I don’t sleep.
Not after the bath. Not after the kiss. Not after the way he turned, his cock hard and glistening, his eyes burning with hunger and something deeper—hope. 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.
The satchel of stolen files is still hidden beneath the floorboard near the hearth—untouched, unburned, left for me. Vaelen could have taken it. Could have silenced me. Could have locked me away without proof, without power, without purpose.
But he didn’t.
He left it.
As if he knew I’d stay.
As if he knew I’d fight.
As if he’s already won.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake him. My bare shoulder brushes his chest, and the bond flares—a jolt of heat spiraling through me, tightening in my core. His arm tightens around me, possessive even in sleep. I don’t pull away. I’ve stopped fighting this. Stopped pretending I don’t want it. Want him.
The castle is quiet. Too quiet. No guards outside. No whispers in the halls. Just the low crackle of the fire, the soft rhythm of his breath, the steady pulse of the bond. It’s unnerving. After everything—the ambush, the Council, the blade in my side—I expect danger. Expect an attack. Expect her.
Solene.
She’s out there. Still. Not captured. Not dead. Just… gone. After the Council chamber, after I took the blade for him, after Vaelen threw her down—she vanished. No trace. No scent. Just a whisper of jasmine and iron on the wind, then nothing.
And Valenir.
He didn’t resist when the guards took him. Didn’t fight. Just stared at me with hollow eyes, as if he’d only just woken from a long, cursed sleep. “You were never the enemy,” I told him. “You were a victim. Like me.” He didn’t answer. Just let them lead him away.
But I know—
This isn’t over.
Not for her.
Not for him.
Not for us.
I press my ear to Vaelen’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It’s slower than a human’s. Calmer. Like he’s not just resting—he’s recharging. Vampires don’t sleep like we do. Not really. They enter a state of stillness, of regeneration. But he’s been doing it more often lately. Since the poisoned blade. Since the venom. Since I took it from him.
And since I kissed him.
Since I chose him.
A soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I whisper, not moving.
“Dain,” the voice says, low. “Breakfast has been prepared. In the solar. For two.”
I frown. “Since when does the prince take breakfast?”
“Since yesterday,” Dain says. “He gave the order himself.”
My breath hitches.
Vaelen doesn’t eat. Not really. Blood sustains him. But he’s ordered breakfast. For us.
“Tell him I’ll be there,” I say.
“He’s already waiting.”
I sigh, carefully sliding from under his arm. He stirs, murmurs something incoherent, but doesn’t wake. I pull on a black silk robe—his, I realize, the scent of iron and midnight clinging to the fabric. My boots are by the door. I lace them quietly, tuck the silver dagger into the hidden sheath at my ankle, the lockpick back into my hair.
One last look at him.
He’s lying on his back now, one arm flung over his head, the other resting on the pillow where I was. The scars across his chest catch the firelight—whip marks, burn patterns, the old wounds from a hundred battles I never fought beside him. But the one on his abdomen—the fresh wound from the poisoned blade—is nearly healed. Just a faint silver line now, barely visible.
Because of me.
Because I gave him my blood.
Because I chose to save him.
I turn and open the door.
Dain stands there, broad-shouldered, expression neutral, but his eyes flick to the bite on my shoulder, visible through the thin fabric of the robe. 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 silent halls, my steps steady, my skin still humming. The castle is different in the daylight—or what passes for daylight beneath the Midnight Court’s enchanted dome. Pale blue light filters through the stained glass, casting fractured colors across the black stone. No servants. No guards. Just the echo of our footsteps.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“The prince dismissed them,” Dain says. “For the day. He wanted… privacy.”
My stomach tightens.
Privacy.
For breakfast.
With me.
We turn a corner.
And then—
Light.
Warm. Golden. Streaming through tall arched windows. The solar is unlike any room in the castle—walls of white stone, vines of moon-bloom creeping up the arches, a low table set with silver platters. Fresh fruit. Warm bread. A pot of coffee, steam rising in delicate curls.
And Vaelen.
He’s standing by the window, dressed in black trousers and a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s run his hands through it. He turns as I enter, 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 cool stone.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. “You’re late.”
“You’re dressed,” I say, stepping forward. “And you’re… eating.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re wearing my robe.”
I look down. “It was the only one clean.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping closer. “You like the way it smells.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
It smells like him. Like iron and midnight and something ancient, something hers.
He pulls out a chair. “Sit.”
I do.
He pours coffee—black, no sugar—into a silver cup, slides it toward me. Then he sits across from me, folding his hands on the table. “Eat.”
I pick up a piece of bread, tear it absently. “This is… strange.”
“What is?”
“This. Breakfast. You. Me. Sitting here like we’re… normal.”
He watches me. “We’re not normal.”
“No,” I say. “We’re not. We’re bound by magic. By politics. By a bond that’s been cursed and twisted and used against us.”
“And yet,” he says, voice low, “you’re here. Eating my bread. Drinking my coffee. Wearing my clothes.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say.
“You always have a choice,” he says. “You chose to come to the Council. You chose to step in front of the blade. You chose to kiss me. You chose to stay.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
I did.
Every time.
And I’d do it again.
He reaches across the table, takes my hand. His skin is cool, but the bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling through me. “I wanted to do this,” he says. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because I wanted to see you. In the light. Without shadows. Without lies.”
I look at him—really look.
His eyes aren’t glowing. No fangs. No aura of power. Just a man. A beautiful, dangerous, impossible man who’s loved me for centuries.
“Why now?” I ask.
“Because you’ve seen the truth,” he says. “And now I want you to see me. Not the prince. Not the monster. Not the enemy. The man.”
My breath hitches.
He lifts my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles. Soft. Slow. Real.
“Eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”
I take a bite of bread. It’s warm. Fresh. “What for?”
“For today,” he says. “We’re going to Valenir. We’re going to make him remember. We’re going to make him see the truth.”
My stomach tightens. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we fight,” he says. “But not to destroy him. To save him.”
I look at him. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
And then—
He leans across the table.
And kisses me.
Not fierce. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips part beneath mine. His hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a tidal wave of magic and emotion that throws us both back into our chairs.
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.