The first thing I feel when the sun rises over the Carpathians is silence.
Not emptiness. Not stillness. Not even peace.
Silence.
It coils low in my chest like smoke, thick and quiet, pressing against the ribs of a heart that no longer has a war to fight. The fortress—carved into the living stone of the mountains, veiled by lunar wards and ancient blood magic—breathes around me, its obsidian halls humming with residual 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 uncertainty.
And for the first time in my life, it’s not about survival.
It’s about what comes after.
I press a hand to the Moonstone Amulet at my throat—its silver disc cool against my skin, the embedded stone pulsing faintly with lunar energy. The sigil on my wrist glows in response, a soft silver pulse, synchronized with the slow, steady beat of my heart. The mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark—burns warm, not with possession, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition. I am not just the heir.
I am the queen.
And he—
He’s not just my king.
He’s not just my mate.
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 thinking,” Kael says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just breathe.
“Not thinking,” I say. “Feeling.”
He steps into the chamber—barefoot, coat flaring behind him like a living thing, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. 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.
“And what are you feeling?” he asks, stopping behind me.
His hands slide up my arms, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrists. I shiver—just once—but don’t pull away. Can’t. Not anymore.
“Future,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just presses a kiss to my shoulder, his fangs grazing the edge of his mark. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. My breath hitches. My body arches. But I don’t pull away. Can’t.
“The Council’s already pushing for another session,” he murmurs. “Fae want the borderlands reopened. Witches are demanding hybrid representation in the Tribunal. Werewolves want hunting rights restored.”
“And you’re telling me this because?” I ask, turning in his arms.
“Because you’re queen,” he says. “And queens don’t get to hide in silence.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say. “I’m… considering.”
“Considering what?”
I press a hand to my stomach—low, just above the hip bones. Not with pain. Not with fear.
With wonder.
“Legacy,” I say.
He stills.
Not with shock. Not with suspicion.
With recognition.
And then—
He drops to one knee.
Not with ceremony. Not with command.
With intention.
His hands frame my hips, his storm-gray eyes locked onto mine. 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.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice breaking.
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
“And if I say no?” I ask.
“Then I’ll wait,” he says. “A thousand years. A million. Until you’re ready.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then I’ll love you anyway,” he says. “Not for what you give me. But for who you are.”
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 then—
A rustle.
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 scroll, sealed with red wax. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Kael.
Just holds it out.
“From the Oracle,” he says. “She says it can’t wait.”
I take it, my fingers trembling. “Then let’s see what she wants.”
—
The scroll is old—parchment cracked with age, ink faded to a deep, blood-red. The Oracle’s handwriting is sharp, angular, each letter carved into the surface like a wound. I don’t need to read it to know what it says.
I can feel it.
In the bond. In the sigil. In the slow, steady beat of my heart.
“What does it say?” Kael asks, standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
“It says,” I say, voice low, “that the bloodline must continue.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just tightens his grip, his thumbs brushing the nape of my neck. “And what do you say?”
I press a hand to my stomach again—low, just above the hip bones. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With hope.
“I say,” I whisper, “that I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of failing them,” I say. “Of being like her. Of repeating the past.”
“You’re not her,” he says. “You’re stronger. Braver. More than she ever was.”
“And if I’m not ready?”
“Then we wait,” he says. “Until you are.”
“And if I never am?”
“Then we live,” he says. “And love. And rule. And that’s enough.”
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 turn in his arms.
My hands slide up his chest, fisting in his tunic, pulling him down. My lips crash onto his—hard, fast, full of fire. The bond sings between us, fire surging, soft and deep. His breath hitches. His body arches. But I don’t pull away. Can’t. Not anymore.
And then—
He lifts me.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With claiming.
My legs wrap around his waist, my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair. His fangs graze my lip—just a whisper of pressure, but I moan, the sound low and raw in my throat. 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.
He carries me to the bed—slow, deliberate—and lowers me onto the sheets. The Moonstone Amulet swings between us, catching the light, casting silver ripples across the stone. He doesn’t let go. Just holds me—close, tight, his—his body pressed against mine, long and hard and unyielding.
“You don’t have to protect me,” I say, leaning into him.
“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to my neck. “But I will. Always.”
“And if I don’t want to be protected?” I ask, nipping his collarbone. “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.
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 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.