The fortress no longer hums with war. The stone doesn’t crackle with residual magic. The air doesn’t taste of blood and ash. Instead, there’s a quiet—a real one this time. Not the silence of dread, not the stillness before the storm, but the deep, resonant hush of something finally done. The kind that settles into your bones when the last ember of vengeance has burned out, and what remains isn’t emptiness, but space. Space to breathe. Space to feel. Space to be.
I stand at the edge of the balcony—our balcony now, though I still don’t quite believe it—my hands braced on the cold stone, my storm-silver eyes scanning the horizon. Dawn breaks over the Carpathians, painting the sky in soft gold and pale rose, the mist rising from the forest like breath from the earth. Below, the fortress stirs—witches in the courtyards, werewolves training in the fields, fae tending the gardens. No fear. No silence. No dread.
Just peace.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to live with it.
Not because I don’t want it.
Because I do.
With a hunger that scares me.
Brielle sleeps behind me—still, quiet, unguarded. For the first time since I’ve known her, she’s not coiled for a fight. Not calculating. Not hiding. Just… resting. I didn’t wake her. Didn’t want to. Last night was too much. Too raw. Too real. The way she took control, the way she claimed me, the way she whispered, “This is mine,” like it was a vow, not a demand. Like she wasn’t just taking my body, but my soul.
And I let her.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was free.
Free to stop fighting. Free to stop pretending. Free to stop being the monster my father made me.
Free to be hers.
I press my palm to the stone—cold, cracked, lifeless—and feel the weight of it. Not the weight of the fortress. Not the weight of the Alpha mark. Not the weight of the blood on my hands.
The weight of her.
Not a burden.
A gift.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry it.
Soren is gone. Left without a word, just a note weighted down by a dagger. I found it this morning—short, plain, to the point: “The war is over. My duty is done. I’m going to find what’s left of me. Don’t look for me. I’ll return when I’m ready.” And for the first time in decades, I didn’t feel the need to chase him. Didn’t feel the need to command. Didn’t feel the need to protect.
Because he doesn’t need me anymore.
And I—
I don’t need to be needed.
Not like that.
Not anymore.
I turn back to the chamber—our chamber now, though I still don’t quite believe it. Sunlight spills through the arched windows, painting golden stripes across the polished floor. The war-knife is gone from the wall. The maps of the Fang Citadel have been rolled up, stored away. In their place, a low table holds a single silver goblet, a half-empty bottle of wine, and a book—The Histories of the Moonblood Line, its pages worn, its spine cracked. Her mother’s handwriting in the margins.
And it’s enough.
She lies in the bed—on her side, one arm flung out, her hair loose, her runes glowing faintly along her spine. She’s not wearing the silk nightgown I left for her. Just one of my tunics—black, oversized, slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast, the mark on her neck.
My mark.
Not just from the public claiming. Not just from the bond.
From last night.
When I couldn’t stop myself. When I leaned down and sank my fangs into her skin, not to dominate, not to control, but to feel. To taste her. To know her. To say, You’re mine, not as a threat, but as a promise.
And she didn’t flinch.
She arched into me. Moaned. “Again.”
And I did.
Not once.
Twice.
Until she was trembling, until her magic surged, until the moonfire spiraled up her spine and painted the stone in silver flame.
And now—
She sleeps.
And I—
I watch.
Not with suspicion. Not with calculation. Not even with the sharp edge of desire that used to flare every time she stepped too close. Now, it’s something softer. Deeper. A quiet awe. Because she’s here. Not as my enemy. Not as my captive. Not even just as my mate.
She’s here as my equal.
As my partner.
As the woman who chose me over vengeance. Over duty. Over everything she thought she was supposed to be.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to live with that.
But I’m learning.
I cross the chamber—bare feet silent on the stone—and kneel beside the bed. Not to wake her. Not to touch her. Just to be with her. To feel the rhythm of her breath, the warmth of her skin, the hum of the bond beneath my fingertips.
And then—
She stirs.
Just slightly. A shift of her shoulders. A soft sigh. Her winter-sky eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find me.
“You’re watching me,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“I’m not,” I say, not denying it.
“You are.” She lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair from my face, her fingers lingering on my cheek. “Why?”
“Because I can,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “Because I don’t have to hide it anymore. Because I don’t have to pretend I don’t want you.”
She smiles—small, tired, real. “And do you?”
“More than air,” I say, voice rough. “More than blood. More than power.”
Her breath hitches.
Not from shock.
From the truth in my voice. From the way my fingers press against her heartbeat, from the way my body leans into hers, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
She pulls me down.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Just enough to bring my body beside hers, to tangle our legs, to press her back to my chest. I don’t hesitate. Just wrap my arms around her, pull her close, bury my face in her hair, breathe in the scent of moonfire and lilac and her.
“Stay,” she whispers.
“Always,” I murmur.
And then—
The bond flares.
Not with pain. Not with lust.
With need.
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.
And I don’t pull away.
Not this time.
Because I’m done running. Done hiding. Done pretending this is just politics. Done pretending I don’t want her.
I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
Not because of survival.
Because of her.
Because of the way she looks at me. The way she touches me. The way she fights for me. The way she sees me.
And I’m done waiting for her to take control.
It’s my turn.
I roll her onto her back—slow, deliberate—not to dominate, not to claim, but to see her. To watch her. To memorize the curve of her lips, the flutter of her lashes, the rise and fall of her chest.
And then—
I kiss her.
Not soft. Not slow.
My mouth opens over hers, my tongue sliding against hers, tasting her like I’m starving. She gasps, and I take the opening, my hands sliding up her back, pressing her closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no anything but her. The bond flares—warm, insistent, needing—and the moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up her spine, painting the stone in light.
And then—
I pull back.
Just enough to look at her. Her winter-sky eyes are dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—love. Grief. Hope.
“You don’t have to do this,” I murmur. “Not if you’re not ready.”
“I am,” she says, voice rough. “I just didn’t know it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like surrender,” she whispers. “Like letting go.”
“You’re not surrendering,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “You’re trusting. You’re healing. You’re living.”
Her breath stills.
Not from shock.
From the truth in my voice. From the way my fingers press against her heartbeat, from the way my body leans into hers, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
I take control.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
My hands slide down her sides, over the curve of her hips, to the hem of my tunic she’s wearing. I lift it—slow, deliberate—revealing her, all of her, pale skin, soft curves, the sigils glowing along her spine. I press my palm to her stomach, feeling the heat, the strength, the life beneath my fingers.
And then—
I lean down.
My lips brush her collarbone.
Then her chest.
Then the scar over her heart—the one from the blade meant for me, the one that nearly killed her, the one that nearly broke the bond.
I kiss it.
Not to erase it.
But to honor it.
To say, You fought for me. You saved me. You’re stronger than I ever was.
And she lets me.
Just lets me.
Until I reach the apex of her thighs.
And then—
I stop.
Just long enough to look at her.
“May I?” I ask, voice low.
She doesn’t speak. Just nods.
And I take that too.
My fingers part her—slow, deliberate—revealing her, wet and ready, heat and need and want. I press my thumb to her clit—gentle, circular—and she gasps, her body arching, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I lean down.
My tongue swirls—slow, deliberate—tasting her, claiming her, needing her. She moans—low, guttural, real—her hands flying to my hair, gripping me, but not pushing, not pulling, just feeling.
And I let her.
Because this is hers.
And she’s mine.
I take her deeper—slow, deliberate—my tongue swirling, my lips tight, my breath hot. She arches beneath me, her body trembling, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I pull back.
Just enough to watch her.
Her winter-sky eyes are dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—love. Grief. Hope.
“Again,” she whispers.
And I do.
Not fast. Not hard.
Deliberate. Controlled.
Each movement is a claim. A vow. A promise.
And she lets me.
Just lets me.
Until she comes—soft, quiet, real—her body arching, her cry muffled against the pillow, her magic surging, the moonfire spiraling up her spine and painting the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I crawl up her body—slow, deliberate—pressing kisses to her stomach, her chest, her neck, until I reach her lips.
“You’re magnificent,” I murmur.
She doesn’t smile. Just presses her forehead to mine, her breath mingling with mine, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I enter her.
Not roughly. Not violently.
But firm. Deliberate. Commanding.
I lower myself—slow, deliberate—until I’m inside her, filling her, claiming her, needing her.
And gods help me, it’s perfect.
She doesn’t move. Just watches me—her winter-sky eyes dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—love. Grief. Hope.
And then—
I move.
Not fast. Not hard.
Deliberate. Controlled.
Each thrust is a claim. A vow. A promise.
And she lets me.
Just lets me.
Until the bond flares—low, steady, real—a current of heat and light that runs through our veins, grounding us, anchoring us, reminding us that we’re not alone.
And then—
I lean down.
My lips brush her ear.
“This isn’t politics,” I whisper.
“No,” she agrees, voice rough.
“This isn’t duty.”
“No.”
“This isn’t survival.”
“No.”
“This is mine,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers. “And you’re mine.”
Her breath stills.
Not from shock.
From the fire in my eyes. From the way my body leans into hers, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
I come.
Not with a roar. Not with a snarl.
But deep. Real. Ours.
And she follows—her body arching, her magic surging, her cry muffled against my neck—as the moonfire spirals up her spine and paints the stone in silver flame.
And then—
Stillness.
Not empty.
Alive.
And in it—
Us.
Not as enemies.
Not as captor and captive.
Not as mates bound by duty.
As lovers.
As equals.
As fire.
And just like that, the world tilts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
Because I believe me.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just survival.
Maybe it’s love.
She doesn’t speak. Just pulls me close—presses her forehead to mine, her breath mingling with mine, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I whisper—
“I love you.”
She doesn’t smile. Just presses her forehead to mine, her breath mingling with mine, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
“Took you long enough,” she murmurs.
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
Because we believe us.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just survival.
Maybe it’s forever.
And as the first light of dawn breaks over the fortress, as the scent of lilac fades into smoke, as the whispers of traitors turn to ash—I know one thing for certain.
Malrik thinks he can control us.
He thinks he can break us.
He thinks he can win.
But he’s already lost.
Because we’re not just fated.
We’re fire.
And fire doesn’t obey.
It consumes.