The first thing I feel when dawn breaks over the fortress is power.
Not the cold, sharp kind that cuts through lies and burns through enemies. Not the desperate, clawing kind that fueled my vengeance for twenty years. Not even the wild, untamed surge of Moonborn strength or the precise, ritual-driven force of witch sigil magic.
This is different.
It’s mine.
It coils low in my belly, warm and steady, pulsing in time with the bond, with my heartbeat, with the rhythm of the world itself. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t threaten. It simply is—solid, unshakable, like the mountains beneath our feet. The mark on my shoulder 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 pale light, the stone humming with quiet power.
I press a hand to the mark—still warm, still alive—and exhale.
The fortress is quiet this morning. No torches flicker. No whispers echo down the corridors. No guards pace. Just shadow and stone and the faint, steady thrum of magic beneath my feet. The war is over. The throne is claimed. Lysandra is gone. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But hunger.
Not for blood. Not for power. Not for vengeance.
Hunger for him.
And this time—
I’m not running from it.
I’m not denying it.
I’m not letting the bond decide for me.
I’m taking it.
—
Kael is already awake.
He’s standing by the window, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the horizon, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing. He’s not in armor. Not in ceremonial black. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, 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.
He doesn’t turn.
Just watches the sky lighten, the first pale streaks of dawn bleeding into the night.
“You’re awake,” I say, voice low.
“So are you,” he replies, still not looking at me.
“And brooding,” I add, stepping forward, bare feet silent on the stone. “What’s wrong?”
He exhales—slow, controlled. “The Fae envoy. Torin said they bring news from the Veil. If the rifts destabilize further, the balance between worlds could shatter. Entire bloodlines could be erased. Cities. Realms.”
“And you’re blaming yourself,” I say, stopping behind him.
He doesn’t deny it.
Just closes his eyes.
“I’ve spent centuries maintaining the peace,” he says. “Protecting the borders. Enforcing the truce. And now—” He opens his eyes, turning to me. “Now I’m not sure it was ever peace. Just silence. Just fear. And I wonder—did I protect the world… or just my own power?”
I don’t answer right away.
Just press my palm to his chest, over his heart.
The moment my fingers touch the fabric, 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.
—
But it does.
Eventually.
The sun climbs higher. The fortress stirs. Guards shift. Council members prepare. The Fae envoy waits.
And I—
I have a choice to make.
Not as queen.
Not as heir.
Not as a weapon.
As a woman.
So I step back.
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 dawn light. 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.
But then—
I pull back.
Just enough to look at him.
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.
My hands slide down his chest, over his ribs, down to the waistband of his trousers. I don’t hesitate. Don’t ask. Just unfasten them, push them down, step back as they fall.
He’s hard. Ready. Aching.
And so am I.
But this time—
I’m not letting him lead.
I’m not letting the bond decide.
I’m not waiting for him to mark me.
I’m marking him.
So I step forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
And I press my body against his.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, my fingers threading into his hair. My lips brush 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.
But then—
I break the kiss.
And I drop to my knees.
Not in submission.
Not in worship.
With claiming.
My hands slide up his thighs, over his hips, my fingers curling around his cock. He gasps, his body arching, his fangs fully extended. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. My breath hitches. My body burns. But I don’t stop.
I lean forward.
And I take him into my mouth.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With certainty.
My lips close around him, my tongue sliding along the length, my fangs just grazing the sensitive ridge. He groans—low, deep, guttural—and his hands fist in my hair, not pulling, not forcing, just holding on. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
“Jasmine,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “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 then—
I take him again.
Deeper. Harder. Full of everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve found. His breath hitches. His body arches. His fingers tighten in my hair. And then—
He pulls me up.
Not roughly. Not hurriedly.
With love.
My body rises, my legs wrapping around his waist, my core pressing against his cock. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. His hands slide under my thighs, holding me up, his fangs grazing my neck. The air hums. The runes on the walls flare—blue, then silver, then gold.
And then—
He enters me.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
I gasp, my body arching, my fingers tightening in his arms. He stills, just for a second, his breath unsteady, his fangs fully extended. And then—
He moves.
Slow at first. Deep. Steady. Each thrust a promise, each withdrawal a plea. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive—and the mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
“Kael,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“I’m here,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “I’ll always be here.”
And then—
I come.
Not with a scream. Not with a cry.
With a moan—low, deep, full of everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve found. My body arches, my fingers tightening in his arms, my core clenching around him. He groans, low and deep, his fangs grazing my neck, and then—
He follows.
Not with a roar. Not with a snarl.
With a whisper—my name, over and over, like a prayer, like a vow, like a truth I’ve always known.
And then—
We don’t move.
Don’t speak.
Just breathe.
In. Out. Slow. Like if we stop, the moment will shatter. Like if we open our eyes too fast, we’ll wake up in the forest again, twelve years old, screaming as the blade falls. Like if we 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 air is real—thick with the scent of storm and iron and something ancient. The floor is real—cold stone beneath my bare feet. The bond is real—humming beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. 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 I chose him.
And then—
I do something I’ve never done before.
I lean down.
And I bite.
Not hard. Not cruel.
With love.
My fangs close over the pulse in his neck—just enough to break the skin, just enough to draw blood. He gasps, his body arching, his storm-gray eyes flying open. The bond screams to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. 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.
And then—
I lift my head.
There’s blood on my lips.
And a smile on mine.
“You’re mine,” I say.
And he answers—
“Forever.”