The first thing I feel when I press my lips to the wound is surrender.
Not mine.
Hers.
Jasmine lies still beneath me, her body warm, her breath shallow, the bandages around her side soaked through with blood and venom. The blade that struck her wasn’t meant to kill—Malrik wanted her weakened, vulnerable, *distracted*—but it did its damage. The runes etched into the silver disrupted her healing, slowed her pulse, dimmed the glow of the sigil on her wrist. And the bond—already frayed from the shock of the attack—had begun to flicker, like a dying flame.
So I did the only thing I could.
I fed her my blood.
Not a sip. Not a trickle.
A full exchange.
Mouth to wound. Fanged kiss to flesh. My venom mixing with hers, my strength flooding into her veins, my immortality stitching her torn flesh back together. It was forbidden. Intimate. *Sacred*. Blood-sharing outside of marriage was scandalous among vampires, a sign of deep psychic connection, of trust so absolute it bordered on madness. And this? This was worse. This was *personal*. This was me, the Midnight King, on my knees beside the woman I’d spent twenty years protecting, drinking from the wound I should’ve taken myself.
And gods, it felt like absolution.
Her breath hitches as I pull back, my lips glistening with her blood, my fangs still extended. Her storm-gray eyes—so like mine—flutter open, dazed, unfocused. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers, voice raw.
“No,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I should’ve taken the blade.”
“And let me watch you die?” she challenges, trying to sit up. I press a hand to her shoulder, gently holding her down.
“I’d rather die than live knowing you died for me,” I say. “But I’d rather live if it means you do.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath unsteady. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the *truth* of it. She’s healing. Fast. My blood is working. But something else is happening too. Something deeper.
The bond is *remembering*.
“It’s not just the venom,” I say, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “It’s the blood. Our blood. It’s triggering something—memories. Old ones. Buried.”
“What kind of memories?” she asks, voice tight.
“The night she died,” I say. “The real one. Not the lie. Not the story they told. The truth.”
Her breath catches. “You saw it?”
“I lived it,” I say. “And now… so will you.”
Before she can protest, I lean down and press my lips to hers.
Not to kiss.
To *share*.
My fangs graze her lower lip, just enough to draw blood, and I let mine mingle with hers—dark, potent, laced with centuries of power. The bond *roars* to life, fire surging between us, bright and molten, *alive*. Her breath hitches. Her body arches. The sigil on her wrist flares, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and I feel it—the vision, the memory, the *truth*—flooding into her like a tide.
—
She sees it.
Not through my eyes.
Through *hers*.
A forest bathed in silver light. The air thick with magic, with the scent of crushed moonflower and old blood. Her mother—tall, fierce, radiant—standing in the clearing, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing with power. She’s holding a dagger—not to kill, but to *seal*. A blood oath. A binding.
And beside her—
Me.
Younger. Not a king. Not a monster. Just a boy who loved her mother too much.
We press our palms together, blood mingling, and the air thrums with magic—ancient, sacred, *fated*. “I bind you,” she says, voice steady. “Not by force. Not by duty. But by choice. By love. By the future we see.”
“I accept,” I say, voice rough. “By blood. By soul. By fate.”
The magic surges—bright, blinding—and for a single, breathless second, she sees it: the bond. Not between us. Between *them*.
Then—
Malrik appears, flanked by Tribunal guards. His eyes are cold, his voice sharp. “You’ve betrayed your kind,” he says. “You’ve allied with the vampires to destroy the pureblood lines. You must die for the peace of all realms.”
Her mother doesn’t flinch. “I did it for the future. For balance. For *her*.”
“Then she dies with you,” Malrik says.
I step forward. “No. Take me instead. Let her live. Let the child live.”
Malrik hesitates. Then: “So be it. But the world will believe *you* are the traitor. That *you* killed her. That *you* stole her throne.”
“I accept,” I say. “But let them live. Let *her* live.”
And then—
The blade falls.
Her mother collapses. I catch her. I whisper the words—*“For the peace of all realms”*—not as a killer, but as a mourner. As a man who has lost everything.
And her—twelve years old, screaming, running—
“If I die, you die too!”
She cuts me. With a child’s dagger. A blood pact.
And I *promise*.
—
The vision fades.
She gasps, her body jerking, her hands flying to her chest as if she can still feel the blade, still hear the whisper, still see the blood. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. Her eyes are wide, unfocused, her pupils dilated. The sigil on her wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
“Oh gods,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “He didn’t kill her.”
“No,” I say, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I tried to save her. I failed. But I kept *you* alive.”
“And the throne?” she asks, her voice trembling. “The coven? The war?”
“Malrik used her death to seize power,” I say. “He called her a traitor, framed me for the murder, and used the chaos to rally the Tribunal. The Veil War wasn’t about purity. It was about control. And I let it happen—because if I fought, they would’ve killed you.”
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath unsteady. “You took the blame. You let them call you a monster. You let me believe you were the one who killed her—”
“So you could live,” I say. “So you could grow strong. So you could come back and take what’s yours.”
“And now?” she whispers. “Now that I know? Now that I’ve spent twenty years hating the wrong man? Now that I’ve come here to destroy the only family I have left?”
“Now you fix it,” I say.
“How?” she asks, her voice breaking. “How do I fix twenty years of lies? Of rage? Of *betrayal*?”
“By facing it,” I say. “By stopping the war inside you. You came here to burn my empire to the ground. But you don’t want to do that anymore, do you?”
She doesn’t answer.
Can’t.
Because she knows.
The truth—sharp and terrible—is this: she doesn’t want to destroy me.
She wants to *understand* me.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” I say, cupping her face. “I’m terrified of you knowing. Of you hating me more. Of losing you *again*.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her voice raw.
“Because you weren’t ready,” I say. “You came here with fire in your eyes, with a dagger in your heart, with vengeance written in your bones. If I’d told you the truth then, you would’ve shattered. And I couldn’t lose you. Not again.”
She presses a hand to the mark on her shoulder—my mark, dark and perfect, still glowing faintly. “And this? 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?”
“It’s real,” I say. “Not just magic. Not just fate. But *truth*. You were meant to find me. Meant to remember. Meant to *rule*.”
“And if I don’t want to?” she whispers.
“Then I’ll let you go,” I say. “But I’ll never stop loving you. Never stop protecting you. Never stop being your father.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just presses her forehead to my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
She lets herself cry.
I hold her. Not as a mate. Not as a king.
As a father.
And the Oracle’s final words echo in the silence:
“The betrayal wasn’t his. It was yours.”
And she knows.
Because she betrayed the truth.
She betrayed *me*.
And now—
Now she has to make it right.
—
Hours pass.
The chamber is 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 her want to tear my clothes off and ride me until neither of us could breathe. Now? It’s deeper. Slower. A steady pull, like a current beneath the surface, guiding her not toward desire, but toward *truth*.
She doesn’t move.
Just lies there, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. Her wound is healing—fast, thanks to my blood—but the real damage isn’t physical. It’s the weight of a lifetime of lies, the guilt of misplaced rage, the slow unraveling of a heart that’s been fighting the wrong war.
“I came here to destroy you,” she says, voice muffled against my shirt. “To expose you. To take back what’s mine. But now—” She presses a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t even know what I am.”
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” I say, brushing a hand through her hair. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. And the only woman who can fix what’s broken.”
“And Kael?” she asks, lifting her head.
“Is your father,” I say. “In every way that matters.”
“And the bond?”
“Is real,” I say. “Not just magic. Not just fate. But *truth*. You were meant to find me. Meant to remember. Meant to *rule*.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then you were never the heir,” I say. “Just a weapon. A ghost. A lie.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—her father, her protector, the only family she has left.
And I know—
She’s ready.
“I need to see him,” she says.
“Then go,” I say. “But don’t go to destroy. Go to *understand*.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stands, her legs still unsteady, her hand pressed to her side. I rise with her, my hand on her back, steadying her. She doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” she says, voice low.
“For what?”
“For saving me,” she says. “For keeping me alive. For letting me hate you so I could live.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say. “I’d do it again. A thousand times. A million. I’d rather be hated by you than lose you to death.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just turns and walks out.
Fast. Hard. Like if she stops, she’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around her—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. Her skin still burns. Her blood still sings. The mark on her shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, a constant, insistent reminder of what she’s lost. Not just her choice. Not just her revenge.
Her *innocence*.
She comes to the chambers too fast, her breath ragged, her hands trembling. The door is ajar—again. A message. A test. She pushes it open, stepping inside.
I’m there, standing by the hearth, my back to her, pouring blood from a crystal decanter into a silver goblet. Not synthetic. *Real.* Human. The scent hits her—iron and life and something darker, deeper. I don’t turn.
“You’re burning,” I say. “Your scent changed. Sour with fever. With grief.”
“I know what you are,” she says, voice raw.
I don’t flinch. Don’t move. Just set the decanter down. “And what am I?”
“My father,” she says.
I turn.
And for the first time, I see it—*fear*.
Not of me. Not of the bond.
Of *this*.
Of her knowing.
“Who told you?” I ask, voice low.
“The blood,” she says. “Your blood. It showed me. The real memory. The truth.”
I exhale, slow and controlled. “And do you believe it?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what to believe. I came here to destroy you. To expose you. To burn your empire to ash. But now—” She presses a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t even know if I’m the heir. Or just a mistake.”
I cross the room in three strides, my hands framing her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You are not a mistake,” I say, voice rough. “You are the reason I survived. The reason I kept breathing. The reason I carried every lie, every curse, every drop of blood on my hands—so you could live.”
“And my mother?” she asks, her voice breaking.
“Did I love her?” I say. “With everything I was. And when she died, I died with her. But I couldn’t let you die too. I *wouldn’t*.”
“And the bond?”
“Is real,” I say. “Not just between us. Between *us*. You were meant to find me. Meant to remember. Meant to *rule*.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then I’ll let you go,” I say. “But I’ll never stop loving you. Never stop protecting you. Never stop being your father.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just presses her forehead to my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
She lets herself cry.
I hold her. Not as a mate. Not as a king.
As a father.
And the Oracle’s final words echo in the silence:
“The betrayal wasn’t his. It was yours.”
And she was right.
Because I betrayed the truth.
I betrayed *him*.
And now—
Now I have to make it right.