The first thing I feel when I wake is the weight of a lie.
Not mine.
Not Kael’s.
But the lie I’ve lived for twenty years—the one that shaped my bones, sharpened my claws, turned my blood to ice. The lie that told me he was the monster. That he’d killed my mother. That he’d stolen my throne. That I was born to destroy him.
And now?
Now I know the truth.
He’s not my enemy.
He’s my *father*.
I press a hand to my chest, where the sigil still glows beneath my sleeve, pulsing faintly, like a second heartbeat. It doesn’t burn. Doesn’t flare. Just… hums. Calm. Certain. As if it’s always known. As if it’s been waiting for me to catch up.
I roll over in the bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin. The chambers are quiet—no fire in the hearth, no footsteps in the corridor, no distant murmur of Council debates. Just silence. And the bond.
It’s different now.
Not weaker. Not broken.
But *changed*.
Before, it was fire. Hunger. A desperate, clawing need that made me want to tear his clothes off and ride him until neither of us could breathe. Now? It’s deeper. Slower. A steady pull, like a current beneath the surface, guiding me not toward desire, but toward *truth*.
I don’t want to get up.
I don’t want to face the world.
I want to stay here, in this quiet, and pretend none of it happened. That I didn’t learn the man I came to kill is the only family I have left. That the bond I thought was fated is actually *inherited*. That every time I swore to burn his empire to the ground, I was threatening my own blood.
But I can’t.
Because the sigil knows.
And the bond remembers.
And the worst part?
I don’t know how to look at him anymore.
I drag myself from the bed, my limbs heavy, my mind a storm of guilt and grief. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I cross to the washbasin. I splash water on my face, gasping at the shock, and stare at my reflection in the silvered glass.
Same eyes. Same sharp jaw. Same dark hair.
But different.
Not just because of the knowledge. Not just because of the truth.
Because of the *mark*.
It’s still there—on my shoulder, just above the collarbone. Twin punctures, dark and perfect, glowing faintly with the bond’s energy. Kael’s mark. A claim. A vow. A *memory*.
And now—now I don’t know what it means.
Is it still a mating mark? Or is it something else? A father’s protection? A king’s seal? Or just another lie I’ve been too afraid to see?
I press a hand to it—just a brush of my fingertips—and a jolt of heat surges through me, sharp and bright. Not pain. Not pleasure. *Recognition.* It’s not just a wound. It’s a connection. A tether. A *truth* I can’t deny.
“You’re awake.”
I flinch.
Kael stands in the doorway, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. He’s dressed in dark charcoal again, his coat tailored to perfection, every line of him sharp, controlled, *untouchable*. But there’s something different in his gaze. Not hunger. Not dominance.
Concern.
And something deeper.
Something like *grief*.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, not looking at him. “Pretend you care.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says, stepping inside. “I’ve always cared. Even when you hated me. Even when you tried to kill me.”
“And now?” I ask, turning to face him. “Now that you’re not just the Midnight King, but my *father*? Do you still care? Or is this just another way to control me?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just studies me—my bare skin, the mark on my shoulder, the way my fingers tremble where they press against the punctures.
“I don’t want to control you,” he says, voice low. “I never did. I wanted to *protect* you. From the Tribunal. From Malrik. From the truth—until you were ready to face it.”
“And now I am?”
“You’re standing,” he says. “You’re breathing. You’re still here. That’s more than I ever hoped for.”
“And what if I’m not ready?” I snap. “What if I don’t *want* to be the heir? What if I don’t want to rule? What if I just want to walk away?”
“Then walk,” he says. “But know this—the bond won’t let you go far. And neither will I.”
“You don’t get to decide for me,” I say, backing up. “You don’t get to rewrite history. You don’t get to make yourself the hero.”
“I’m not the hero,” he says. “I’m the man who loved your mother. Who tried to save her. Who carried her child when no one else would. Who let the world believe I was the monster—so you could live.”
My breath catches.
“And if I don’t believe you?” I whisper.
“Check the sigil,” he says. “It knows when I lie.”
I roll up my sleeve.
The sigil glows—steady, unbroken. No flicker. No hesitation.
It believes him.
Again.
“You see?” he says, stepping closer. “The magic doesn’t lie. The bond doesn’t lie. And your body?” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the edge of the mark. “It knows the truth. Even if your mind won’t accept it.”
Fire surges through me—bright, molten, *alive*. I gasp, stumbling back, but the wave of sensation follows me—his touch, his warmth, his *need* flooding into me like a tide. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And the sigil beneath my sleeve—glowing so brightly it burns—proves I’m lying to myself.
“Don’t touch me,” I choke.
“Then stop reacting,” he says, not unkindly. “Stop pretending you don’t want this. Stop pretending you don’t *need* me.”
“I don’t need you,” I say, backing toward the door. “I don’t want you. I *hate* you.”
“Liar,” he says. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the door. “It knows the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You took that from me,” I say, pressing a hand to the mark. “You took my choice. My revenge. My *anger*. And now—” My voice breaks. “Now I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” he says, stepping closer. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. And the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say that. Don’t try to rewrite history. You let them call her a traitor. You let me believe you killed her. You—”
“And I’d do it again,” he says, cutting me off. “A thousand times. A million. I’d rather be hated by you than lose you to death.”
I want to scream. I want to shift and tear the room apart. I want to sink my teeth into his throat and taste the lie on his tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the bond thrums between us, steady and unrelenting. And because, despite everything, a part of me *believes* him.
Not the words. Not the story. But the raw, aching grief in his voice. The way his fingers trembled when he touched my hand. The way his eyes darkened not with hunger, but with something deeper. Something like *recognition*.
“I need space,” I say, voice tight. “I need to think.”
“There is no space,” he says. “Not from me. Not anymore.”
“Then I’ll make it.”
I turn and yank the door open, stepping into the corridor before he can stop me. The guards outside—Torin and another vampire—exchange glances but don’t move. They know better than to interfere.
I don’t look back.
I just walk.
Fast. Hard. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around me—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. My skin still burns. My blood still sings. The mark on my shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, a constant, insistent reminder of what I’ve lost. Not just my choice. Not just my revenge.
My *innocence*.
I don’t go to the Archives. Don’t go to the Council chamber. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
I go to the training yard.
Hidden beneath the fortress, the Moonborn sparring ring is a cavern of black stone and silver runes, lit by floating orbs of blue flame. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of shifting forms and clashing steel. I need to fight. Need to move. Need to feel my claws slice through the air, my fangs tear into flesh, my body remember what it means to be *alive*.
I strip off my shirt, rolling up my sleeves, and step into the ring.
No opponent. No rules. Just me and the shadows.
I shift—fast, desperate. My body ripples, bones cracking, fur sprouting, claws slicing through the air. In wolf-form, I charge, tearing into the training dummies, shredding them to splinters, my snarls echoing off the stone. I leap, twist, bite, claw, *destroy*—until my muscles burn and my breath comes in ragged gasps.
And still, it’s not enough.
I shift back, collapsing to my knees, my human skin slick with sweat, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I press a hand to it—just a brush of my fingertips—and a jolt of heat surges through me, sharp and bright.
Not pain.
Not pleasure.
*Recognition.*
It’s not just a mark.
It’s a *memory*.
And I don’t know if I can carry it.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
Rhys.
My brother.
Thought dead for twenty years. Reunited only days ago. And now—here, in the training yard, watching me with golden wolf-eyes that see too much.
“You always did have a way with words,” I mutter, not looking at him.
He sits beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t.”
“Your scent says otherwise.”
I exhale, sharp and broken. “I don’t know what to do, Rhys.”
“About Kael?”
“About *everything*,” I say. “I came here to destroy him. To expose him. To take back what’s mine. But now—” I press a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t know if I even *want* it back.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “You love him.”
“No,” I snap. “I *hate* him.”
“Liar,” he says, echoing Kael. “Your scent says otherwise. You’re aroused. Grieving. Confused. But not hate. Never hate.”
“Then what is it?” I whisper. “What am I feeling?”
“The truth,” he says. “The truth you’ve been running from since you were a child. That the man you thought was your enemy… is the only one who ever tried to save you.”
“He let them call her a traitor,” I say, my voice breaking. “He let me believe he killed her.”
“And if he hadn’t,” Rhys says, “they would have killed you. The Tribunal was coming. They knew about the bond. They knew you were the heir. Kael took the blame so you could live.”
“You knew?” I ask, turning to him. “All this time—you knew?”
“I suspected,” he says. “But I couldn’t prove it. Not until now.”
“And you’re just telling me *now*?”
“Because you weren’t ready,” he says. “You needed to see it for yourself. To feel it. To *know* it.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Then believe this,” he says. “The sigil doesn’t lie. The bond doesn’t lie. And your body?” He gestures at the mark. “It knows the truth. Even if your mind won’t accept it.”
I don’t answer.
Just sit there, my brother’s words echoing in the silence.
And then—
A memory.
Not from the storm.
Not from last night.
From *before*.
A forest bathed in moonlight. A boy with storm-gray eyes, reaching for me. *“You’re safe,”* he whispers. *“I’ll always keep you safe.”*
A hand in mine, small and warm. Laughter. A promise.
Then—blood. So much blood. My mother, falling. Kael’s face twisted in grief, not triumph. His voice, raw: *“I tried to stop it. I tried—”*
The blade. The whisper. *“For the peace of all realms.”*
And me—twelve years old, screaming, running—
“If I die, you die too!”
I cut him. With a child’s dagger. A blood pact.
And he *promised*.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “He wasn’t the monster. I was.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. “You were a child.”
“No,” I say. “I accused him. I hated him. I came here to destroy him. And all this time—” My voice breaks. “All this time, he was the one who saved me.”
“And now?” Rhys asks.
I look down at the mark on my shoulder. At the sigil on my wrist, glowing faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
And I know—
There’s no going back.
Not from this.
Not from *him*.
“Now,” I say, standing, “I have to face him.”
“And say what?” Rhys asks.
“The truth,” I say. “That I was wrong. That I’ve been wrong for twenty years. That I came here to destroy him—” I press a hand to the mark “—and instead, he destroyed me.”
Rhys stands, his golden eyes watching me. “And what if he doesn’t forgive you?”
“Then I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of him,” I say. “Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I didn’t come here to burn his empire to the ground.
I came here to find the man who saved my life.
And I think… I think I’ve been in love with him since I was a child.
I turn and walk back toward the chambers, my brother’s words echoing behind me.
And the worst part?
I liked it.