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 on the balcony—our balcony now, though I still don’t quite believe it—my bare feet silent on the cool stone, my arms braced against the railing. The night is alive. Not with danger. Not with secrets. Not with the hum of old magic or the whisper of traitors. But with *life*. The wind carries the scent of pine and frost, the distant howl of a wolf not in rage, but in song, the soft murmur of witches casting spells for harvest, not war. Below, the fortress stirs—lanterns glowing in the courtyards, laughter rising from the training fields, the faint chime of fae bells in 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.
Kaelen sleeps behind me—still, quiet, unguarded. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not coiled for a fight. Not calculating. Not hiding. Just… *resting*. I didn’t wake him. Didn’t want to. Last night was too much. Too raw. Too real. The way he took control, the way he worshipped me, the way he whispered, *“This is mine,”* like it was a vow, not a demand. Like he wasn’t just taking my body, but my soul.
And I let him.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was *free*.
Free to stop fighting. Free to stop pretending. Free to stop being the weapon my mother forged me into.
Free to be *his*.
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 Blood Codex. Not the weight of the lies I carried for years.
The weight of *him*.
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, Kaelen 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 to be needed.
And I—
I don’t need to be feared.
Not like that.
Not anymore.
I turn back to the chamber—our chamber now, though I still don’t quite believe it. Moonlight spills through the arched windows, painting silver 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. My mother’s handwriting in the margins.
And it’s enough.
He lies in the bed—on his back, one arm flung out, his hair loose, his runes glowing faintly along his spine. He’s not wearing the shirt I left for him. Just the sheet, tangled around his hips, revealing the hard planes of his abdomen, the scar over his heart, the mark on his shoulder.
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 his skin, not to dominate, not to control, but to *feel*. To taste him. To know him. To say, *You’re mine*, not as a threat, but as a promise.
And he didn’t flinch.
He arched into me. Groaned. *“Again.”*
And I did.
Not once.
Twice.
Until he was trembling, until his magic surged, until the moonfire spiraled up his spine and painted the stone in silver flame.
And now—
He 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 he stepped too close. Now, it’s something softer. Deeper. A quiet awe. Because he’s *here*. Not as my enemy. Not as my captor. Not even just as my mate.
He’s here as my equal.
As my partner.
As the man who chose me over duty. Over legacy. Over everything he thought he 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 him. Not to touch him. Just to *be* with him. To feel the rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the hum of the bond beneath my fingertips.
And then—
The moon rises.
Not just any moon.
The *full* moon.
And the bond *screams*.
Not with pain.
With *need*.
Low. Deep. Primal. A current of heat and light that tears 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 him.
I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
Not because of survival.
Because of *him*.
Because of the way he looks at me. The way he touches me. The way he fights for me. The way he *sees* me.
And I’m done waiting for him to take control.
It’s my turn.
But this time—
It’s not just me.
It’s *us*.
He stirs—just slightly. A shift of his shoulders. A soft growl in his throat. His storm-silver eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find me.
“You’re watching me,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“I’m not,” I say, not denying it.
“You are.” He lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “Why?”
“Because I can,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “Because I don’t have to hide it anymore. Because I don’t have to pretend I don’t want you.”
His breath hitches.
Not from shock.
From the truth in my voice. From the way my fingers press against his heartbeat, from the way my body leans into his, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
The full moon hits the window.
And the bond *explodes*.
Not metaphorically.
*Literally*.
The sigils on my spine ignite—silver fire spiraling outward, racing up my arms, through my chest, into my core. Pain—sharp, blinding—tears through me, and I cry out, my body arching, my magic surging in response. The chamber trembles. The goblet shatters. The book bursts into flame.
And Kaelen—
He *roars*.
Not in anger.
In *need*.
His body arches, his claws extend, his fangs bared, his magic flaring in pulses of crimson and silver that paint the stone in light. The bond hums—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 we don’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because we’re done denying.
Done resisting.
Done pretending this is just politics.
This is *us*.
And we’re going to *burn*.
He rolls me onto my back—fast, fierce, *feral*—caging me in, his body a wall of heat and muscle. I don’t resist. Don’t flinch. Just arch into him, my hands sliding up his back, pressing him closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no anything but him. The bond flares—warm, insistent, needing—and the moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
My mouth opens over his, my tongue sliding against his, tasting him like I’m starving. He groans, low and rough, and his hands find my waist, gripping me, holding me, but not pulling. Not pushing. Just *feeling*.
And I let him.
Because this isn’t about dominance.
It’s about surrender.
About trust.
About saying, *I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of us. I’m not afraid of what we are.*
He 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—love. Grief. Hope.
“This isn’t politics,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees, voice rough.
“This isn’t duty.”
“No.”
“This isn’t survival.”
“No.”
“This is *mine*,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “And you’re *mine*.”
His breath stills.
Not from shock.
From the fire in my eyes. From the way my body leans into his, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
We take control.
Together.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
My hands slide down his chest, over the hard planes of his abdomen, to the hem of the sheet. I lift it—slow, deliberate—revealing him, all of him, hard and ready, heat and need and *want*. I press my palm to his stomach, feeling the heat, the strength, the *life* beneath my fingers.
And then—
I lean down.
My lips brush his collarbone.
Then his chest.
Then the scar over his heart.
Each kiss is a claim. A vow. A promise.
And he lets me.
Just lets me.
Until I reach the apex of his thighs.
And then—
I stop.
Just long enough to look at him.
“May I?” I ask, voice low.
He doesn’t speak. Just nods.
And I take that too.
My fingers wrap around him—slow, deliberate—feeling the heat, the pulse, the *life* beneath my fingers. I stroke him—gentle, circular—and he gasps, his body arching, his magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
He rolls me onto my back—fast, fierce, *feral*—caging me in. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, my breast. His hands slide down my sides, over the curve of my hips, to the hem of my tunic. He lifts it—slow, deliberate—revealing me, all of me, pale skin, soft curves, the sigils glowing along my spine. He presses his palm to my stomach, feeling the heat, the strength, the *life* beneath his fingers.
And then—
He leans down.
His lips brush my inner thigh.
Then the apex of my thighs.
Then my clit.
I gasp—low, guttural, *real*—my hands flying to his hair, gripping him, but not pushing, not pulling, just *feeling*.
And he lets me.
Because this is *hers.
And she’s mine.
He takes me deeper—slow, deliberate—his tongue swirling, his lips tight, his breath hot. I arch beneath him, my body trembling, my magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
We come together.
Not separately.
Not one after the other.
But *together*.
He enters me—slow, deliberate—filling me, claiming me, needing me. And I take him—firm, commanding—arching into him, pulling him deeper, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no anything but *us*.
And gods help me, it’s perfect.
We move—slow, deliberate—not fast, not hard, but deep, real, ours. Each thrust is a claim. A vow. A promise.
And we let each other.
Just let each other.
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 his ear.
“This isn’t politics,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees, voice rough.
“This isn’t duty.”
“No.”
“This isn’t survival.”
“No.”
“This is mine,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “And you’re mine.”
His breath stills.
Not from shock.
From the fire in my eyes. From the way my body leans into his, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
We come.
Not with a roar. Not with a snarl.
But deep. Real. Ours.
And we follow—our bodies arching, our magic surging, our cries muffled against each other’s skin—as the moonfire spirals up our spines 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.
He doesn’t speak. Just pulls me close—presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
I whisper—
“Never let go.”
He doesn’t smile. Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
“Never,” he 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.