I don’t sleep.
Not after the cohabitation decree. Not after the way he looked at me—like I was the only truth in a world of lies, like I was the fire that kept him alive, like I was already his. The fire has burned low again, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor, the same shadows that have watched me rage, weep, kiss him, and finally—choose him. His arm is still around me, heavy and warm, his chest a solid wall against my back. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, strong, alive—and the rhythm of his breath, slow and even. He’s asleep. Finally.
But I’m not.
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 it’s also heavy. Thick. Like a fever has taken root in my blood, spreading through my veins, tightening in my core. The mark on my spine flares with every heartbeat, a dull throb, 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 doesn’t terrify me anymore.
It thrills me.
I press my fingers to the bite on my shoulder. It still burns. Still throbs. Still thinks. The crescent-shaped mark pulses faintly beneath my skin, a silent echo of the claiming, of the way he thrust inside me until I came apart, of the way the bond sang not with magic, not with politics, but with something deeper. Something real.
I need to wash it off.
Not the mark. Not the memory.
The heat.
The fever. The ache. The slick, desperate need that coils low in my belly, that tightens with every breath, every shift of his body against mine. Bond-sickness. It’s what happens when the bond is awakened but not sated. When the magic demands union and the body rebels. I’ve heard the stories—witches driven mad by it, fae weeping blood, vampires burning from the inside out. It’s supposed to pass in time. With proximity. With touch.
But I can’t touch him.
Not like that.
Not yet.
So I slip from his arm, careful not to wake him. My bare feet are silent on the cold stone as I move to the wardrobe, pull out a thin robe—white, almost sheer, meant for bathing. I tuck the silver dagger into the belt. My lockpick goes back into my hair. The satchel of stolen files is still 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.
The guards outside don’t stop me. They don’t even look at me. Just stand there, silent, watchful, as I open the door and step into the hall. The castle is quiet—too quiet. No servants. No guards. Just the flicker of blue flames in the sconces, casting long shadows that twist like grasping hands. Whispers ripple through the air, but I can’t make out the words. Only the tone. Mocking. Envious. Hungry.
I move fast.
The bathing chamber is deep in the east wing—black stone, silver veins, a pool fed by a natural spring, its surface steaming with heat. The air is thick with the scent of moon-bloom and iron and something sweet, something his. I close the heavy door behind me, lock it, then strip off the robe, letting it fall to the floor. The water is warm—almost hot—as I step in, sinking to my shoulders, the steam rising around me like a veil.
I close my eyes.
Breathe.
Reach for my magic. Blood is power. A drop from my fingertip, smeared across my palm. I whisper the words—“Aqua pura, sanguis silentium”—and the water shimmers, the heat deepening, the magic pulling the fever from my blood, the ache from my core. The bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling through me, but I hold still. I need this.
Then—
A sound.
The door.
Clicking open.
I freeze.
“Who is it?” I snap, turning, my hand flying to the dagger at my hip.
He steps inside.
Vaelen.
Barefoot. Shirtless. His trousers low on his hips, the trail of dark hair leading down his abdomen disappearing beneath the fabric. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes—crimson, ancient, hungry—lock onto mine.
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 edge of the pool, press my palms to the wet stone.
He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks. We’re alone.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, voice tight.
“Neither are you,” he says, stepping closer. “The guards said you left. I felt the bond—agitated. Fevered. You’re in pain.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His gaze drops—slow, deliberate—to my shoulders, to the curve of my breasts just above the water, to the faint silver of the scar on my wrist, to the way my fingers tremble around the hilt of the dagger.
“You’re not fine,” he says, voice rough. “The bond is starving. It needs touch. Union. You can’t hide it. I can smell it. The way your core tightens when I’m near. The way your breath hitches. The way your body betrays you.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t get to feel me,” I snap. “You don’t get to know what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, stepping closer. “I know you. You’re not here to destroy me anymore. You’re here to find the truth. And I’m not stopping you.”
“Then why follow me?” I ask. “Why invade my privacy?”
“Because if you’d collapsed in here,” he says, “if the fever took you, if the bond drove you mad—I’d never forgive myself.”
“I’m not helpless,” I say, rising from the water, the steam clinging to my skin, my body glistening, every curve on display. I don’t cover myself. I challenge him. “I don’t need your protection.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me—really watches. His eyes burn into mine. “No. You don’t. But I need to know you’re safe. That you’re alive.”
And then—
He turns.
Walks to the far side of the chamber.
Stands with his back to me.
“You can finish,” he says, voice low. “I won’t look.”
I stare at his back. At the whip marks. At the burns. At the way his muscles tense beneath the scars. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he asks, not turning. “Or am I finally giving you something you’ve never had? Control.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
No one has ever given me control. Not Solene. Not the Council. Not even my own magic. It’s always demanded sacrifice. Always taken more than it gave.
But he—
He’s standing there. Naked. Vulnerable. And he’s not touching me.
He’s not taking.
He’s waiting.
I step out of the pool. Slow. Deliberate. The water runs down my body, over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, pooling at my feet. I don’t reach for the robe. I just stand there, letting the steam dry my skin, letting him feel my presence, letting the bond scream between us.
“You could have taken me,” I say. “That first night. When you pinned me to the wall. When you bit me. You could have claimed me then.”
“I could have,” he says, still not turning. “But I wanted you to choose me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because you want to.”
“And now?” I ask. “Now that I have?”
“Now,” he says, voice rough, “I want you to know me. Not just my body. Not just my power. But my past. My pain. My truth.”
I move closer. Slow. Silent. My bare feet on the stone. I stop just behind him. My breath brushes the back of his neck. The bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling through me, but I don’t touch him.
“Turn around,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move.
“Turn around,” I say, louder.
Slowly, he turns.
His eyes lock onto mine. Crimson. Ancient. Knowing.
And his cock—
It’s hard.
Straining against his trousers, thick and veined, glistening with pre-come. The head peeks over the waistband, dark and flushed. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t shift. Just stands there, letting me see him. Letting me know him.
My breath hitches.
“You’re not supposed to look,” I say, voice trembling.
“Neither are you,” he says. “But you are.”
I don’t deny it.
I can’t.
My gaze drops—slow, deliberate—to his cock, to the way it pulses, to the way the vein throbs beneath the skin. My core clenches, slick with need. The bond screams, a primal demand for more.
“You want to touch me,” he says, voice rough. “I can smell it. The way your breath hitches. The way your nipples tighten. The way your thighs press together.”
“Liar,” I whisper.
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “Then prove it. Walk away. Leave the chamber. Go back to the room. Lie in the bed and pretend this didn’t happen.”
I don’t move.
“You can’t,” he says. “Because you want me. Not just my body. Not just my power. But me. The man who let you hate him to keep you alive. The man who’s loved you for centuries. The man who’s standing here, naked, vulnerable, and still waiting for you to choose him.”
My breath hitches.
“Then choose me,” he says, stepping closer. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because you want to.”
And then—
I do.
I 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 return to his chambers, the guards silent, watchful, as we pass. The fire is lit, the bed turned down, the satchel still hidden beneath the floorboard. He doesn’t sleep on the floor.
He lies beside me.
Close.
Our thighs brush.
The bond screams.
But this time—
Neither of us pulls away.
“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.