The first thing I feel when the moon rises over the fortress is stillness.
Not emptiness. Not silence. But a deep, humming kind of presence—like the world has exhaled, like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting. The Midnight Court lies quiet beneath the silver light, its obsidian towers gleaming like fangs, its ancient wards pulsing with subdued magic. No torches flicker. No whispers echo down the corridors. No guards pace. Just shadow and stone and the faint, steady thrum of power beneath my feet. It’s over. The war. The lies. The betrayal. Malrik is ash. Lysandra is gone. The throne is claimed. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But anticipation.
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect, a crescent moon pierced by a fang. It still burns, not with pain, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond, and the Moonstone Amulet rests against my chest, its silver disc catching the moonlight, the stone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. I am not just the heir.
I am the queen.
And he—
He’s not just my king.
He’s not just my father.
He’s not just the man who saved me.
He’s the one I’ve loved since I was twelve.
The worst part?
I don’t hate myself for it anymore.
“You’re burning,” he says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just breathe.
“Not with fever,” I say. “With certainty.”
Kael steps into the chambers we now share—no longer just allies, no longer just bound by duty, but by something deeper. He’s not in armor. Not in ceremonial black. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing. His storm-gray eyes are endless, fixed on me, his fangs just visible as he exhales. The scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—wraps around me, grounding me, anchoring me. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to him, to the truth, to the way my heart stutters in my chest.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
And then—
I do something I’ve never done before.
I choose.
Not out of rage.
Not out of duty.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because I want to.
I step forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
And I press my hand to his chest.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
The moment my fingers touch the torn fabric over his wound—the one I healed, the one that nearly killed him—fire erupts. Not pain. Not magic. But memory.
—
I’m twelve.
Not in the forest. Not in the throne room. Not in the blood.
I’m in my mother’s chambers.
The air is thick with the scent of lavender and old magic, the walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes, the floor covered in soft furs. She’s sitting by the hearth, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing with power. In her hands—
The amulet.
She’s holding it, turning it in the light, her fingers tracing the runes. I sit beside her, small, trusting, my head on her lap.
“This is yours,” she says, voice soft. “Not because you’re my daughter. But because you’re you.”
“What does it do?” I ask, reaching for it.
She lets me take it.
And the moment my fingers close around it—
—the world shimmers.
Not a vision. Not a dream. But a knowing.
I see it—our coven, whole. Our people, free. Our magic, unchained. I see myself—older, stronger, radiant—standing beside a man with storm-gray eyes, his hand in mine, his fangs just visible when he smiles.
And I know—
This is my future.
“It’s not just power,” she says. “It’s memory. It’s truth. It’s the past and the future, bound in one. And one day, when you’re ready, it will choose you.”
“And if I’m not ready?” I ask, my voice small.
She smiles—slow, gentle—and lifts my chin. “Then it will wait. Because the amulet doesn’t choose the heir. The heir chooses the amulet.”
And I believe her.
—
The vision fades.
I gasp, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my fingers tightening over the wound. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to it, to the truth it holds. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with possession, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition.
And then—
I lift my other hand.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My palm presses flat against his chest, over his heart. My fingers splay, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath the skin. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil flares. The mark burns. And then—
—I push.
Not magic.
Not force.
But will.
My power—Moonborn strength, witch sigil magic, fated bond sensitivity—flows through me, down my arm, into my palm, into his chest. It’s not a spell. Not a ritual. Not a command.
It’s a plea.
Stay.
Live.
Be mine.
Kael gasps—his body arching, his storm-gray eyes flying open, his fangs fully extended. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. My breath hitches. My body trembles. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone. The mark on my shoulder pulses—bright, molten, alive—and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“Jasmine,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “I do.”
He doesn’t pull away.
Just cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks, his storm-gray eyes endless. “You’re not just my heir,” he says. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“You’re my heart,” he says. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
Because of the way his voice breaks on the last word. Because of the way his hand trembles as it lifts to my face. Because of the way his eyes—endless, storm-gray, mine—hold mine, unflinching, unafraid.
And then—
I press my lips to his.
Not like before.
Not in the storm, desperate and furious, our bodies grinding together like we were trying to destroy each other.
Not in the library, where I pressed my forehead to his chest and let myself cry.
Not in the Council chamber, where we claimed each other in front of the world.
No—this is different.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
His breath hitches. His body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive—and the bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. But I don’t pull away. Can’t. My hands slide up his chest, fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer. His arms close around me, strong and sure, pressing me against him, his fangs grazing my lip—just a whisper of pressure, but I moan, the sound low and raw in my throat.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just an inch. Just enough to look at me.
“Jasmine,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “But I want to. I’ve wanted to since I was a child. Since you kissed me in the forest. Since you promised to wait for me.”
“And if I don’t believe you?” he asks, voice breaking.
“Then feel it,” I say, lifting my hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. “Feel the bond. Feel the mark. Feel the way your body knows me before your mind does.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just closes his eyes, his breath unsteady, his body trembling.
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
And the worst part?
I don’t want it to end.
—
We don’t speak as we walk back to the chambers.
Don’t need to.
The silence between us is full—thick with memory, with truth, with the weight of everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve found. The corridors blur around us—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes down, their instincts screaming at them to run. They know what’s coming. They’ve seen it before. The Moonborn heat cycle is rare, but when it strikes, it’s chaos. Blood. Violence. Claiming.
And I?
I’m not just Moonborn.
I’m hybrid. Heir. Fated mate. And the most powerful bloodline in two centuries.
If I’m unclaimed during heat—
There will be war.
But not tonight.
Not like this.
We reach the chambers. The door is closed—finally. A small victory. I push it open, stepping inside.
The hearth burns low, embers glowing, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and ink, of dust and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The Library of Whispers is just down the hall, but I don’t go there. Not tonight. Not for answers. Not for fire.
For peace.
Kael moves to the hearth, kneeling to stoke the flames. I watch him—the way his shoulders shift, the way his fangs catch the light, the way his hands tremble as he adds wood. He’s not afraid. Not of death. Not of war.
He’s afraid of losing me.
So I do the only thing I can.
I step behind him.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My hands slide over his shoulders, down his arms, my fingers interlacing with his as I press my body against his back. My breath warms his neck. My fangs graze his skin—just a whisper of pressure, but his breath hitches, his body arching into me.
“You don’t have to protect me,” I say, voice low.
“I know,” he says. “But I will. Always.”
“And if I don’t want to be protected?” I ask, nipping his ear. “If I want to fight? To lead? To rule?”
“Then I’ll fight beside you,” he says. “Lead with you. Rule with you.”
“And if I die?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll die with you,” he says. “The bond won’t let us live apart.”
“And if I live?” I ask, pressing my lips to his neck. “What then?”
He turns, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Then we live. Together. As queen and king. As daughter and father. As the only two who’ve ever loved each other without lies.”
“And if I don’t want to be your daughter?” I ask, lifting my chin. “If I want to be your mate? Your lover? Your wife?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
And the worst part?
I don’t want it to end.
—
Hours pass.
The fire burns low. The candles flicker. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. We don’t speak. Don’t move. Just sit there, tangled together on the floor, my head on his chest, his arms around me, his breath warm against my hair. The amulet glows faintly against my skin, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition.
“I don’t want to go back,” I say, voice muffled against his shirt.
“Back where?” he asks, brushing a hand through my hair.
“To the Council. To the throne. To the war.”
“It’s not a war,” he says. “It’s a reckoning. And you’re ready for it.”
“Am I?” I ask, lifting my head. “I spent twenty years hating the wrong man. Twenty years sharpening my claws on a lie. And now—” I press a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t know how to be anything but broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he says, cupping my face. “You’re not a weapon. You’re not a ghost. You’re not a lie.”
“Then what am I?” I whisper.
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” he says. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. And the only woman who can fix what’s broken.”
“And you?” I ask. “What are you?”
“Your father,” he says. “In every way that matters.”
“And the bond?”
“Is 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?”
“Then you were never the heir,” he says. “Just a weapon. A ghost. A lie.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you’re a queen,” he says. “And I’ll be waiting.”
I press a hand to the amulet—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. “And if I’m not ready?”
“You are,” he says. “You’ve always been. You just forgot.”
“And if I fail?” I whisper.
“Then we fail together,” he says. “But you won’t. Because you’re stronger than this. You always were. You just forgot.”
I don’t answer.
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’ve made it right.
—
The moon climbs higher.
The fire burns low.
The bond hums beneath my skin, steady, unrelenting.
And then—
I lift my head.
Kael watches me, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
“It’s time,” I say.
He doesn’t ask what I mean.
Just nods.
And I know—he’s been waiting. Not for the throne. Not for power. Not for revenge.
For this.
For me.
So I stand.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
And I reach for the laces of my dress.
Not roughly.
Not hurriedly.
With ceremony.
The white silk slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like moonlight. I step out of it, bare, unashamed, my skin glowing in the firelight. The mark on my shoulder burns—bright, hot, alive—and the sigil on my wrist pulses in time with my heartbeat.
Kael doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his breath unsteady, his fangs fully extended.
And then—
I reach for him.
My fingers brush the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t stop me. Just exhales, slow and controlled, as I lift it, as I peel it from his body, revealing the scars, the strength, the truth of him. His chest rises and falls, his heart steady, his scent wrapping around me like a promise.
I press my palm to his chest.
Over his heart.
And I feel it—the bond. The fire. The way his body knows mine before his mind does.
“This isn’t just about the heat,” I say, voice low.
“I know,” he says.
“This isn’t just about the bond.”
“I know.”
“This is about us.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks, his storm-gray eyes endless.
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
And the worst part?
I don’t want it to end.
And it doesn’t.
Not tonight.
Not ever.