The first thing I feel when she collapses is terror.
Not the cold, distant kind—the kind that lives in strategy rooms and war councils. No, this is raw. Visceral. A blade to the throat, a fire in the blood. Jasmine goes limp in my arms, her body folding like a broken wing, and for one heart-stopping second, I think I’ve killed her.
But no.
It’s the storm. The bond. The lunar energy surging through her veins, too much, too fast. Her scent shifts—storm and jasmine and something darker, sweeter—and her pulse flutters beneath my fingers like a trapped bird. Her skin burns, fever-hot, and the sigil on her wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone.
I lower her to the bed, my hands steady even as my heart hammers. The chamber is sealed. No one can enter. No one can help. It’s just us. Just the storm. Just the magic that refuses to let her go.
And me.
“Jasmine,” I say, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flutter open—hazy, unfocused. “Kael…?”
“I’m here,” I say, voice low. “You’re safe.”
She tries to sit up, but her arms tremble. I press a hand to her shoulder, gently holding her down. “Don’t move. The storm’s still rising. Your body can’t handle it alone.”
“I don’t need you,” she whispers, but her voice wavers. “I don’t want your help.”
“Too bad,” I say, rolling up my sleeve. “Because you’re getting it.”
She watches me, breath shallow, as I press my palm to the rune-carved stone beside the hearth. The ancient magic responds—pulsing, humming—and the chamber’s wards shift, opening a narrow channel for stabilization. It’s risky. Dangerous. But if I don’t act now, the bond will fracture. And if the bond fractures—
She dies.
And so do I.
I don’t hesitate.
My fangs extend, sharp and true, and I drag the tip across my palm, just deep enough to draw blood. Dark crimson wells—thick, potent, laced with centuries of power. I press my hand to hers, letting our blood mingle, and the bond *roars* to life.
Fire surges between us—bright, molten, *alive*. Her breath hitches. Her back arches. The sigil on her wrist flares, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and I feel it—her pain, her fear, her *need*—flooding into me like a tide.
“You’re fighting it,” I say, voice rough. “Stop. Let it in. Let *me* in.”
“No,” she gasps. “I won’t—”
“You will,” I say. “Because if you don’t, you’ll die. And I’m not losing you. Not like this. Not *ever*.”
I lean down, my lips brushing her neck—just a whisper of contact, but her breath catches, her body trembling beneath mine. “This will hurt,” I murmur. “But it’s the only way.”
She turns her head, exposing her throat—whether in surrender or defiance, I don’t know. Maybe both.
And then—
I bite.
Not deep. Not to drain. But to *mark*.
My fangs sink into the soft curve of her shoulder, just above her collarbone, and I taste her—storm and fire and something ancient, something *mine*. Blood wells, rich and warm, and I swallow once, sealing the bond, channeling my strength into her.
She cries out—sharp, broken—but doesn’t pull away. Her fingers dig into my arms, her body arching into the pain, into the *connection*. The magic surges, brighter, hotter, and I feel it—the bond stabilizing, the fever receding, the storm inside her beginning to still.
When I pull back, her skin is already healing, but the mark remains—a perfect crescent of twin punctures, dark with my venom, glowing faintly with the bond’s energy.
My mark.
On her skin.
On her soul.
She stares at it, dazed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Then slowly, deliberately, she sits up.
And slaps me.
Hard.
The crack echoes through the chamber, sharp and final. My head snaps to the side, but I don’t react. Don’t defend. Just let it happen.
“You *took* that from me,” she hisses, her voice trembling with rage. “You had no right. No *right*.”
I turn back to her, my cheek burning. “I saved your life.”
“You *stole* it,” she says, shoving me back. “That mark—it’s not just magic. It’s *yours*. It means you *claim* me. That I belong to you.”
“You *do*,” I say, not flinching. “You always have.”
“I *hate* you,” she says, her eyes blazing. “I came here to destroy you. To expose you. To burn your empire to ash. And you—” She gestures at the mark, her hand shaking. “You *dared* to touch me like this?”
“I didn’t dare,” I say, standing. “I *had* to. The bond was fracturing. You were dying. I did what I had to do to keep you alive.”
“And what if I didn’t want to be saved?” she snaps. “What if I’d rather die than carry your mark?”
“Then you should’ve said that before you collapsed in my arms,” I say, voice low. “Before your body screamed for me. Before you bit my lip and moaned my name.”
She freezes.
And for the first time, I see it—doubt. Not in the bond. Not in the magic.
In *her*.
“You don’t get to twist this,” she says, but her voice wavers. “You don’t get to pretend this was about *me*. This was about control. About *possession*.”
“It was about survival,” I say. “Yours. Mine. The treaty. The peace. Everything we’ve been fighting for—gone if you’d died tonight.”
She looks down at the mark, her fingers brushing the edge of it. “It burns,” she whispers.
“Because it’s real,” I say. “Because it’s *us*. You can hate me all you want, Jasmine. You can rage, you can fight, you can try to kill me tomorrow—but you can’t deny what this is. What *we* are.”
“We are *nothing*,” she says, standing, her legs still unsteady. “You’re the man who let my mother die. Who let them call her a traitor. Who erased me. And now you think a *bite* fixes that?”
“No,” I say. “But it proves I’d rather die than lose you.”
She turns away, pacing to the hearth. The fire casts shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth. She’s beautiful when she’s furious. Beautiful when she’s broken. Beautiful when she hates me.
And gods, I love her.
“They’ll see it,” she says, voice hollow. “The Council. Lysandra. Malrik. They’ll see this mark and say I’ve been claimed. That I’ve given in. That I’m no longer a threat.”
“Or they’ll see it and know the truth,” I say. “That you’re not just the lost heir. That you’re *mine*. That no one touches you without consequences.”
“I’m not your weapon,” she says, turning. “I’m not your prize. I’m not some damn *trophy* to be won.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “You’re the woman who cuts me with a child’s dagger and says, *‘If I die, you die too.’* You’re the one who came here to destroy me. The one who fights, who rages, who *lives*. You’re not a prize. You’re a storm. And I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.”
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her breath unsteady. “You don’t get to say that,” she whispers. “You don’t get to rewrite history. You don’t get to make yourself the hero.”
“I’m not the hero,” I say. “I’m the villain you can’t kill. The monster who loves you anyway.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns, her hands trembling, and begins to unbutton her shirt.
I freeze.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see it,” she says, her voice tight. “All of it.”
She pulls the fabric aside, baring her shoulder, and the mark stands out against her pale skin—dark, perfect, *mine*. It pulses faintly, in time with the bond, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the *truth* of it.
She stares at it, her expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, she traces the edge of it with her fingertip.
And shivers.
Not from pain.
From *recognition*.
“It’s not just a mark,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a *memory*. I can feel it—your blood in mine. Your voice in my head. Your hands on me.”
“Because it’s real,” I say. “Because we’re real.”
She looks up at me, her eyes glistening. “And what if I don’t want it to be?”
“Then you’re lying,” I say. “And your body knows it.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just buttons her shirt, turns, and walks to the far side of the chamber, putting as much distance between us as the room allows.
“Don’t touch me again,” she says, not looking back. “Not like that. Not ever.”
I don’t promise.
Because I can’t.
The storm rages on outside, the runes pulsing, the fire burning low. The bond hums between us—steady, unrelenting, *alive*. And I know, with a certainty that cuts deeper than any blade:
She can hate me.
She can fight me.
She can try to destroy me.
But she’ll never stop wanting me.
And I’ll never stop loving her.
Not in this life.
Not in any.
Hours pass.
The storm peaks, then begins to wane. The runes dim. The fire settles. Jasmine stays on the far side of the chamber, her back to me, her breathing slow and even. I don’t sleep. Can’t. Not with her so close, so *mine*, and yet so far.
At dawn, the door unlocks.
The Oracle enters, flanked by guards. Her milky eyes sweep over us—lingering on the mark on Jasmine’s shoulder—before she speaks.
“The storm has passed,” she says. “The bond is stable.”
“And the treaty?” I ask.
“Holds,” she says. “For now.”
She turns to Jasmine. “You will return to your duties. The Council will expect a report on the Fae alliance.”
Jasmine nods, not looking at me. “I’ll prepare it.”
“And the mark?” the Oracle asks.
“It stays,” I say, stepping forward. “It’s part of the bond. Part of *her*.”
The Oracle studies me, then Jasmine. “Then let it be known—the fated mark has been sealed. The heir is claimed. The alliance stands.”
She turns and leaves.
The guards follow.
And then—
It’s just us again.
Jasmine doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, her shoulders tense, her hands clenched at her sides.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I say, voice low. “You don’t have to forgive me. But know this—I’d do it again. A thousand times. A million. I’d rather be hated by you than lose you to death.”
She turns, slowly, and for the first time, I see it—
Not rage.
Not hatred.
But *grief*.
“You took that from me,” she says, voice breaking. “You took my choice. My revenge. My *anger*. And now—” She presses a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” I say. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. Mate to a king. And the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine—just a whisper of contact, but fire erupts beneath my skin.
And then she’s gone.
I don’t follow.
Because I know—
She can run.
She can fight.
She can try to hate me.
But the mark remains.
And so does the truth.
She’s mine.
And I’ll spend every day proving she’s mine back.
Even if it kills me.