The first thing I feel when the ballroom doors open is light.
Not torchlight. Not moonlight. Not even the cold, silver glow of magic.
This is different.
This is celebration.
It spills into the hall like a river—warm, golden, alive—pouring from a thousand floating lanterns suspended above the dance floor, each one shaped like a crescent moon, their flames burning without wax or wick. The air smells of night-blooming jasmine, old magic, and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The fortress hums beneath my feet, its obsidian veins thrumming with ancient power, its torches flickering in steady 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 joy.
And for once, I don’t question it.
I step forward.
My gown is black silk, the hem lined with silver fangs, the bodice embroidered with moonstone beads that catch the light and scatter it like stars. The Moonstone Amulet rests against my chest, its silver disc glowing faintly, the stone humming with quiet power. The mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark—burns warm, not with possession, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition. The sigil on my wrist pulses in time with my heartbeat, reacting to him, to the truth, to the way my breath still hitches when he looks at me.
He’s already here.
Standing at the edge of the dance floor, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, 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, the hem brushing his thighs. 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—and I don’t fight it.
I walk to him.
Not like a queen. Not like a warrior. Not like a woman who’s bled for her crown.
Like a woman who’s finally found her way home.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low.
“You’re waiting,” I reply.
He doesn’t smile. Not with his lips. But his eyes—endless, storm-gray, mine—soften. “I’d wait a thousand years,” he says. “And still call it too short.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “And if I asked you to?”
“I’d burn the world first,” he says. “But yes. I’d wait.”
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—
The music begins.
Not orchestral. Not ceremonial. Not the rigid, bloodline hymns of the old court.
This is different.
A slow, deep cello, its notes winding through the air like smoke, followed by the whisper of a violin, the pulse of a drum, the breath of a flute. It’s not music meant to impress. It’s music meant to feel. The kind that settles in your bones, that pulls you close, that makes you forget everything but the person in your arms.
And then—
Kael offers his hand.
Not with command. Not with dominance.
With invitation.
I take it.
Not because the bond demands it.
Not because the world is watching.
But because I want to.
He pulls me close—slow, deliberate—his body pressing against mine, long and hard and unyielding. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me into the curve of his chest. My hands slide up his arms, fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer. 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’re burning,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to my lower back.
“Not with fever,” I say, leaning into him. “With certainty.”
He exhales—slow, controlled—and pulls me closer, his fangs grazing my ear. “And if I said I wanted to burn with you?”
“Then I’d say you already are,” I whisper, nipping his neck.
He groans—low, deep, guttural—and his hand tightens on my hip. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. 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—
We dance.
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 coat, 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—
The music shifts.
The cello deepens. The drum pulses. The violin climbs higher, sharper, until it’s not a song anymore—it’s a summons.
And the world returns.
Not with a crash. Not with a scream.
But with a whisper.
“They’re watching,” I murmur against his lips.
“Let them,” he says, not pulling away. “Let them see what we are.”
I lift my head, my eyes scanning the room.
Every species is here.
The elders sit in their crescent, cloaked in blood-red robes, their faces hidden behind silver masks. The Fae envoy stands at the edge, her skin the color of twilight, her hair a cascade of silver vines, her eyes pools of liquid amber. The werewolf Beta—my brother, Rhys—leans against the far wall, arms crossed, golden eyes blazing. The witches cluster together, their sigils glowing faintly, their breath steady. And the vampires—Kael’s court—watch from the shadows, silent, still, waiting.
But none of them look away.
Not in judgment.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
Like they’re seeing something they’ve never believed possible.
Like they’re seeing us.
And then—
Rhys steps forward.
Not with challenge. Not with anger.
With acceptance.
He doesn’t speak. Just raises his glass—crystal filled with blood-red wine—and lifts it in a silent toast.
One by one, the others follow.
The Fae envoy. The elders. The witches. The vampires.
Not a word is spoken.
But the message is clear.
You’ve earned this.
You’ve earned each other.
You’ve earned your peace.
And then—
Kael turns me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “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 coat, 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.