The peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
After Aurelia’s exposure, after the Arbiter’s judgment, after the fae dragged her screaming into the heart of Blackthorn Vale to face their ancient justice—I thought, for one heartbeat, that the war was over. That the truth had set us free. That the ghosts of my mother, of Mira, of the lies that had shaped my life, were finally laid to rest.
But the world doesn’t work that way.
And Kaelen—
He’s still bleeding.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—but this time, the pulse of heat is wrong. Faint. Distant. Like the bond is stretched thin, like something’s pulling it apart. My breath hitches. I close my eyes, reaching through the link, searching for him. Not through the Court. Not through the war. Not through the politics.
Through the pain.
And I find it—deep, searing, a wound that shouldn’t exist. Not on him. Not on the King of the Obsidian Court. Not on the man who’s survived centuries of betrayal, of war, of silence. But there it is. A gash across his ribs, torn open during the confrontation with Aurelia’s guards—vampiric blades laced with fae poison, designed to fester, to weaken, to *break*.
And he didn’t tell me.
Of course he didn’t.
Because he’s not supposed to bleed.
He’s not supposed to hurt.
He’s supposed to be stone. Shadow. *Power*.
But he’s not.
He’s flesh.
He’s blood.
He’s *mine*.
I open my eyes. The chamber is quiet. The wreckage from our last battle—shattered mirrors, splintered wood, vines embedded in the walls—has been cleared, but the air still hums with residual magic, like the room remembers what happened here. What we survived. What we became.
Kaelen stands by the window, his back to me, his coat drawn tight against the chill. 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 I told him I felt the wound. Not since I said, “You’re hurt.”
And now—
He turns.
Golden eyes burning. Jaw tight. Fists clenched.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low.
“Yes, I do.” I step forward, my boots silent on the cold marble. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t *feel* it? The bond doesn’t lie. You’re in pain. And it’s *mine* now.”
“It’s not your burden.”
“It’s not a burden.” I press my palm to the mark. “It’s a promise. You bled for me. You stood silent while my mother died. You let me hate you to keep me alive. And now—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “—you think I won’t tend your wounds?”
He stills.
And then—
He pulls off his coat.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s peeling away armor. Then his shirt. The fabric tears at the seams, revealing the wound—deep, jagged, the edges blackened with poison, the skin around it hot, inflamed. Blood trickles down his ribs, over the hard planes of his abdomen, pooling in the dip of his hip. My breath hitches. My magic flares—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves. I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Just step forward, my fingers brushing the edge of the gash.
He inhales sharply.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No.”
I smirk. “You’re lying.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning, his breath steady despite the pain.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I gasp, my magic flaring—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. But this time, I don’t lash out. I don’t attack. I just *channel*.
“This will sting,” I warn.
And then—
I press my fingers to the wound.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Deep.My magic surges—vines erupting from my fingertips, burrowing into the flesh, seeking the poison, *ripping* it out. He growls—low, primal—but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight. Just grips the windowsill, his knuckles white, his fangs bared, his body taut with pain.
“You’re strong,” I whisper, pressing deeper. “But you don’t have to be. Not with me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes—ragged, uneven—as the blackened veins recede, as the heat fades, as the wound begins to close.
And then—
I see it.
Not the wound.
Not the poison.
But the truth.
The bond flares—hot, sudden—and I’m pulled into his memories, not by force, but by choice. By *need*.
I see him—centuries ago—standing in the Chamber of Binding, his hands bound, his fangs barred, his golden eyes burning with rage. My mother kneels before him, her violet eyes filled with tears, her voice a whisper. “Protect her,” she says. “No matter the cost.”
And he—
He *breaks*.
Not his body.
Not his magic.
His *heart*.
Because he knows. He knows what she’s about to do. He knows the spell she’s about to cast. He knows he’ll be forced to stand there, silent, as she dies to save our daughter.
And he does nothing.
Not because he’s heartless.
Not because he’s a monster.
Because he loves her.
And because he loves *me*.
The vision fades, but the truth remains—seared into my bones, into my blood, into the very core of who I am.
“You let her die,” I whisper, my fingers still pressed to the wound, now nearly closed. “Not because you wanted to. But because you *had* to.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning, his breath steady.
“And now,” I say, stepping closer, my hand sliding up his chest, over the scars—old battles, ancient wounds, the kind of pain that doesn’t fade—“you think I won’t do the same for you?”
He stills.
And then—
He reaches for me.
Not to touch me. Not to pull me to him.
To press his palm to the mark, right where the sigil glows faintly beneath my skin. The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just holds me tighter.
And when I pull 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—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like *home*.
But the peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
“My lord,” Cassien’s voice calls from beyond the door. “The Council envoys have returned. They demand an audience.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Just holds me tighter. “Not now.”
“They say it’s urgent. About the Hollow Court.”
My stomach drops.
The Hollow King is dead. Orin is gone. But the name still sends a chill through my blood.
Kaelen exhales, his breath warm against my hair. “Then let them wait.”
“As you wish,” Cassien says, and his footsteps fade.
I lift my head, looking up at Kaelen. “You’re not going.”
“Not yet.”
“Good.” I press my palm to the mark. “Because I’m not done with you.”
He smirks—dark, knowing. “And what do you want, Rowan of the Thorned Blood?”
“I want,” I say, stepping back slightly, “to see you.”
“You do.”
“All of you.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods.
I reach for him—my hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, my fingers threading through his hair. I pull him down, not to kiss him, but to let my gaze trace every line of his face, every shadow, every scar. And then—
I press my lips to his neck.
Not a kiss. Not a bite.
A promise.
His breath hitches. His hands clench at my waist. The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just holds me tighter.
And when I pull 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 don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like *home*.
But as we rise from the water, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
And whatever comes next—
We’ll face it together.