watching Orin—tracking his comings and goings, his meetings, his messages. He’s been in contact with a coven in the Carpathians. A hidden enclave. A place where witches go to die—or to disappear.
“Mira’s there,” I say, tracing the sigil on the map. It matches the one on the locket. “She’s been hiding. Waiting. Watching.”
“And she sent you the message,” Kaelen says. “Why now?”
“Because she knew Orin would move after the ritual. She knew he’d try to break us.” I press my palm to the mark. “And she knew I’d be strong enough to stop him.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. Then—
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the locket beneath my sleeve. “You should open it.”
“I already have.”
“Not all of it.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts the locket from my wrist, his fingers deft as he pries open the back panel. I hadn’t noticed it before—the hidden compartment. Inside—
A slip of parchment.
And a single drop of blood, preserved in wax.
I unfold the parchment with trembling fingers. The handwriting is Mira’s—sharp, precise, familiar.
“Rowan,
If you’re reading this, you’ve survived the ritual. You’ve claimed him. You’ve broken Orin’s lies. But the truth is deeper than you know.
Your mother didn’t just die protecting Kaelen.
She died to protect *you*.
Orin didn’t just cover up her murder.
He orchestrated it.
And the blood in this vial—it’s not mine.
It’s yours.
From the night you were born.
They took it. They used it. They’ve been using it for decades to bind the Council, to control the bloodlines, to weaken the hybrids.
And now—
They’re coming for you.
Don’t trust the bond.
Don’t trust the magic.
Don’t trust *him*.
Until you know the truth.
—Mira”
My breath stops.
The room tilts.
“Rowan.”
Kaelen’s voice is sharp, urgent. He catches me as my knees buckle, his arms wrapping around me, his face buried in my hair. “What is it? What does it say?”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Because the words—
They’re not just a warning.
They’re a *betrayal*.
Not from Orin.
Not from the Council.
But from *her*.
Mira.
My mentor. My mother. The woman who raised me in exile, who taught me to fight, to survive, to hate Kaelen with every fiber of my being.
And now—
She’s telling me not to trust him?
Not to trust the bond?
Not to trust *us*?
“Let me see it,” Kaelen says, his voice calm, steady.
I don’t want to. I don’t want him to read her words, to see her doubt, to feel the knife she’s twisting into my heart.
But I hand him the parchment anyway.
He reads it in silence, his expression unreadable. Then—
He folds it carefully, placing it on the table. “She’s afraid,” he says.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of losing you.” He turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “She spent her life protecting you. Hiding you. Training you to survive. And now—” his voice cracks—“now you’re not just surviving. You’re *thriving*. You’re with me. You’re *mine*. And she doesn’t know how to let go.”
“But the blood,” I whisper. “The blood they took from me—”
“I know.” He cups my face in his hands. “And I’ll find it. I’ll destroy it. I’ll burn every trace of it from this world if it means keeping you safe.”
“And the bond?”
“The bond is real,” he says, his voice fierce. “It’s not magic. It’s not manipulation. It’s *us*. It’s every choice we’ve made. Every fight. Every kiss. Every tear. It’s the way your magic flares when I touch you. The way my blood sings for yours. The way I’d rather die than let you go.”
My breath hitches.
“Then why would she say that?”
“Because she doesn’t know me,” he says. “She doesn’t know what I feel. What I’ve become because of you. And she’s afraid—afraid that I’ll hurt you. That I’ll use you. That I’ll break you.”
“And will you?”
He stares at me. Long. Hard. And then—
He drops to his knees.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
In *vow*.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” he says, his voice raw, trembling, “I swear on my blood, on my throne, on my eternal life—I will never betray you. I will never lie to you. I will never let anyone take you from me. And if you ever doubt me—” he presses his palm to the mark on his chest, over his heart, “—you tear this out. You take it. You burn it. And I will follow you into the void.”
Tears burn my eyes.
Not from sadness.
From the sheer, unbearable weight of it.
He’s not just my enemy.
He’s not just my captor.
He’s not just my king.
He’s a man who’s given me everything.
And I—
I’ve spent my life hating him.
“I believe you,” I whisper, dropping to my knees in front of him, my hands framing his face. “I believe in *us*.”
He pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. “Then we go to Mira. We face her. We make her see the truth.”
“And if she won’t?”
“Then we leave her behind.”
And for the first time—
I don’t feel torn.
I don’t feel divided.
I feel *certain*.
Because I know now—
My mother didn’t die by his hand.
She died to protect *me*.
And I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.
We leave at midnight.
No entourage. No guards. No fanfare. Just us—cloaked in shadow, riding through the forest, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The Carpathians loom ahead, jagged peaks cutting into the moonlit sky, the air thick with the scent of pine and decay.
And then—
A whisper.
Not through the bond.
Not through magic.
But through the locket.
It hums—faint, insistent—against my wrist. I stop, pulling it free. The blood inside pulses—red, alive—like a heartbeat.
“It’s her,” I whisper. “Mira. She’s close.”
Kaelen nods, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Then we find her.”
We dismount at the edge of a clearing, the forest shifting around us, shadows moving when they shouldn’t. And there—
A cottage.
Crude. Hidden. Surrounded by thorned vines that writhe like serpents.
And in the window—
A single candle.
Burning.
Waiting.
I step forward.
The door opens before I reach it.
And there she is.
Mira.
Older. Frailer. But her eyes—sharp, fierce, unbroken.
“You came,” she says, her voice rough. “I didn’t think you would.”
“You told me not to trust him,” I say, stepping closer. “You told me not to trust the bond.”
“And you should have listened.”
“Why?” I press. “Because you’re afraid? Because you don’t want to lose me?”
She doesn’t answer. Just watches me, her gaze flicking to Kaelen. “He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
“Not like him.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “Like *us*.”
She studies me. Then—
She steps aside.
“Then come in.”
And as I cross the threshold—
The bond flares.
Not with pain.
Not with magic.
But with *recognition*.
Like it knows—
Something here is about to change.
Forever.