The air in the chambers is thick with the scent of blood, sex, and smoke.
Not literal smoke. Not from a fire. But from the aftermath of war. From the lingering echo of magic, of violence, of the bond that hums between us like a live wire. The Obsidian Court is quiet—too quiet—like the world is holding its breath, waiting to see what we’ll do next.
And I know what *I* want to do.
It’s been building since the Blood Moon Ceremony. Since the moment I pressed my lips to his wrist and tasted his blood. Since the first time he kissed me in the ruins, his mouth hot and desperate, his hands claiming me like I was already his. It’s been building through every battle, every secret, every tear, every lie torn apart by truth.
And now—
I don’t want to wait anymore.
Kaelen stands by the window, his back to me, his coat drawn tight against the night. The moonlight slices through the glass, painting silver across his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw, the scar on his neck—faint, old, a relic of a battle I never saw. He hasn’t spoken since we returned. Not since Lyria was dragged away, her eyes burning with hate, her lips twisted in a silent promise: I’ll destroy you.
And maybe she will.
But not tonight.
Because tonight—
I choose him.
I step forward, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The dress I wore to face Lyria lies in a heap on the floor—crimson silk, torn at the shoulder, smeared with ash and blood. I don’t need armor. I don’t need weapons. I don’t need to prove anything.
Not to her.
Not to the Court.
Not to the world.
Just to him.
And to myself.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *him*. I can feel him through the bond, a steady, insistent hum, like a thread tying us together no matter the distance. But I don’t want distance.
I want closeness.
I want skin.
I want truth.
I stop behind him, close enough that my breath brushes the back of his neck. “You’re thinking,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t turn. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to run.”
My breath hitches. “I already did.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m done running.” I step closer, my hands sliding up his arms, my fingers brushing the scars beneath his sleeves. “I came here to kill you. I thought you were the monster. I thought you took everything from me.”
He turns, golden eyes burning. “And now?”
“Now I know the truth.” I press my palm to his chest, over his heart. “You didn’t take anything. You *protected* me. You held my mother as she died. You wept for her. You let the world believe you were the killer so I’d be safe.”
His jaw tightens. “And you hate me for it.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I love you for it.”
He stills.
The bond flares—hot, sudden—like a spark igniting dry tinder. His breath hitches. His pupils dilate. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s fighting not to touch me.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t hold back. Not tonight. Not ever again.”
“Rowan—”
“I’m not asking.” I step into him, my body pressing against his, my hands framing his face. “I’m *choosing*. I choose this. I choose *you*. And if you don’t want me—”
He cuts me off with a kiss.
Not gentle. Not slow.
Desperate. Furious. A claiming. His mouth crashes against mine, teeth scraping my lip, his tongue sweeping in, tasting blood, tasting *me*. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his neck, binding us together. He doesn’t stop. He deepens the kiss, one hand fisting in my hair, the other sliding down, over my hip, pulling me flush against him.
And I feel it—
Not just desire.
But hunger.
Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just mine.
It’s his too.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” I press closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I want you to *want* me. Not because the bond demands it. Not because your body responds to mine. But because you can’t imagine your life without me.”
“I can’t,” he growls. “I’ve tried. I’ve fought it. But you’re in my blood. In my bones. In my soul.”
My breath catches.
And then—
He lifts me, carrying me toward the bed, his mouth crashing back to mine. We stumble inside, the door slamming shut behind us. The room is dark, the air thick with dust and decay. He lays me down, his hands framing my face, his golden eyes burning into mine.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. “I want to see you. All of you.”
I nod, my fingers trembling as I reach for the buttons of his coat. He helps me, shedding the layers—velvet, silk, leather—until he’s bare before me, his body a map of scars, of battles fought, of centuries lived. His chest is hard, carved with muscle, the skin pale as moonlight. His abdomen taut, the lines sharp, the scars faint but present. And lower—
My breath hitches.
He’s beautiful. Not in the way of kings or gods. But in the way of something real. Something *alive*. His cock is thick, heavy, already half-hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. My mouth waters. My thighs clench.
And then—
He kneels.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
In *worship*.
His hands slide up my legs, over my thighs, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. “You’re wet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “For me.”
“Liar,” I breathe, but my hips arch into his touch, betraying me.
He smiles—dark, knowing. “Liar.”
His fingers hook into the fabric, slowly pulling it down, baring me. The air is cool against my skin, but his gaze is hot, searing, like a brand. He spreads my legs, his thumbs brushing my inner thighs, his breath hitching as he sees me—slick, swollen, *ready*.
“So beautiful,” he whispers. “Like fire given form.”
And then—
He leans in.
His tongue sweeps over my clit, warm, wet, possessive. A jolt of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous. I cry out, my back arching, my fingers tangling in the sheets. He doesn’t stop. He laps at me, slow, deliberate, teasing, until I’m writhing, begging, *breaking*.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh.” He presses two fingers inside me, curling, stroking, driving me insane. “Let me taste you. Let me own you.”
“You already do,” I gasp, my body convulsing as he hits that spot, that perfect, unbearable place.
And then—
I come.
Not with a scream. Not with a cry.
With a sob.
My body arches, my magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the bed, the floor, the walls, wrapping around us, binding us together. The chandelier shatters. The mirrors crack. The headboard splinters.
And he doesn’t stop.
He drinks me in, his tongue sweeping through my folds, his fingers still moving, deeper, faster, until I’m trembling, spent, *ruined*.
He pulls back, his lips glistening, his golden eyes burning. “You’re mine,” he growls, climbing over me, his cock pressing against my entrance. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, lifting my hips, taking him in.
He groans—low, primal—as he sinks inside me, inch by inch, filling me, stretching me, claiming me. I gasp, my body adjusting, my magic flaring—vines curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just watches me, his eyes burning, his voice rough. “You feel that?”
“I feel *you*,” I breathe, my hips rising to meet his.
And then—
He moves.
Slow at first. Deep. Aching. Each thrust a promise, a vow, a claim. His hands frame my face, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot against my lips. I can feel the bond humming between us, not just in my wrist, but in my chest, my soul, my *everything*.
And then—
He speeds up.
Harder. Faster. Deeper. Each thrust driving me higher, pushing me closer, until I’m gasping, crying, *begging*.
“Kaelen—”
“Say it,” he demands, his voice a growl. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I scream, my body arching, my magic erupting—vines lashing out, cracking the walls, shattering the windows, wrapping around us, pressing us together.
And then—
I come again.
Harder. Deeper. More complete than before. My body convulses, my magic flaring out of control, the room trembling with the force of it. And he follows, groaning my name, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills, hot and thick, filling me, *marking* me.
We collapse together, breathless, trembling, *ruined*.
And for the first time—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.
He rolls to the side, pulling me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice rough. “And I’m yours.”
“No,” I whisper, lifting my hand, brushing my thumb over his lip. “We’re *each other’s*.”
He stills.
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*.
But as we lie in the wreckage, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
And whatever comes next—
We’ll face it together.