The first thing I feel when the summons arrives 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 rituals can’t be refused. The parchment is sealed with the Oracle’s mark, the wax still warm, the ink shimmering with suppressed magic. I don’t need to read it. I already know what it says.
By order of the High Oracle and the Supernatural Council, the bonded pair Kael D’Arenthe and Jasmine Vale are required to attend the Blood Unity Rite at moonrise. Failure to comply will result in immediate dissolution of the alliance and activation of the bond’s death clause.
Translation: if we don’t drink from each other, we die.
I crush the scroll in my fist, the magic flaring, the runes dissolving into ash. My skin is already burning. The bond hums beneath it, a steady, insistent pulse, reacting to proximity, to memory, to the way my breath still hitches when he walks into a room. The mark on my shoulder throbs—not with pain, not with possession, but with something deeper. Something like recognition.
I don’t want to do this.
But I don’t have a choice.
The Rite Chamber is in the heart of the fortress, a circular sanctum carved into living stone, its ceiling domed like a skull, its walls lined with veins of silver that pulse with lunar energy. The air is thick with the scent of crushed moonflower and something darker, sweeter. Blood and jasmine. Us. At the center, a shallow basin of black stone holds a pool of liquid silver—moon-infused water, laced with binding magic. Two silver goblets rest on the edge, waiting.
I arrive first.
Of course I do.
Always the one to brace for impact.
I step inside, my boots striking the stone, my breath shallow. The sigil on my wrist flares as the magic in the air reacts to my presence, to the ritual about to begin. I don’t look at the basin. Don’t look at the goblets. Just stand there, my hands fisted at my sides, my fangs just visible as I exhale.
And then—
I hear him.
Not footsteps. Not voice.
Presence.
Like a storm rolling in.
Kael.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t announce himself. Just steps into the chamber, his coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. He’s already dressed in ceremonial black—tight leather, high collar, the D’Arenthe crest etched into his belt buckle. His fangs are visible, just the tips, and the scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—fills the air.
The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and molten, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“You’re early,” I say, voice low.
“You’re trembling,” he replies, stepping closer.
I don’t deny it. Can’t. My hands are clenched so tight my claws press into my palms. The mark on my shoulder burns—bright, molten, alive.
“This is a unity rite,” I say, trying to sound detached. “Not a mating ceremony.”
“No,” he says, stopping just a breath away. “But the bond doesn’t care about semantics. It only knows hunger.”
“And you?” I ask, lifting my chin. “What do you know?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for the goblets, his fingers brushing mine as he takes them. A jolt of heat surges through me—bright, sharp, unforgivable. I don’t pull away. Can’t. The sigil burns. The bond hums. And the worst part?
I don’t want to.
He pours the silver water into each goblet, then draws a ceremonial dagger from his belt. Without hesitation, he slices his palm, letting three drops of blood fall into one cup. The liquid darkens, swirling, glowing faintly with power.
Then he holds out the blade to me.
“Your turn,” he says.
I hesitate.
Not because I’m afraid of the pain. I’ve bled a thousand times. But because this—this ritual, this bond, this man—feels like surrender. Like the final crack in the armor I’ve worn for twenty years.
But I take the dagger.
And I cut.
Three drops. Just enough. The blood sinks into the silver, turning it crimson at the edges, pulsing with magic. The sigil on my wrist flares—so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
“Drink,” he says, handing me the goblet.
I don’t. Not yet.
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Then the bond breaks,” he says. “And we both die.”
“And if I do?”
He meets my gaze. “Then we remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything.”
I don’t answer.
Just lift the goblet to my lips.
The liquid is cold. Metallic. But as it touches my tongue, fire erupts—bright, molten, alive. It slides down my throat, warm and heavy, spreading through my veins like liquid lightning. My breath hitches. My body arches. And then—
—I see it.
Not through my eyes.
Through his.
A forest bathed in silver light. The air thick with magic, with the scent of crushed moonflower and old blood. My 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 queen. Not a warrior. Just a girl 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.”
My mother doesn’t flinch. “I did it for the future. For balance. For her.”
“Then she dies with you,” Malrik says.
Kael steps 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,” Kael says. “But let them live. Let her live.”
And then—
The blade falls.
My mother collapses. Kael catches her. He whispers the words—“For the peace of all realms”—not as a killer, but as a mourner. As a man who has lost everything.
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.
The vision fades.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest as if I can still feel the blade, still hear the whisper, still see the blood. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My eyes are wide, unfocused, my pupils dilated. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “He didn’t kill her.”
“No,” Kael says, stepping closer. “I tried to save her. I failed. But I kept you alive.”
“And the throne?” I ask, my voice trembling. “The coven? The war?”
“Malrik used her death to seize power,” he says. “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.”
I stare at him, my chest rising and falling, my 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,” he says. “So you could grow strong. So you could come back and take what’s yours.”
“And now?” I whisper. “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,” he says.
“How?” I ask, my voice breaking. “How do I fix twenty years of lies? Of rage? Of betrayal?”
“By facing it,” he says. “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?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
The truth—sharp and terrible—is this: I don’t want to destroy him.
I want to understand him.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” he says, cupping my face. “I’m terrified of you knowing. Of you hating me more. Of losing you again.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice raw.
“Because you weren’t ready,” he says. “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.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—his 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,” he says. “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?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll let you go,” he says. “But I’ll never stop loving you. Never stop protecting you. Never stop being your father.”
I don’t pull away.
Just press my forehead to his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I let myself cry.
He holds me. 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.
—
Later, in the chambers, he doesn’t speak.
Just sits by the hearth, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes fixed on the flames. The bond hums beneath his skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on his wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. And the mark on his shoulder—my mark, dark and perfect—still burns.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he 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.”
He 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 him. “I wanted the world to know. I wanted them to see. I wanted you to know.”
He finally looks at me.
And for the first time, I see it—hope.
Not just in his eyes.
In his scent. In his breath. In the way his body leans toward mine.
“Why?” I ask, voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep choosing me?”
“Because you’re not just my heir,” he says, brushing a hand through my hair. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
I don’t answer.
Just wait.
“You’re my heart,” he says. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
I don’t pull away.
Just press my forehead to his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I let myself cry.
He holds me.
Not as a king.
Not as a father.
As the man who’s loved me since I 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.