The first thing I feel when the sun dips below the Carpathian peaks is fire.
Not literal. Not magic. Not even the fevered pulse of the bond.
No—this is different.
This is hunger.
It coils low in my gut, hot and sharp, pulsing in time with the sigil on my palm—Jasmine’s mark, a crescent moon etched in silver fire. It burns, not with pain, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition. The fortress hums beneath my feet, its obsidian veins thrumming with ancient magic, its torches flickering in uneven rhythm. The war is over. The throne is claimed. The Council of Equals has been reborn. Lysandra is exiled. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But restlessness.
And I know—
It’s not the world that’s unsettled.
It’s me.
I press a hand to the hilt of my dagger—cold iron, etched with the D’Arenthe crest, its edge still sharp from the last kill. I don’t need it now. Not in this peace. Not in this new world where the queen bites back and the king kneels. Where the Oracle speaks truth without prophecy and the Fae bargain without lies. Where the hybrid girl who once came to destroy us now rules beside me, her mark burning bright, her power unchallenged.
And where I—
Where I no longer have a war to fight.
But I still have a body.
And a heart.
And a need.
“You’re brooding,” Jasmine says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just keep my gaze on the war table—its surface glowing faintly with shifting runes, territories realigned, blood oaths renewed, Fae envoys scheduled. I’m not in armor. Not in ceremonial black. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, my coat flaring behind me like a living thing. The scent of her—moonlight and iron and something ancient—wraps around me, grounding me, anchoring me. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my palm flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to her, to the truth, to the way my heart stutters in my chest.
“You’re late,” I say, voice low.
“You’re thinking,” she replies, stepping forward, bare feet silent on the stone.
She’s not in robes. Not in ceremonial white. Just a simple gown of black silk, its hem lined with silver fangs, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. Her hair is loose, dark as midnight, her eyes glowing with power. The mark on her shoulder—my mark—burns faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. The Moonstone Amulet rests against her chest, its silver disc catching the torchlight, the stone humming with quiet power. I am not just her king.
I am her mate.
Her lover.
Her husband.
And the man who’s loved her since she was twelve.
“The Fae envoy came,” I say. “They confirmed it—the Veil is destabilizing. The rifts are widening. If we don’t act soon, the balance between worlds will shatter.”
“And you’re blaming yourself,” she says, stopping in front of me.
“I’ve spent centuries enforcing peace,” I say. “But was it ever peace? Or just silence? Fear? Control?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Just presses her palm to my chest, over my heart.
The moment her fingers touch the fabric, fire erupts—not pain. Not magic. But memory.
—
I’m twelve.
Not in the fortress. Not in the war room. Not in the blood.
I’m in the forest.
The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, of old magic and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. Moonlight filters through the canopy, casting silver ripples across the moss. She’s there—small, fierce, her dark hair wild, her eyes glowing with power. She’s not afraid of me. Not even when I bare my fangs.
“You’re not like the others,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“Then why do they fear you?”
“Because I’m different,” I say. “Because I don’t follow their rules.”
She steps closer. “Then don’t.”
And then—
She kisses me.
Not like before.
Not desperate. Not furious. Not the bond.
Love.
And the worst part?
I don’t want it to end.
—
The vision fades.
I gasp, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my fingers tightening over hers. The sigil on my palm flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to it, to the truth it holds. The mark on her 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 her chest, over her heart. My fingers splay, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath the skin. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. Her breath hitches. Her body arches. The sigil flares. The mark burns. And then—
—I push.
Not magic.
Not force.
But will.
My power—blood mastery, mind control, fated bond resonance—flows through me, down my arm, into my palm, into her chest. It’s not a spell. Not a ritual. Not a command.
It’s a plea.
Stay.
Live.
Be mine.
Jasmine gasps—her body arching, her eyes flying open, her fangs fully extended. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. My breath hitches. My body trembles. The sigil on my palm glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone. The mark on her shoulder pulses—bright, molten, alive—and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“Kael,” she whispers, her voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “I do.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just cups my face, her thumbs brushing my cheeks, her storm-gray eyes endless. “You’re not just my king,” she says. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my husband.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“You’re my heart,” she says. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
And I believe her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
Because of the way her voice breaks on the last word. Because of the way her hand trembles as it lifts to my face. Because of the way her eyes—endless, storm-gray, mine—hold mine, unflinching, unafraid.
And then—
I press my lips to hers.
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 her 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.
Her breath hitches. Her body arches. The sigil on my palm 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 her back, fisting in her gown, pulling her closer. Her arms close around me, strong and sure, pressing me against her, her fangs grazing my lip—just a whisper of pressure, but I moan, the sound low and raw in my throat.
And then—
She pulls back.
Just an inch. Just enough to look at me.
“Kael,” she says, voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “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?” she asks, voice breaking.
“Then feel it,” I say, lifting my hand to her chest, pressing it over her heart. “Feel the bond. Feel the mark. Feel the way your body knows me before your mind does.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just closes her eyes, her breath unsteady, her body trembling.
And then—
She 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 step back.
Not roughly. Not hurriedly.
With purpose.
“We have work to do,” I say, voice low.
She frowns. “Now?”
“Now,” I say, turning to the war table. “The Fae envoy has delivered new intelligence. The rifts in the Veil are growing faster than we thought. If we don’t seal them soon, the balance will collapse.”
She exhales—sharp, broken—and follows me. “Then let’s move.”
We stand side by side, our shoulders brushing, the bond humming between us like a second pulse. I point to the map—runes shifting, territories glowing. “Here,” I say. “And here. The weakest points. We’ll send hybrid patrols—witches to stabilize, werewolves to guard, vampires to feed the wards.”
She studies it—her eyes sharp, her mind racing. “And the Fae?”
“They’ll provide the enchantments,” I say. “But only if we agree to their terms.”
“Which are?”
“Reparations. Land. Freedom for their captured kin.”
She doesn’t flinch. “And if we say no?”
“Then the Veil breaks,” I say. “And we all burn.”
She presses a hand to the mark on her shoulder. “Then we say yes.”
“Just like that?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “We say yes—but on our terms. They get their reparations. But we keep the land. And we negotiate the releases. No more deals in the dark.”
I exhale—slow, controlled—and turn to her. “You’re not just my queen,” I say. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my wife.”
“Then what am I?” she asks, voice breaking.
“You’re my equal,” I say. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps closer, her body pressing against mine, her hands sliding up my chest, fisting in my tunic, pulling me down. Her lips crash onto mine—hard, fast, full of fire. 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.
And then—
I pin her to the map table.
Not roughly. Not hurriedly.
With love.
My body presses against hers, long and hard and unyielding. My hands frame her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. Her breath hitches. Her body arches. But I don’t stop.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice rough. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Yes,” she says, pressing her forehead to mine. “I do.”
I don’t answer.
Just cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks, my storm-gray eyes endless. “You’re not just my heir,” I say. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
“Then what am I?” she asks, her voice breaking.
“You’re my heart,” I say. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
And I believe her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
Because of the way her voice breaks on the last word. Because of the way her hand trembles as it lifts to my face. Because of the way her eyes—endless, storm-gray, mine—hold mine, unflinching, unafraid.
And then—
I press my lips to hers.
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 her 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.
Her breath hitches. Her body arches. The sigil on my palm 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 her back, fisting in her gown, pulling her closer. Her arms close around me, strong and sure, pressing me against her, her fangs grazing my lip—just a whisper of pressure, but I moan, the sound low and raw in my throat.
And then—
She tears at my tunic.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With certainty.
The fabric rips—black silk giving way to my skin. Her hands slide over my chest, tracing the scars, the old wounds, the memories. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. My breath hitches. My body arches. But I don’t stop.
And then—
She bites my neck.
Not hard. Not to mark.
Just a whisper of pressure.
But I groan—low, deep, guttural—and my hands fist in her hair, not pulling, not forcing, just holding on. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. My breath hitches. My body burns. But I don’t stop.
And then—
A knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But impossible to ignore.
We freeze.
Still tangled together, still breathless, still burning.
“Ignore it,” she whispers, pressing her lips to my neck.
“Can’t,” I say, voice rough. “It’s Rhys.”
She pulls back, frowning. “How do you know?”
“I can smell him,” I say, pressing a hand to her hip. “Golden wolf. Iron. Family.”
She exhales—sharp, broken—and rolls off me, grabbing the sheet to cover herself. I sit up, my coat flaring behind me like a living thing, my storm-gray eyes fixed on the door. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my palm flares—bright, hot, alive—and the mark on her shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
“Enter,” I say, voice commanding.
The door opens.
Rhys steps in—shirtless, scarred, his golden wolf-eyes blazing. In his hand—a scroll, sealed with red wax. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Jasmine.
Just holds it out.
“From the Fae,” he says. “They say it can’t wait.”
She takes it, her fingers trembling. “Then let’s see what they want.”
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.