The war room is silent now—maps glowing faintly, sigils pulsing like slow heartbeats, the air thick with the scent of old magic and older blood. Varn is gone—dragged to the holding cells by Soren, his fate hanging on the truth he’ll spill before dawn. Mira vanished into the night, her lilac perfume fading like a curse half-cast, her threats lingering in the silence between Kaelen and me. But the real enemy isn’t out there.
It’s *in* us.
The tracking spell. Malrik’s blood sigil, embedded in the bond during our forced ceremony, a parasitic thread woven into the very magic that binds us. He can feel us. Track us. *Know* us.
And that means we’re not just fighting for our lives.
We’re fighting for our privacy. Our trust. Our *souls*.
Kaelen stands by the pedestal, his storm-silver eyes fixed on the Blood Codex, his jaw tight, his body coiled. He hasn’t spoken since Mira left. Just paced. Watched. Waited. Like a storm building behind his ribs.
“We need to break it,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is low, rough, but steady. “The sigil. The spell. Before he uses it to turn the Council against us.”
He doesn’t look at me. “And how do you propose we do that? Magic that deep in the bond—it’s not just a curse. It’s *alive*. It’ll fight back.”
“Then we fight harder.” I step forward, my bare feet silent on the stone. “We burn it out. With moonfire. With blood. With—”
“With *you*?” He finally turns, his eyes dark, his voice sharp. “You barely survived the last surge. The bond sickness nearly killed you. And now you want to rip open the magic that keeps you alive?”
“It’s not keeping me alive,” I snap. “It’s *controlling* me. Just like it’s controlling you. Just like Malrik wants.”
“And if we break it and the bond shatters?” he growls. “If we lose what little protection we have? If the Council dissolves the marriage and exiles you?”
“Then I’ll burn the exile papers too.” I step into his space, caging him in. “I didn’t come here to survive, Kaelen. I came here to *burn*.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me, his breath hot against my skin, his body a wall, his presence a cage.
And then—
He cups my face.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. The bond flares—low, steady, *real*—a current of heat and light that runs through my veins, grounding me, anchoring me, reminding me that I’m not alone.
“You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You’re my *equal*. And I won’t let him take that from us.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond hums—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
Soren appears in the doorway, his dark eyes sharp, his posture tense. “There’s a ritual,” he says, stepping inside. “Ancient. Fae. Meant to cleanse corrupted bonds. It’s dangerous. Requires skin-to-skin contact. Breath exchange. Blood.”
I don’t hesitate. “Where?”
“The Moonwell Chamber,” he says. “Beneath the Archives. Only accessible under moonlight. Only works if both parties are willing.”
Kaelen’s jaw clenches. “And if the spell resists?”
“Then it’ll try to kill you,” Soren says, blunt. “Or drive you mad. Or sever the bond completely.”
“And if we don’t do it?” I ask.
“Then Malrik will use it,” Soren says. “To manipulate the Council. To turn the Fang against you. To make you doubt each other.”
“He already has,” I whisper.
Kaelen turns to me. “You don’t doubt me.”
“I don’t *want* to.” I lift my chin. “But I can’t pretend it’s not there. The fear. The doubt. The *control*. I won’t live like this. Not with him inside our bond.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then we do it. Together.”
“Always,” I say.
We descend.
Not through the main corridors. Not past the guards. Through the hidden passages—narrow, slick with frost, lit only by the faint glow of my runes. The air grows colder the deeper we go, thick with the scent of old magic and deeper stone. Soren leads, silent and swift, his daggers drawn, his eyes scanning the shadows. Kaelen follows close behind me, his presence a wall at my back, his heat a cage around me.
And then—
The chamber opens.
Vast. Silent. A cathedral of moonlight, its dome open to the sky, its floor carved from white stone, its center dominated by a pool of silver water—still, reflective, *alive*. Around it, ancient sigils pulse with faint light, etched into the stone in a language I don’t recognize but *feel*—Fae. Old. Sacred.
“The Moonwell,” Soren says, stepping back. “It purifies. But it demands. Be ready.”
I don’t answer. Just step forward, my bare feet silent on the stone, my breath steady, my pulse a slow drum beneath my skin.
Kaelen follows. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “I can go first. Test it.”
“And if it kills you?” I turn. Meet his gaze. “Then I’ll burn the fortress to the ground to avenge you. But I’m not letting you face this alone.”
He doesn’t smile. Just nods. Then, slowly, he begins to undress.
Not seductively. Not slowly.
His war-knife clatters to the floor. His tunic follows, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars of old battles, the faint silver lines of ritual magic. His boots. His belt. His trousers. Until he stands before me—bare, powerful, unrelenting. His storm-silver eyes lock onto mine, dark with something I can’t name—fear, yes, but also *trust*.
“Your turn,” he says, voice low.
I don’t hesitate. Just unfasten the robe, let it fall to the floor. My dagger follows, then my boots, my leggings. Until I stand before him—bare, marked, *alive*. My runes glow along my spine, silver fire spiraling up my back, pulsing with moonfire. His breath hitches. Just slightly. But I hear it.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
“And you’re mine,” I say.
He doesn’t argue. Just steps forward, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Always.”
We step into the pool.
The water is cold—*biting*—but it doesn’t numb. It *awakens*. Every nerve. Every sense. The bond hums beneath my skin, low and steady, but then—
It *twists*.
Not with heat. Not with desire.
With *resistance*.
The tracking spell. Malrik’s sigil. It coils in the bond like a serpent, hissing, fighting, *refusing* to be cleansed.
“It’s fighting,” I gasp, my body tensing. “It’s—”
“Hold on,” Kaelen says, his arms locking around me, pulling me close. “We do this together.”
We sink.
Not deep. Just enough that the water covers our shoulders, our chests, our hearts. Our faces are close—so close—our breath mingling, our eyes locked. The sigils around the pool ignite—silver, pulsing, *alive*—and the water begins to *move*, swirling, rising, wrapping around us like a living thing.
“The ritual requires breath exchange,” Soren says from the edge. “Mouth to mouth. Slow. Deep. Until the spell is purged.”
I don’t look at him. Just at Kaelen. “You ready?”
He nods. “Always.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
His mouth opens over mine, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting me like he’s starving. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his hands sliding up my back, pressing me closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no *anything* but him. The water swirls around us, silver and alive, the sigils pulsing, the bond *screaming*.
And then—
The spell fights back.
Not with pain. Not with fire.
Images flash—Kaelen, standing over Mira, his fangs at her throat, her blood on his lips. Kaelen, signing a blood vow, his hand steady, his eyes cold. Kaelen, whispering promises in the dark, his voice tender, his body warm.
“No,” I gasp, breaking the kiss. “That’s not real. That’s *him*.”
“I know,” he growls, pulling me back. “But it’s in the bond. It’s in *us*.”
“Then we burn it out.” I press my forehead to his. “Together.”
And then—
We kiss again.
Deeper. Slower. *Real*.
Our breaths mingle, our tongues touch, our hearts beat in time. The water rises, swirling around us, the sigils flaring brighter, hotter, *alive*. The spell writhes—fighting, screaming, *breaking*—but we don’t stop. We can’t. The bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*—and the moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light.
And then—
Kaelen groans.
Low. Gutural. *Pained*.
His body tenses. His arms lock around me. His breath hitches.
“Kaelen?” I pull back, my hands flying to his face. “What is it?”
“The spell,” he gasps. “It’s—*tearing*.”
I see it—his storm-silver eyes flicker, darken, *shift*. For a moment, they’re not his. They’re *Malrik’s*. Cold. Calculating. *Victorious*.
“No,” I whisper. “You’re not him. You’re *yours*.”
I press my lips to his—soft, slow, *real*—my hands cradling his face, my magic flaring, the moonfire rising. “You’re not your father. You’re not his weapon. You’re not his legacy. You’re *mine*.”
He shudders. Groans. And then—
His eyes clear.
Storm-silver. Fierce. *His*.
“Brielle—”
“Shh,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to his. “Just breathe. Just *feel* me.”
And then—
We kiss again.
Slow. Deep. *Healing*.
Our breaths mingle, our tongues touch, our hearts beat in time. The water swirls around us, silver and alive, the sigils pulsing, the bond *screaming*. The spell fights—twisting, writhing, *breaking*—but we don’t stop. We can’t. The moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light, flooding into him, through the bond, through our skin, through our blood.
And then—
A *snap*.
Not loud. Not violent.
The bond flares—once, bright, *freezing*—and then—
It’s gone.
Not the bond.
The *spell*.
The tracking sigil. Malrik’s control. The parasitic thread. *Gone*.
I gasp. Stagger back. My hands fly to my chest. My breath hitches.
“Is it—?”
“Gone,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “I can’t feel him. Can’t feel the pull. It’s… *clean*.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From relief. From *freedom*.
And then—
I laugh.
Low. Real. *Unstoppable*.
He stares at me. Then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“And you love it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just pulls me close, his arms locking around me, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re not just my mate,” he says. “You’re my *freedom*.”
My breath hitches.
Not from the cold.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
We stay like that.
Not moving. Not speaking.
The water swirls around us, silver and alive, the sigils pulsing, the moonlight painting our skin in silver flame. The bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, *real*—no longer tainted, no longer controlled, just *ours*.
And then—
Kaelen pulls back, just enough to look at me. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—hope. *Grief*. *Love*.
“You were right,” he says, voice rough. “I’ve been afraid. Afraid to be weak. Afraid to love. Afraid to be anything but what he made me.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Now I’m yours. And if that makes me weak in his eyes—” He smiles. Sharp. Dangerous. “—then let him burn.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his words. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not desperate. Not angry. Not afraid.
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
Because *I* believe *him*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just survival.
Maybe it’s *love*.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the chamber.
From *above*.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
The door creaks open.
Soren steps inside, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on us—on our bare skin, on our tangled bodies, on the way we’re still breathing too fast, too close.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smirk. Just says, “Malrik knows. The tracking spell is gone. He’s calling another emergency session. At dawn.”
I don’t move. Just press my forehead to Kaelen’s. “Then we’ll be there.”
“Together,” he murmurs.
“Always.”