I don’t sleep.
Not after the vision. Not after the truth. Not after the way Vaelen held me, how his voice cracked when he said he’d loved me in every lifetime, how his hands trembled as they brushed my tears. The bond hums beneath my skin, no longer a curse, no longer a weapon—but a living thing, pulsing with something I can’t name. Something warm. Something real.
But Valenir is still out there.
And Solene has already won half the war.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my bare feet cold against the stone, the robe slipping off one shoulder. The bite on my other still burns, still thinks, a constant reminder of what I’ve done—what I’ve let him do. I told myself it was the ritual. The Blood Moon. The magic. But the truth is, I didn’t just submit. I participated. I moaned. I clawed his back. I screamed his name. I let him mark me.
And I’d do it again.
The thought terrifies me.
The guards are still outside. Silent. Watchful. But I don’t feel trapped anymore. I feel… ready. Prepared. The satchel of stolen files is hidden beneath the floorboard, untouched, unburned—left for me. Vaelen didn’t take it. Didn’t destroy it. He let me keep it. Let me fight. Let me choose.
And I did.
Not for vengeance.
Not for duty.
For truth.
A knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Dain,” the voice says. “The prince requests your presence in the training hall. There’s been a development.”
My stomach tightens.
“What kind of development?”
“He’ll explain when you arrive.”
I rise, pulling the robe tighter. My magic hums beneath my skin, restless. I tuck the silver dagger into my boot. My lockpick goes back into my hair. I don’t ask for permission. I don’t wait for an escort. I open the door.
Dain stands there, broad-shouldered, expression neutral, but his eyes flick to my shoulder, to the faint outline of the bite beneath the fabric. His jaw tightens.
“He marked you,” he says, voice low.
“It was the ritual,” I say, too quickly. “The bond. It forced us.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps aside. “This way.”
I follow him through the halls, my steps steady, my skin still humming. The castle is alive with tension—whispers ripple through the air, servants move quickly, guards stand at every corner. The failed assassination on Elder Mareth still hangs over us. The Blood Moon Ritual. The bond. The truth. It’s all unraveling.
We turn a corner.
And then—
Music.
Low. Primal. A deep, resonant beat that echoes the pulse of the bond. It pulses through the stone, up my feet, into my chest. The training hall.
Dain stops at the door. “He’s inside. Alone.”
I nod. Push the door open.
The hall is vast—black stone, silver veins, torches burning with blue flame. The air is thick with the scent of iron and sweat and something wild—him. In the center, Vaelen moves like a storm.
He’s not wearing his shirt.
His chest is bare—hard planes of muscle, scars crisscrossing his skin like a map of pain. A jagged line across his collarbone. A slash down his ribs. A cluster of burns across his abdomen, dark and twisted, like something had tried to consume him from within. His back is a tapestry of old wounds—whip marks, claw scars, the faint silver of fae silver burns, each one a story, each one a memory I never knew.
And he’s fighting.
Not against an opponent.
Against the air.
His movements are fluid, lethal—blades in both hands, spinning, slashing, thrusting. He’s fast. Inhumanly fast. Every strike precise. Every step calculated. But there’s something else beneath it—rage. Grief. A hunger that isn’t for blood, but for release.
He doesn’t see me at first.
Not until I step forward, my boot echoing on the stone.
He freezes. Turns.
His eyes glow crimson in the dim light. His fangs are bared. His chest heaves. Sweat glistens on his skin, running down the lines of his scars, catching in the hollow of his throat.
And the bond—
It screams.
Heat floods my body. My skin burns. My core clenches, slick with sudden, unwanted arousal. The mark on my spine flares, a white-hot brand. I stumble back, hit the wall, press my palms to the cold stone.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Dain said you wanted to see me,” I say, voice tight.
“I changed my mind.”
“Too late,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m already here.”
He turns away, tossing the blades onto a rack. “Then watch. If you want to see what your mother did to me.”
My breath stops.
“What?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just runs a hand through his hair, his back still to me. “The scars. The burns. The silver marks. They’re from her trial. From the day she was executed.”
I stare at his back. At the whip marks. At the burns. At the way his muscles tense beneath the scars. “You were there?”
“I was seventeen,” he says, voice low. “A boy. A prince. A pawn. Your mother… she protected me. When my father turned on the fae, when he ordered the purge, she hid me. Kept me alive. Taught me. Trained me. Told me the bond was real. That you were out there. That one day, you’d come back.”
My chest tightens.
“And when she was arrested?” I whisper.
“I fought for her,” he says. “I begged. I pleaded. I offered my life in exchange for hers. But your Council—your people—they didn’t care. They called her a traitor. A liar. A witch who’d corrupted the bloodline.”
He turns to face me, his eyes blazing. “And they made me watch. They strapped me to a chair in the courtroom. Gagged me. And they flogged her. One lash for every charge. Twenty-seven lashes. And with each one, they burned me. Fae silver. They said it was punishment for my loyalty to her. For believing in the bond.”
Tears burn my eyes.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“Of course you didn’t,” he says, stepping closer. “Solene made sure of that. She told you your mother was a traitor. That she’d betrayed the fae. That she’d conspired with vampires. She buried the truth. Buried me.”
“And the burns?” I ask, my voice breaking. “The ones across your stomach?”
He looks down, his fingers brushing the dark scars. “That was after. When they sentenced her to death. I broke free. Tried to stop it. I got to the execution chamber—too late. She was already gone. But I attacked the executioner. A fae noble. He had a dagger forged from pure silver. He stabbed me. Twisted it. Said I deserved to burn for loving a traitor.”
My breath hitches.
“I survived,” he says. “Barely. They left me for dead. But I lived. And I waited. For ten years. For you.”
I stare at him. At the man who kept his promise. At the man who let me hate him to keep me alive. At the man who’s loved me for centuries.
And I see it now.
Not just the scars.
Not just the pain.
The truth.
“You loved her,” I whisper.
“Not like that,” he says. “But she was the only one who ever treated me like a son. Not a weapon. Not a prince. A boy. And when they took her from me, they took everything.”
I step forward. Slowly. Carefully.
My hand rises. Hovers over the scar across his ribs.
“Can I—”
He doesn’t answer.
Just closes his eyes.
I touch him.
My fingers brush the raised line of the scar. It’s hot. Alive. Like it still remembers the pain. My thumb traces it, slow, deliberate. Then to the next—down his side, across his hip. Each scar a story. Each touch a revelation.
And the bond—
It sings.
Not with hunger. Not with need.
With grief.
With truth.
With love.
His breath hitches. His hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his skin. His eyes open, blazing. “You feel it, don’t you? The bond. The way it knows. The way it remembers.”
“I do,” I whisper.
“Then know this,” he says, stepping closer. “I didn’t kill your brother. I didn’t betray your mother. I didn’t break the bond. I’ve spent ten years waiting for you. Fighting for you. Loving you. Even when you hated me.”
My breath hitches.
“And if you still want to destroy me,” he says, voice raw, “then do it. But do it with your eyes open. Not blinded by vengeance. Not driven by lies. By truth.”
I don’t answer.
I just rise onto my toes.
And I kiss him.
Not fierce. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips part beneath mine. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a tidal wave of magic and emotion that throws us both back against the wall.
But this time—
I don’t fight it.
I let it in.
I let him in.
And when we break apart, breathless, trembling, his forehead resting against mine, I whisper the words I never thought I’d say:
“I believe you.”
He closes his eyes, as if the words are a physical pain.
Then he opens them.
And for the first time—
I see it.
Not just hunger.
Not just possession.
Hope.
“Then stay with me,” he says. “Not because of the Council. Not because of the bond. But because you want to.”
I look at him—really look.
At the man who kept his promise.
At the man who let me hate him to keep me alive.
At the man who’s loved me for centuries.
And I know—
This isn’t vengeance.
This isn’t duty.
This is truth.
“I want to,” I whisper.
And the bond—
It sings.
---
Later, we sit by the hearth in his chambers, the fire burning low, the guards still outside. I lean against him, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me. His skin is warm. His scent—midnight and blood and something wild—wraps around me, pulls me under.
“You should rest,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the mark on my spine. “Tomorrow, we confront Valenir. We make him remember. We make him see the truth.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then we fight,” he says. “But not to destroy him. To save him.”
I turn my head, looking up at him. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself rest.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m trapped.
But because I choose to.
Because I want to.
Because—
Despite everything—
Despite the lies, the betrayal, the blood—
I believe him.
And the bond—
It sings.