The first thing I feel when the blade bites into my shoulder is relief.
Not pain—though the silver burns like acid, searing through muscle and bone, sending white-hot fire down my arm. Not fear—though I’m chained, bleeding, outnumbered, and the scent of Jasmine’s blood still clings to my skin like a curse. No, it’s *relief*. Because finally, after hours of silence, of waiting in the dark, of listening to Malrik’s lies echo through the throne room, *something* has changed.
He wanted me helpless.
He got me.
But he forgot one thing.
I’m not just the Midnight King.
I’m her father.
And no one touches what’s mine.
The blade twists, and I grit my teeth, refusing to scream. The chains binding me to the obsidian dais are etched with suppression runes, their cold iron sapping my strength, dimming the pulse of the bond. But they can’t silence it. Not completely. Even now, even here, I feel it—faint, thready, like a dying flame—pulling me toward her. Toward the woman I’ve protected for twenty years. Toward the daughter I let hate me so she could live.
Malrik stands over me, his ancient eyes gleaming, his fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger. Blood drips from the blade—*my* blood—onto the stone, where it sizzles and steams, reacting to the magic in the floor. The throne room is silent, the torches extinguished, the runes on the walls dimmed. Only the faint blue glow of the Veil’s shadows illuminates the chamber, casting long, shifting silhouettes across the floor. His hunters flank the entrance, their fangs descended, their eyes bleeding black. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch.
“You’re weaker than I thought,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “The great Kael D’Arenthe, brought low by a hybrid’s scent. By a child’s tears. By a *lie*.”
I don’t answer.
Just lift my head, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his. Let him see the truth. Let him see the fire beneath the surface, the centuries of power, the centuries of *rage*.
“She’s not coming,” he says, stepping closer. “She’s broken. Drained. Chained in the Veil. And when I’m done with you, I’ll make her watch as I take your throne. As I take your blood. As I take—” He leans in, his breath cold against my ear. “—your *life*.”
I smile.
Just a ghost of one. But it’s enough.
Because he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t *see*.
“You’re wrong,” I say, voice rough. “She’s not broken.”
“And how would you know?” he sneers. “You can’t feel her. The bond’s severed. The runes—”
“Don’t work on her,” I say, lifting my head higher. “Not really. She’s not just Moonborn. Not just a witch. She’s *more*. And you?” I meet his gaze. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”
He laughs—a low, bitter sound—and raises the dagger again. “Then let’s see how long you last.”
The blade falls.
This time, it sinks into my side, just below the ribs. Fire erupts through me, white-hot and blinding, and for a single, breathless second, I feel it: the cold weight of steel in my flesh, the warm rush of blood, the sudden, terrifying silence where the bond should be.
But then—
A whisper.
Low. Familiar.
“Kael.”
Not in my ears.
In my *blood*.
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—*her* mark, the one I let her give me in the storm—and fire surges through me, bright and molten, *alive*. Not the bond. Not the fever. But something deeper. Something older. Like the mark isn’t just a claim.
It’s a *promise*.
And I know—
She’s coming.
Malrik doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t feel it. Just pulls the blade free and raises it again, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Any last words?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice low, rough. “Run.”
He laughs—and the world *explodes*.
The doors burst open, splintering into shards of obsidian, and she’s there.
Jasmine.
Barefoot. Bloodied. Breathing hard.
Her storm-gray eyes are endless, her fangs bared, her claws extended. The sigil on her wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The mark on her shoulder—*my* mark—burns with the same fierce light. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. Just charges, a blur of motion, her body cutting through the air like a blade.
One of the hunters lunges.
She doesn’t slow.
Her claws slice through his throat, blood spraying, his body collapsing before he hits the ground.
The second moves—fast, desperate—but she’s faster. She shifts mid-leap, her body rippling, bones cracking, fur sprouting, and in wolf-form, she tears into him, fangs closing around his neck, a single, brutal twist.
Two down.
And Malrik?
He doesn’t flinch.
Just turns to me, his smile gone, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hate. “You brought her here,” he says, voice low. “You led her to her death.”
“No,” I say, lifting my head. “I *saved* her.”
And then—
She’s on him.
Not as a wolf.
Not as a witch.
As *herself*.
Her hand closes around his throat, lifting him off the ground, her fangs grazing his neck. “You should’ve stayed dead,” she hisses. “You should’ve died with her.”
He laughs—a low, bitter sound. “And you? You’re just a hybrid. A half-blood. A *mistake*.”
“No,” she says, pressing her claws deeper. “I’m the truth. And I’m done letting you bury it.”
And then—
She rips his heart out.
Not with magic.
Not with a dagger.
With her *hands*.
His body collapses, his ancient eyes wide with shock, his mouth open in a silent scream. Blood pools beneath him, black and thick, reacting to the magic in the floor. And she?
She doesn’t flinch.
Just drops the heart, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with the need to *destroy*, to *burn*, to *end*.
And then—
She turns to me.
Her eyes are wide, 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 here. She’s alive. She’s *mine*.
“You came,” she whispers, stepping toward me.
“Always,” I say, my voice rough.
She doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for the chains, her fingers brushing the suppression runes. They flare—white-hot, screaming—but she doesn’t pull away. Just presses her palm flat against the iron, and fire erupts beneath her skin, bright and blinding, searing through the magic, through the runes, through the silence.
And then—
Break.
The chains shatter.
The runes scream.
And the bond—
It roars to life.
Fire surges 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. She’s healing. Fast. My blood is working. But something else is happening too. Something deeper.
The bond is *remembering*.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say, my voice low. “It was a trap.”
“I know,” she says, stepping closer. “And I don’t care.”
“You could’ve died,” I say, reaching for her. “You *should’ve* died.”
“And you?” she asks, her hand cupping my face, her thumb brushing my cheek. “Would you have lived?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because she’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“I came to save you,” she says, voice raw.
“No,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “You came to *understand*.”
And then—
She does.
Not through words.
Not through magic.
Through *touch*.
Her lips press to mine—soft, tentative, full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Truth.
And I feel it—the memory, the vision, the *truth*—flooding into me like a tide.
—
I see it.
Not through her eyes.
Through *mine*.
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, I see 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.