The first thing I feel when the rumor reaches me is rage.
Not the quiet, controlled kind—the kind that simmers beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. No, this is wildfire. Explosive. Uncontainable. A raw, jagged pulse of fury that surges through my veins like molten iron, setting every nerve ending alight. It floods the corridors, thick and suffocating—whispers, murmurs, the sharp scent of scandal—and I know, with a certainty that cuts deeper than any blade:
They’re saying we slept together.
And not just anyone.
Lysandra.
She’s already in the dining hall when I arrive, seated at the high table like some false queen, her gown the color of dried blood, her lips curled in a smirk. The chamber is packed—vampires, werewolves, witches—all leaning in, eyes wide, voices hushed but eager. The air thrums with gossip, with speculation, with the sharp tang of disbelief. They don’t believe it. Not truly. But they’re listening. And that’s enough.
“The Midnight King,” she says, lifting her wineglass as I enter. “So good of you to join us.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk to the head of the table, my boots striking the stone like thunder, my coat flaring behind me. Torin is already there, standing at attention, his expression unreadable. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s heard it too—the whispers in the corridors, the sly glances, the way the guards stiffen when Jasmine passes.
“She’s lying,” he says under his breath.
“I know,” I say, voice low. “But lies spread faster than truth. And she’s counting on that.”
“Then what do we do?”
I don’t answer.
Because I already know.
Across the room, Jasmine stands in the doorway, her storm-gray eyes locked on Lysandra, her jaw tight, her scent laced with fury. She’s dressed in black—tight leather, high boots, a silver dagger at her hip—her hair pulled back, her posture rigid. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just watches Lysandra like she’s already dead.
And gods, I want to pull her into my arms. Want to tell her it’s not true. Want to remind her that the only woman I’ve ever marked is her. That the only woman I’ve ever wanted is her. That the only woman I’ll ever need is her.
But I can’t.
Not here. Not now.
Because this isn’t just about us.
It’s about power.
And Lysandra knows it.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she says, rising from her seat, her voice carrying across the chamber. “Or should I say… condolences?”
The room goes still.
Every eye turns to me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, voice cold.
She smiles—slow, deliberate—and steps down from the dais, her heels clicking against the stone. “Oh, come now, Kael. You don’t have to pretend. Everyone knows. The way you looked at me that night. The way you whispered my name. The way you—” She pauses, letting the silence stretch. “—*took* me.”
A gasp ripples through the chamber.
Jasmine’s breath hitches.
And I see it—the flicker in her eyes. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.
Hurt.
And that’s what destroys me.
“You’re lying,” I say, stepping forward. “And if you say another word—”
“Prove it,” she says, cutting me off. “Deny it. Tell them it’s not true. Tell them you didn’t spend the night in my chambers. Tell them you didn’t mark me. Tell them you didn’t—” She pulls down the collar of her gown, revealing the pale skin of her neck. “—bite me.”
There.
On her throat.
A faint scar.
Old. Faded.
But real.
And the room erupts.
Snarls. Whispers. The witches shift, their sigils flaring. The werewolves growl, their claws sliding free. Even the vampires hiss, their fangs descending, their eyes bleeding black. They don’t believe her. Not fully. But they’re listening. And that’s enough.
“That’s not yours,” I say, voice low. “That scar is from a hunting accident. Years ago. Before you were even part of this court.”
“And the ring?” she asks, lifting her hand. The decoy gleams on her finger, catching the candlelight. “Did I steal that too?”
“You were given it,” I say. “As part of a political alliance. One that ended the moment Jasmine arrived.”
“And the whispers?” she asks, stepping closer. “The way you looked at me? The way you touched me? The way you—”
“Enough.”
Jasmine.
She’s there, suddenly, between us, her body a wall, her eyes blazing. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak to me. Just stares at Lysandra, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
“You’re pathetic,” she says, voice raw. “You think a fake scar and a stolen ring make you important? You think spreading lies about him makes you powerful?”
“I don’t have to lie,” Lysandra says, smirking. “Everyone knows the truth. The Midnight King took a hybrid for show, but he still needs a real woman in his bed.”
Jasmine doesn’t hesitate.
She moves—fast, furious—and slaps her.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the chamber like a whip. Lysandra stumbles back, her hand flying to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock.
And then—
She laughs.
Low. Bitter. Like ice cracking. “Oh, this is rich. The great Kael D’Arenthe, defended by his little pet. Tell me, Jasmine—do you even know what he did to your mother? Do you know he let them call her a traitor? That he let you believe he killed her?”
“I know,” Jasmine says, voice steady. “And I know who really gave the order. Malrik. And if you’re working with him—” She leans in, her voice a whisper. “—then you’re already dead.”
Lysandra doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “And what if I am? What if I’ve been feeding him information this whole time? What if I’m the reason he knows where you are? What if—”
“Then you’re a fool,” I say, stepping forward. “Because Malrik is gone. Exiled. And if you think he’ll protect you now, you’re wrong.”
She turns to me, her eyes blazing. “And what about her? You think she’ll ever be enough? You think the Council will ever accept a hybrid queen? You think—”
“She is enough,” I say, cutting her off. “More than enough. And if you can’t see that, then you’re blind.”
“Or honest,” she snaps. “She’s half-blood. Unstable. Dangerous. And you’re letting your cock decide for you.”
The room goes still.
Jasmine’s breath hitches.
And I see it—the flicker in her eyes. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.
Doubt.
And that’s what breaks me.
Because I can’t let this stand.
Can’t let her wonder. Can’t let her question. Can’t let her believe, even for a second, that I don’t want her. That I don’t need her. That I don’t love her.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn to the Council.
“You want proof?” I ask, voice loud, commanding. “You want the truth?”
They don’t answer.
Just watch me, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.
“Then you’ll have it.”
I step down from the dais and walk to Jasmine.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, her chest rising and falling, her breath unsteady.
“Look at me,” I say, voice low.
She does.
And for the first time, I see it—fear.
Not of me.
Not of the bond.
Of this.
Of me claiming her. In front of them. In front of everyone.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
I reach for her hand.
She doesn’t pull away.
Just lets me take it, her fingers trembling in mine.
And then—
I raise it to my lips.
Not a kiss.
A claim.
My fangs graze her skin, 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 connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“This,” I say, voice rough, “is my blood. My life. My power. And I give it to her.”
I press her hand to my chest, over my heart.
“This,” I say, “is my loyalty. My protection. My soul. And I give it to her.”
I cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks.
“And this,” I say, “is my love. Not because of duty. Not because of politics. Not because of the bond. But because she is mine. And I am hers.”
The chamber is silent.
Not a breath. Not a whisper.
Just the weight of it—crushing, inescapable.
And then—
I pull her into my arms.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With possession.
My hands grip her waist, my body pressing hers against me, my fangs grazing her neck—just a whisper of pressure, but her breath hitches, her body arching into me.
“Say it,” I growl, voice low, rough. “Say you’re mine.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath unsteady.
“Say it,” I repeat. “Say you’re mine.”
And then—
She does.
Not loud.
Not proud.
But clear.
“I’m yours,” she whispers.
The room roars.
Not with outrage. Not with scandal.
With acceptance.
The witches lower their daggers. The werewolves retract their claws. The vampires sheathe their fangs. Even the elders, their pale eyes narrowed, their lips curled in disdain, give a slow, reluctant nod.
It’s done.
The bond is sealed. The claim is made. The alliance is unbreakable.
And Lysandra?
She stands there, her face pale, her hands trembling, her smirk gone, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hate.
“You think this changes anything?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say, not looking at her. “It does.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns and walks away.
And as the chamber empties, as the candles flicker, as the runes fade, Jasmine doesn’t pull away.
Just stays in my arms, her head against my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
And I hold her.
Not as a king.
Not as a mate.
As a man who’s finally found his truth.
—
Later, in the chambers, she doesn’t speak.
Just sits by the hearth, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on the flames. The bond hums beneath her skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. And the mark on her shoulder—my mark, dark and perfect—still burns.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, voice quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“You could’ve just denied it. Called her a liar. Protected your reputation—”
“And lost you?” I ask, stepping closer. “Never.”
She doesn’t look at me. “You didn’t have to claim me in front of them. You didn’t have to—”
“But I wanted to,” I say, kneeling beside her. “I wanted the world to know. I wanted them to see. I wanted you to know.”
She finally looks at me.
And for the first time, I see it—hope.
Not just in her eyes.
In her scent. In her breath. In the way her body leans toward mine.
“Why?” she asks, voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep choosing me?”
“Because you’re not just my heir,” I say, brushing a hand through her hair. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just waits.
“You’re my heart,” I say. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
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 king.
Not as a father.
As the man who’s loved her since she was a child.
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 him.
And now—
Now she’s made it right.