The wound on my lip still burned.
Not from pain—no, the vampire in me had already begun to knit the flesh back together, the split skin sealing with the slow, silent precision of ancient magic. But the *memory* of it—Avalon’s fangs sinking into my lower lip, drawing blood, feeding from me in a kiss that was more fight than surrender—lingered like a brand.
It had been days since the gala, since the torn dress, since the claiming sigil had flared to life on her hip. Since Mira’s note—*“You’re not the only one who’s tasted his blood.”*—had ignited the bond into a wildfire of jealousy and desire. Since Silas had interrupted us in the corridor, his golden wolf eyes wide, his voice cutting through the heat like a blade.
And since Avalon had walked into the moon garden and kissed me.
Not angry. Not desperate.
But true.
I could still feel it—the softness of her lips, the warmth of her palm against my cheek, the way her breath had hitched when I didn’t pull away. The bond had flared, not with fire, but with something deeper. Something whole.
And then she’d left.
Vanished into the shadows of the Court, avoiding me, avoiding the Council, avoiding the truth we both knew was coming.
She hadn’t returned to my chambers.
I’d let her go.
Not because I didn’t want her.
But because I did.
The bond demanded proximity. It fed on conflict, on tension, on the electric space between us. But this—this quiet, this distance, this choice—was something new. Something dangerous.
And I couldn’t afford to lose her.
Not now.
Not when Vexis was circling. Not when the Council’s patience was wearing thin. Not when the claiming sigil on her hip—whether forged or real—had already marked her as mine in the eyes of the Court.
So I waited.
I let her breathe. Let her think. Let her decide.
And when the report came—“A rogue witch attacked in the lower corridors. Minor injuries. But the attacker left a curse.”—I knew it wasn’t random.
It was a message.
And it was meant for her.
I found her in the East Wing, in the small, sunlit chamber they’d assigned her after the gala. The room was modest compared to my own—black silk drapes, a four-poster bed with silver-threaded sheets, a vanity carved from bone-white stone—but it was hers. Her scent filled the air—moon-bloom and iron and something wild—laced now with the faint, acrid tang of magic. A curse.
She stood by the window, her back to me, her dark waves spilling over one shoulder. Her left arm was wrapped in a bandage, the fabric stained with blood. Her dagger lay on the vanity, its edge dark with residue. She hadn’t seen me yet. Hadn’t heard me. But the bond flared—hot, immediate—when I stepped into the room, and she tensed.
“You don’t knock,” she said, not turning.
“I don’t need to,” I replied, closing the door behind me. “You’re under my protection. My claim. My responsibility.”
She turned then, her silver-lavender eyes sharp, her jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask for your protection.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “But you’re getting it anyway.”
Her breath hitched as I reached for her arm, my fingers brushing the edge of the bandage. The bond flared—hot, insistent—but I ignored it. Focused on the wound. The curse.
“Let me see it.”
She didn’t pull away. Just stood there, rigid, as I unwrapped the bandage. The cut was deep—a jagged gash from elbow to wrist, the edges already turning a sickly green. A witch’s curse. Designed to fester. To weaken. To humiliate.
And to send a message.
“They know you’re vulnerable,” I said, my voice low. “They know you’ve been avoiding me. They know you’re not sleeping in my chambers.”
“And you care because?”
“Because if you die,” I said, meeting her gaze, “I die with you. The bond won’t allow otherwise.”
She flinched. Not from pain. From truth.
“Then let it,” she whispered. “Let the bond kill you. You’re no better than the monsters who executed my mother.”
“And yet,” I said, reaching into my coat, “you didn’t kill me when you had the chance.”
I pulled out a vial of dark liquid—witch’s balm, laced with moonlight and sacred iron. “This will neutralize the curse. But it will hurt.”
She didn’t take it. Just stared at me, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m selfish,” I said. “Because I want you alive. Because I want you mine.”
Her breath caught.
But she didn’t argue. Just held out her arm.
I poured the balm over the wound.
She gasped—sharp, pained—as the liquid seared into the flesh, eating away at the curse like acid. Her fingers clenched into fists, her body trembling, but she didn’t pull away. Didn’t scream. Just stood there, enduring, her eyes locked on mine.
And gods help me, I wanted to kiss her.
Not to claim. Not to dominate.
But to comfort.
When the balm had done its work, I reached for the clean bandage on the vanity. But her hand stopped me.
“I can do it.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t. The sigil on your palm—it’s reacting to the curse.”
She looked down.
And there it was.
The scar across her left palm—the mark of the Blood Oath—was glowing. A faint, pulsing red, like embers beneath the skin. It hadn’t done that since the night of the storm. Since the night she’d first felt the bond wake something in her blood.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s not just a scar. It’s a key. A conduit. And the curse—” I traced the edge of the wound with my thumb, “—it’s trying to open it.”
She shivered.
But didn’t pull away.
I wrapped the bandage around her arm, my fingers brushing her skin, the bond flaring with every touch. Her breath hitched. My fangs ached. The air between us shimmered with magic.
“There,” I said, securing the wrap. “It’ll heal. The curse is broken.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at her palm, at the fading glow, her expression unreadable.
“You should return to my chambers,” I said. “It’s safer. Better guarded.”
“And more controlled,” she said. “More yours.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But it’s also where the bond is strongest. Where it can protect you.”
“Or trap me.”
“Only if you let it.”
She looked up, her eyes searching mine. “You really believe that, don’t you? That the bond is something… good?”
“I believe it’s real,” I said. “Not just magic. Not just fate. But us.”
She didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze, her breath unsteady. “And if I don’t want it to be?”
“Then you’ll suffer,” I said. “Distance causes fever. Denial causes pain. And if you die—”
“—you die with me,” she finished. “I know.”
“Then why keep fighting it?”
“Because I don’t want to be weak,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be like her.”
“Like your mother?”
She nodded, her eyes glistening. “She loved a vampire. She trusted him. And he got her killed.”
“I’m not him,” I said, my voice low. “And you’re not her.”
“Aren’t I?”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, my hand brushing her cheek. “You’re fiercer. Stronger. You don’t just love—you fight. You don’t just trust—you choose.”
Her breath hitched.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not to push. Not to fight.
To touch.
Her hand cupped my face, her thumb brushing the spot where her fangs had broken my skin. The bond flared—hot, undeniable. My breath caught. My eyes fluttered shut.
“You let me bite you,” she said. “You let me taste your blood. You let me—”
“—claim me,” I finished. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t punish me.”
“Because you didn’t betray me,” I said. “You fought me. You challenged me. And in that moment, you were mine.”
She didn’t answer. Just leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath mingling with mine. The bond hummed between us, not with fire, but with something deeper. Something quiet.
And then—
“Kael.”
Her voice was soft. Vulnerable.
“Yes?”
“Stay.”
I didn’t move. Just stood there, my hand still on her cheek, the bond pulsing like a second heartbeat. “You’re asking me to stay.”
“I’m not asking,” she said. “I’m telling you.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll make you regret it,” she said, her voice rough. “Every damn day.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, I reached for the dagger on the vanity, sliding it into the hidden sheath beneath her gown. “You’ll need this. The Court is full of enemies.”
“And you?”
“I’m the biggest one,” I said. “But I’m also the only one who’ll keep you alive.”
She didn’t argue. Just nodded, her hand slipping into mine.
The bond screamed.
Fire ripped through my veins, magic surging between us, lighting the sigils on the floor until the entire room blazed with silver light. She gasped, her fingers tightening around mine, her body pressing closer.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
I let it in.
I led her back to my chambers, our steps in sync, our hands still joined. The guards opened the door, then stepped back, their eyes down. The room was warm, the hearth lit with cold blue flames, the balcony doors open to the night. The bed was untouched, the sheets cool, the air thick with the scent of dark wine and winter pine.
And her.
She didn’t speak. Just walked to the vanity, setting down the ledger, the dagger, the vial of balm. Then she turned, her silver-lavender eyes locked on mine.
“I’m not your prisoner,” she said.
“No,” I agreed. “You’re my fated mate.”
“And I’m not your weapon.”
“No,” I said. “You’re my equal.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Let me heal you.”
I stilled. “I’m not wounded.”
“Your lip,” she said. “It’s not fully healed. I can feel it in the bond.”
“It’ll close on its own.”
“But it hasn’t,” she said. “And I know why.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re waiting,” she said. “Waiting for me to do it. Waiting for me to touch you.”
My breath caught.
She was right.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not to fight.
Not to claim.
To heal.
Her fingers brushed my lower lip, gentle, deliberate. The bond flared—hot, undeniable—but she didn’t stop. Just traced the edge of the wound with her thumb, her touch feather-light, her breath unsteady.
And then—
She pressed her palm to the mark on my chest.
The one that mirrored hers. The one that had appeared the night of the ritual, glowing faintly beneath my shirt.
The bond exploded.
Fire ripped through my veins, magic surging between us, lighting the sigils on the floor until the entire room blazed with silver light. She gasped, her fingers tightening on my chest, her body pressing closer.
And for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
I let her in.
Her other hand cupped my face, her thumb brushing my cheekbone. The bond hummed—hot, alive, whole—and I knew, with a certainty that stole my breath:
This wasn’t just about survival.
It wasn’t just about power.
It was about her.
And I was already lost.
When she finally stepped back, her eyes were wide, her breath unsteady, her lips slightly parted. The mark on her collarbone pulsed, warm and alive.
“You healed me,” I said, my voice rough.
“No,” she whispered. “I healed us.”
And for the first time, I believed her.