The first thing I feel when the Council doors open is dread.
Not the sharp, snapping kind—the one that makes your pulse race and your claws slide free. No, this is deeper. Heavier. A slow, creeping unease that coils around my ribs like a serpent, whispering that some truths can’t be spoken without blood. The chamber is vast—walls of black obsidian etched with ancient runes, a high vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. The Supernatural Council sits in a semicircle of thrones, each one carved from a different stone: vampire onyx, werewolf basalt, witch quartz, Fae amber. The elders watch me with pale, unreadable eyes, their expressions carved from centuries of lies. And at the center—
The Oracle.
She sits on a throne of bone and moonlight, her blindfold shimmering with suppressed visions, her hands folded like a predator at rest. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits.
And beside me—
Jasmine.
She stands tall, her storm-gray eyes endless, her back straight, her fangs just visible as she exhales. She’s dressed in black—tight leather, high boots, a silver dagger at her hip—her hair pulled back, her posture rigid. The mark on her shoulder burns beneath her shirt, a dark crescent moon pierced by a fang, my mark. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the Council, her breath steady, her scent laced with fury.
She’s ready.
But I’m not.
“You summoned us,” I say, voice low, commanding. “Speak.”
The Oracle lifts a hand, and the runes on the walls flare—blue, then red, then black. The chamber hums with magic, the air thickening, the shadows peeling away from the walls like living things. And then—
She speaks.
“Malrik is gone,” she says, voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “Exiled. His name stripped. His power broken. And yet—” Her head tilts. “—the war still looms. The Tribunal stirs. The Veil trembles. And you—” Her blindfold turns toward Jasmine. “—stand accused.”
My breath stops.
Jasmine doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her chin, her eyes blazing. “Of what?”
“Of being a weapon,” says Elder Voss, a vampire noble with cold, calculating eyes. “A half-blood. Unstable. Dangerous. And you—” He turns to me. “—let her walk into this chamber like she belongs here.”
“She does,” I say, stepping forward. “She is the heir to the Shadow Coven. The last of the Moonborn line. And my blood—” I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder, the one she gave me in the storm “—proves it.”
“Blood?” sneers Elder Torvak, a werewolf with scars across his face. “You mean the bond? The fever? The madness that comes when fated mates touch? That’s not proof. That’s weakness.”
“Then what is proof?” Jasmine asks, stepping forward. “Malrik’s heart? His confession? The truth in my blood?”
“Truth?” laughs Elder Sylas, a witch with silver hair and cold eyes. “You expect us to believe a hybrid? A girl who spent twenty years hunting the wrong man? A daughter who accused her savior?”
The chamber erupts.
Snarls. Whispers. The witches shift, their sigils flaring. The werewolves growl, their claws sliding free. Even the Fae lean in, their eyes gleaming with amusement. They don’t believe her. Don’t trust her. Don’t want her.
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 she’s not enough.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn to the Oracle.
“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 reach for Jasmine’s 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—
Jasmine steps forward.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With possession.
Her hand closes around my wrist, her fangs grazing my skin, and she draws blood—just a drop, but it’s enough. The bond screams, fire surging through us, bright and blinding, 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,” she says, voice low, rough, “is my blood. My strength. My fire. And I give it to him.”
She presses my hand to her chest, over her heart.
“This,” she says, “is my loyalty. My rage. My soul. And I give it to him.”
She cups my face, her thumbs brushing my cheeks.
“And this,” she says, “is my love. Not because of duty. Not because of politics. Not because of the bond. But because he is mine. And I am his.”
The chamber 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 the Oracle?
She smiles—just a ghost of one—but it’s enough.
“The heir is proven,” she says. “The bond is true. And the war—” Her head tilts. “—has found its queen.”
The chamber falls silent.
Not a breath. Not a whisper.
Just the weight of it—crushing, inescapable.
And then—
“You think this changes anything?”
Lysandra.
She stands in the archway, her gown the color of dried blood, her lips curled in a smirk. She doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
She looks amused.
“You think a blood ritual makes her worthy?” she asks, stepping inside. “You think a bond proves she’s fit to rule? She’s half-blood. Unstable. Dangerous. And you—” She points at me. “—are 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 she’s not enough.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn to Lysandra.
“You want proof?” I ask, voice low. “You want the truth?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.
“Then you’ll have it.”
I step down from the dais and walk to her.
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.