The first thing I feel when I wake is warmth.
Not the fevered burn of battle. Not the sharp sting of betrayal. Not the cold ache of vengeance.
Warmth.
It wraps around me like a second skin—steady, deep, real. The kind that seeps into your bones and stays, not because it has to, but because it belongs. The kind that doesn’t demand. Doesn’t threaten. Doesn’t lie.
It just is.
I’m lying on my side, curled into the curve of a body—long, hard, unyielding. Kael. His arm is slung low across my waist, his hand splayed over my hip, his fingers brushing the dip of my spine. His breath is slow and even against the back of my neck, warm and steady, his fangs just grazing my skin with every exhale. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
And the bond?
It hums beneath our skin, not roaring like it used to, not screaming with need or fury or denial.
It sings.
Quiet. Soft. Full.
Like it’s finally home.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just breathe. In. Out. Slow. Like if I stop, the moment will shatter. Like if I open my eyes too fast, I’ll wake up in the forest again, twelve years old, screaming as the blade falls. Like if I shift even an inch, the dream will end, and I’ll be back in the dark, alone, sharpening my claws on a lie.
But this isn’t a dream.
The sheets are real—black silk, cool against my bare legs, tangled around my ankles. The air is real—thick with the scent of old paper and ink, of dust and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The hearth is real—embers glowing, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. And him?
He’s real.
Kael D’Arenthe. Midnight King. Vampire sovereign. The man I came here to destroy.
The man I’ve loved since I was twelve.
And now—
Now he’s mine.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the mark.
Not because of duty or politics or war.
But because last night—
—I chose him.
Not out of rage.
Not out of duty.
Not because the bond demanded it.
But because I wanted to.
And he chose me back.
Not as a queen.
Not as an heir.
Not as a daughter.
But as a woman.
As his.
And the worst part?
I don’t hate myself for it anymore.
I don’t want to.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I don’t answer.
Just press my back into his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the slow rise and fall of his breath. His arm tightens around me, pulling me deeper into the curve of his body, his fingers tracing idle circles on my hip. 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’re burning,” he says, nuzzling the back of my neck.
“Not with fever,” I say, voice low. “With certainty.”
He exhales—slow, controlled—and presses a kiss to the mark on my shoulder. It flares, bright and molten, and the bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. My breath hitches. My body arches. But I don’t pull away. Can’t. Not anymore.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice quiet. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Yes,” I say, turning in his arms, my hands sliding up his chest, fisting in the sheets beneath him. “I do.”
He watches me—his storm-gray eyes endless, 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 mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
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 lean forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
And I kiss him.
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 sings 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 skin, 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.
But then—
A knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But impossible to ignore.
We freeze.
Still tangled together, still breathless, still burning.
“Ignore it,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his neck.
“Can’t,” he says, voice rough. “It’s Rhys.”
I pull back, frowning. “How do you know?”
“I can smell him,” he says, pressing a hand to my hip. “Golden wolf. Iron. Family.”
I exhale—sharp, broken—and roll off him, grabbing the sheet to cover myself. Kael sits up, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the door. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—and the mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
“Enter,” Kael says, voice commanding.
The door opens.
Rhys steps in—shirtless, scarred, his golden wolf-eyes blazing. In his hand—a tray. On it—steaming tea, fresh bread, blood-red fruit. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Kael.
Just sets it on the table by the hearth.
And then—
He turns.
And he smiles.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
But slow. Warm. Real.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“You’re early,” I say, wrapping the sheet tighter around me.
“You’re late,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Sun’s been up for hours.”
I glance at the window—pale light spills across the stone floor, casting long, wavering shadows. I hadn’t even noticed.
“We were… busy,” I say.
He snorts. “Yeah. The whole fortress heard.”
My face burns.
Kael doesn’t flinch. Just leans back against the headboard, his coat flaring, his fangs just visible as he exhales. “And you came to what end?”
Rhys crosses his arms. “Council’s in session. Elders are pushing for hybrid trials. Fae are demanding reparations. Witches want the Tribunal disbanded.”
“And you’re telling us this why?” Kael asks.
“Because she’s queen now,” Rhys says, finally looking at me. “And queens don’t get to sleep in.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “And if I don’t want to go?”
“Then you’re not the woman I remember,” he says. “You’re not the sister I fought to protect. You’re not the heir.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re stronger than this,” he says. “You always were. You just forgot.”
I don’t answer.
Just step out of bed, the sheet pooling at my feet. I’m 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.
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I say.
Rhys nods. “Good.”
And then—
He turns to Kael.
“And you,” he says. “If you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” Kael says.
“If you lie to her—”
“I won’t.”
“If you let her down—”
“I’d rather burn with her than live without her.”
Rhys studies him—his golden eyes seeing too much. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then you have my loyalty.”
And he’s gone.
Not with a slam. Not with a threat.
But with a quiet certainty that settles over the room like dust.
And then—
I turn to Kael.
He’s watching me, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
“You don’t have to go,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, stepping into the bath chamber. “I do.”
—
The bath is hot.
Steam rises in thick clouds, curling around my body as I sink into the water. The scent of lavender and old magic fills the air, thick and soothing. I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, reacting to the heat, to the memory of last night.
It wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t just heat.
It wasn’t just the bond.
It was us.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
And it didn’t end.
Not last night.
Not ever.
And then—
A shadow.
Not in the steam.
Not in the light.
But in the doorway.
Kael.
He steps into the bath chamber, his coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
And then—
He strips.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
With claiming.
His tunic falls. His boots hit the floor. His coat pools at his feet. And then—
He steps into the water.
Not beside me.
Not across from me.
Behind me.
His body presses against mine—long, hard, unyielding. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me back into the curve of his chest. His fangs graze my neck. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep.
“You don’t have to protect me,” I say, leaning into him.
“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “But I will. Always.”
“And if I don’t want to be protected?” I ask, nipping his wrist. “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 me, 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.
But then—
Another knock.
Not Rhys this time.
Softer. Lighter.
“My queen?” a voice calls. “Your robes are ready.”
I exhale—sharp, broken—and pull back. “Enter.”
The door opens.
A young witch steps in—barely eighteen, her dark hair in braids, her eyes wide with awe. In her hands—white silk, embroidered with moonstone beads, the hem lined with silver fangs.
“For the Council,” she says, bowing.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping out of the water.
Kael rises with me, his coat flaring, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the witch. “You may go.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Just bows and leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
And then—
I turn to him.
“This isn’t over,” I say, pulling the robe over my head.
“No,” he says, stepping behind me, his hands fastening the ties. “It’s just beginning.”
“And if they come for me?” I ask, voice low. “If the elders try to take the throne? If the Tribunal rises again?”
“Then we burn them together,” he says, pressing a kiss to my neck. “Because the bond won’t let us live apart.”
“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 then—
I lift my head.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He nods.
And we walk to the door.
Not as king and queen.
Not as father and daughter.
Not as heirs or mates or rulers.
As the only two who’ve ever loved each other without lies.
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.