The first thing I feel when I wake is his hand on my thigh.
Not a dream. Not a memory. *Real.* Warm, heavy, possessive. His fingers splayed just above my knee, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of my trousers, branding me like a brand. My breath catches. My pulse roars. Every nerve ending screams with the weight of his touch, with the scent of him—cold stone and storm and something darker, deeper—wrapping around me like smoke.
I don’t move.
I don’t open my eyes.
I just lie there, frozen, my body a battlefield of instinct and will. My wolf snarls beneath my skin, claws scraping against bone, desperate to shift, to bite, to *claim* in return. My magic hums in my veins, the sigil on my wrist pulsing faintly, reacting to his proximity. And my heart—gods, my *heart*—it hammers like it’s trying to break free, like it already knows the truth I’ve been fighting for weeks.
I want this.
I want him.
I force my eyes open.
The chamber is dim, lit only by the faint glow of dying embers in the hearth. The runes on the walls have faded, their pulse slow and steady now that the lunar storm has passed. Dawn is breaking outside, a pale silver light bleeding through the arched windows, painting the stone floor in fractured hues. The air is still, quiet—no more thunder, no more magic crackling in the dark. Just silence. And him.
Kael.
He’s beside me on the bed, stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on my thigh. His coat is gone. His boots are off. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the scar on his forearm—the one I gave him twenty years ago. His storm-gray eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even. He looks… peaceful. Like a man who’s finally stopped fighting.
And I—
I’m half-naked.
My shirt is gone. My trousers are unbuttoned. My skin is bare from the waist up, marked not just by the sigil on my wrist, but by *him*—by the faint scratches on my ribs, the bruise on my hip, the twin punctures on my shoulder, dark and perfect and *glowing*.
His mark.
I press a hand to it—just a brush of my fingertips—and a jolt of heat surges through me, sharp and bright. Not pain. Not pleasure. *Recognition.* It’s not just a wound. It’s a memory. A claim. A vow written in blood and venom.
And I don’t remember giving it.
I remember the storm. The fever. The way my body screamed for him when he touched me. I remember his mouth on mine, his fangs on my lip, the way I bit him back, hard enough to draw blood. I remember grinding against him, moaning into his mouth, my hands tearing at his clothes, my body arching into his touch like a starving thing.
But after that—
Darkness.
Nothing.
Just the echo of a scream—mine or his, I don’t know—and then… this.
Me. Half-naked. His hand on my thigh. His mark on my skin.
And no memory of saying *yes*.
My breath comes in shallow gasps. My vision blurs at the edges. I press a hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself, but the bond hums beneath my skin, low and insistent, a second heartbeat that syncs with his. I can feel him—his pulse, his warmth, his *presence*—like a missing limb suddenly remembered.
This isn’t just proximity.
This isn’t just magic.
This is *intimacy*. Raw. Unfiltered. *Unforgivable*.
I didn’t consent.
I didn’t—
“You’re awake.”
His voice is low, rough with sleep. I flinch, my body tensing, but I don’t pull away. Can’t. Not with his hand still on me, not with the bond screaming between us.
He opens his eyes.
Storm-gray. Endless. Watching me.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, not moving. Not removing his hand.
“Like I’m something you’ve already won.”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me—my bare skin, the mark on my shoulder, the way my fingers tremble where they press against the punctures.
“You don’t remember,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“No,” I say, too loud. “I don’t remember *any* of it. I don’t remember letting you—” I gesture at the mark “—I don’t remember *this*.”
“You didn’t let me,” he says, voice calm. “I took it. To save your life.”
“And the rest?” I demand. “The rest of *this*?” I tug at my unbuttoned trousers, my exposed skin. “Did you take that, too?”
He sits up slowly, his hand sliding from my thigh, leaving a cold void in its wake. “No,” he says. “We kissed. We touched. You bit me. You collapsed. That’s all.”
“Then why am I half-naked?”
“Because you were burning,” he says. “Fever. The storm. I had to cool you down. I didn’t—” He stops, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t touch you beyond that. Not like you’re thinking.”
I want to believe him.
I *need* to believe him.
But the bond hums. The mark burns. And the truth—sharp, terrible, inescapable—is this:
I don’t know what happened.
I don’t know what I did.
And the worst part?
Part of me *likes* it.
“Get out,” I say, sitting up, yanking my shirt from the floor and pulling it on. My hands tremble. My breath hitches. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to *feel* you.”
“Too bad,” he says, standing. “The bond doesn’t care what you want.”
“Then break it,” I snap. “Find a way. Rip it out. I don’t care if it kills me. I’d rather die than live like this.”
He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the door. “And what about me?” he asks, voice low. “Do you think I’d survive that? Do you think I’d want to?”
“I don’t care,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Liar,” he says. “Your body cares. Your sigil cares. And the bond?” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the edge of the mark. “It knows the truth.”
Fire surges through me—bright, molten, *alive*. I gasp, stumbling back, but the wave of sensation follows me—his touch, his warmth, his *need* flooding into me like a tide. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And the sigil beneath my sleeve—glowing so brightly it burns—proves I’m lying to myself.
“Don’t touch me,” I choke.
“Then stop reacting,” he says, not unkindly. “Stop pretending you don’t want this. Stop pretending you don’t *need* me.”
“I don’t need you,” I say, backing toward the door. “I don’t want you. I *hate* you.”
“Then why,” he says, stepping closer, “does your body arch into my touch? Why does your breath hitch when I say your name? Why does your sigil *burn* for me?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You took that from me,” I say, pressing a hand to the mark. “You took my choice. My revenge. My *anger*. And now—” My voice breaks. “Now I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” he says, stepping closer. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. Mate to a king. And the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say that. Don’t try to rewrite history. You let them call her a traitor. You let me believe you killed her. You—”
“And I’d do it again,” he says, cutting me off. “A thousand times. A million. I’d rather be hated by you than lose you to death.”
I want to scream. I want to shift and tear the room apart. I want to sink my teeth into his throat and taste the lie on his tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the bond thrums between us, steady and unrelenting. And because, despite everything, a part of me *believes* him.
Not the words. Not the story. But the raw, aching grief in his voice. The way his fingers trembled when he touched my hand. The way his eyes darkened not with hunger, but with something deeper. Something like *recognition*.
“I need space,” I say, voice tight. “I need to think.”
“There is no space,” he says. “Not from me. Not anymore.”
“Then I’ll make it.”
I turn and yank the door open, stepping into the corridor before he can stop me. The guards outside—Torin and another vampire—exchange glances but don’t move. They know better than to interfere.
I don’t look back.
I just walk.
Fast. Hard. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around me—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. My skin still burns. My blood still sings. The mark on my shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, a constant, insistent reminder of what I’ve lost. Not just my choice. Not just my revenge.
My *control*.
I came here to destroy him.
But the man I thought I hated?
He’s the only one who’s ever tried to save me.
And the woman I thought I was?
She’s already falling for him.
The worst part?
I don’t want to stop.
I don’t go to the Archives. Don’t go to the Council chamber. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
I go to the gardens.
Hidden deep within the fortress, beneath a glass dome that filters the morning light, the Midnight Garden is a sanctuary of black roses, silver vines, and moon-blooming lilies that glow faintly in the dark. The air is thick with their scent—sweet, intoxicating, *dangerous*—and the silence is broken only by the soft trickle of a stone fountain at the center.
I collapse onto a bench, pressing my palms to my eyes.
What now?
Do I keep fighting? Keep digging for proof that he’s a liar, that he’s the monster I thought he was?
Or do I let go?
Let go of the anger. The vengeance. The hatred.
Let go of the woman I thought I was.
And become someone new?
“You look like hell.”
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
Rhys.
My brother.
Thought dead for twenty years. Reunited only days ago. And now—here, in the garden, watching me with golden wolf-eyes that see too much.
“You always did have a way with words,” I mutter, not looking at him.
He sits beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t.”
“Your scent says otherwise.”
I exhale, sharp and broken. “I don’t know what to do, Rhys.”
“About Kael?”
“About *everything*,” I say. “I came here to destroy him. To expose him. To take back what’s mine. But now—” I press a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t know if I even *want* it back.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “You love him.”
“No,” I snap. “I *hate* him.”
“Liar,” he says, echoing Kael. “Your scent says otherwise. You’re aroused. Grieving. Confused. But not hate. Never hate.”
“Then what is it?” I whisper. “What am I feeling?”
“The truth,” he says. “The truth you’ve been running from since you were a child. That the man you thought was your enemy… is the only one who ever tried to save you.”
“He let them call her a traitor,” I say, my voice breaking. “He let me believe he killed her.”
“And if he hadn’t,” Rhys says, “they would have killed you. The Tribunal was coming. They knew about the bond. They knew you were the heir. Kael took the blame so you could live.”
“You knew?” I ask, turning to him. “All this time—you knew?”
“I suspected,” he says. “But I couldn’t prove it. Not until now.”
“And you’re just telling me *now*?”
“Because you weren’t ready,” he says. “You needed to see it for yourself. To feel it. To *know* it.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Then believe this,” he says. “The sigil doesn’t lie. The bond doesn’t lie. And your body?” He gestures at the mark. “It knows the truth. Even if your mind won’t accept it.”
I don’t answer.
Just sit there, my brother’s words echoing in the silence.
And then—
A memory.
Not from the storm.
Not from last night.
From *before*.
A forest bathed in moonlight. A boy with storm-gray eyes, reaching for me. *“You’re safe,”* he whispers. *“I’ll always keep you safe.”*
A hand in mine, small and warm. Laughter. A promise.
Then—blood. So much blood. My mother, falling. Kael’s face twisted in grief, not triumph. His voice, raw: *“I tried to stop it. I tried—”*
The blade. The whisper. *“For the peace of all realms.”*
And me—twelve years old, screaming, running—
“If I die, you die too!”
I cut him. With a child’s dagger. A blood pact.
And he *promised*.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “He wasn’t the monster. I was.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. “You were a child.”
“No,” I say. “I accused him. I hated him. I came here to destroy him. And all this time—” My voice breaks. “All this time, he was the one who saved me.”
“And now?” Rhys asks.
I look down at the mark on my shoulder. At the sigil on my wrist, glowing faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
And I know—
There’s no going back.
Not from this.
Not from *him*.
“Now,” I say, standing, “I have to face him.”
“And say what?” Rhys asks.
“The truth,” I say. “That I was wrong. That I’ve been wrong for twenty years. That I came here to destroy him—” I press a hand to the mark “—and instead, he destroyed me.”
Rhys stands, his golden eyes watching me. “And what if he doesn’t forgive you?”
“Then I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of him,” I say. “Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I didn’t come here to burn his empire to the ground.
I came here to find the man who saved my life.
And I think… I think I’ve been in love with him since I was a child.
I turn and walk back toward the chambers, my brother’s words echoing behind me.
And the worst part?
I liked it.