The first thing I feel when the Council doors open is peace.
Not the quiet kind—the one that settles after a storm, fragile and temporary. No, this is deeper. Heavier. A slow, unshakable certainty that coils around my ribs like a serpent, whispering that some truths don’t need to be spoken to be known. 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. And now—
She wears the Moonstone Amulet.
It rests against her chest, its silver disc catching the torchlight, the moonstone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. The moment she stepped into the chamber, the runes on the walls flared—not in warning, but in recognition. The witches lowered their daggers. The werewolves dipped their heads. Even the Fae leaned forward, their eyes gleaming with something like awe.
She’s not just the heir.
She’s the queen.
And I’m not just her king.
I’m her father.
“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.
“The Tribunal is silent,” she says, voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “The Veil is still. And yet—” Her head tilts. “—the shadows stir. The old blood whispers. And you—” Her blindfold turns toward Lysandra. “—stand accused.”
My breath stops.
Lysandra doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her chin, her eyes blazing. “Of what?”
“Of treason,” says Elder Voss, a vampire noble with cold, calculating eyes. “Of consorting with Malrik. Of spreading lies. Of wearing a king’s shirt without his consent.”
She laughs—a low, bitter sound. “And who says I didn’t have it? Who says he didn’t want me?”
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 Jasmine’s 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 ever wanted another.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn to Lysandra.
“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 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.
—
The next morning, the fortress is silent.
Too silent.
No guards. No whispers. No torches. Just shadow and stone and the faint hum of magic beneath my feet. I move fast, silent, my coat flaring behind me, my fangs just visible as I exhale. The bond hums beneath my skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. And the mark on my shoulder—her mark, dark and perfect—still burns.
I don’t go to the Council chamber. Don’t go to the Archives. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
I go to the throne room.
Hidden beneath the fortress, the throne room is a cavern of black stone and silver runes, lit by floating orbs of blue flame. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of shifting forms and clashing steel. I need to fight. Need to move. Need to feel my claws slice through the air, my fangs tear into flesh, my body remember what it means to be alive.
But when I step into the throne room, I freeze.
Not because of the dummies. Not because of the weapons. Not because of the shadows.
Because of her.
Jasmine.
She’s standing by the hearth, her back to me, pouring blood from a crystal decanter into a silver goblet. Not synthetic. Real. Human. The scent hits me—iron and life and something darker, deeper. She doesn’t turn.
“You’re burning,” she says. “Your scent changed. Sour with fever. With grief.”
“I know what you are,” I say, voice raw.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just sets the decanter down. “And what am I?”
“My father,” I say.
She turns.
And for the first time, I see it—fear.
Not of me. Not of the bond.
Of this.
Of her knowing.
“Who told you?” she asks, voice low.
“The blood,” I say. “Your blood. It showed me. The real memory. The truth.”
She exhales, slow and controlled. “And do you believe it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what to believe. I came here to destroy you. To expose you. To burn your empire to ash. But now—” I press a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t even know if I’m the heir. Or just a mistake.”
She crosses the room in three strides, her hands framing my face, her thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You are not a mistake,” she says, 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?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Did I love her?” she says. “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,” she says. “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,” she 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 her chest, my hands fisting in her shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I let myself cry.
She 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, 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.