I don’t sleep.
Not after the Council. Not after the blade. Not after the way I stepped in front of him—again—like my body had already decided, long before my mind, that I’d rather die than let her take him from me. 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 is gone.
Stolen.
By Solene.
But we have something stronger now.
Truth.
And allies.
Elias is here. Alive. Not dead. Not gone. And he’s standing with us. Not just for me. Not just for the bond. But for the future. For the world Solene wants to twist into her own image of purity and control.
A soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I whisper, not moving.
“Dain,” the voice says, low. “The prince is weakening. You should come.”
I sit up so fast the room spins. Vaelen stirs, murmuring my name, but I’m already sliding from the bed, pulling on my boots, tucking the silver dagger into my boot. My lockpick goes back into my hair. The bite on my shoulder burns, a sharp reminder of what I’ve done—what I’ve let him do.
“How bad?” I ask, voice tight.
“He won’t drink,” Dain says. “Won’t feed. Says he doesn’t need it. But the blood magic drained him. He’s fading.”
I don’t answer. Just move.
Down the hall. Past the silent guards. Past the flickering blue flames. The castle is too quiet. No whispers. No footsteps. Just the low hum of the wards and the pounding of my heart.
Dain stops at the door to the private chambers—the ones Vaelen uses when he’s wounded, when he needs to regenerate. “He won’t let anyone in. Not even me.”
“Then he’ll let me,” I say, pushing the door open.
The room is dim—torchlight flickering, shadows dancing across the stone. Vaelen is on the bed, shirtless, his chest bare, his skin pale. His fangs are retracted, but his eyes glow faintly in the dark, ancient and tired. Blood stains his hands. His lips are colorless. His breathing is shallow.
And the bond—
It screams.
Not with heat. Not with hunger.
With pain.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, voice rough.
“Neither are you,” I say, stepping closer. “You’re supposed to be feeding. Recovering. Not wasting away like some martyr.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His eyes burn into mine. “I don’t need it.”
“Liar,” I say. “You’re fading. I can feel it. The bond is screaming. Your magic is thin. Your body is shutting down.”
“Then let it,” he says, turning his head away. “I gave what I had to keep you alive. That’s all that matters.”
“And what about me?” I snap. “What about the woman who loves you? The one who’d rather die than live without you?”
He flinches.
Just slightly. A twitch at the corner of his eye. A catch in his breath.
But it’s enough.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself and walk away like it’s noble. Like it’s brave. It’s selfish. You think I want to live in a world where you’re gone? Where the man who let me hate him to keep me alive is just… gone?”
He doesn’t answer.
But his hand clenches the sheets.
“Look at me,” I say, voice low. “Look at me, damn it.”
Slowly, he turns.
His eyes lock onto mine. Crimson. Ancient. Broken.
And the bond—
It screams again.
“You don’t get to leave me,” I whisper. “Not now. Not after everything. Not after I finally chose you. Not after I finally believed you.”
His breath hitches.
“Then stay with me,” he says, voice rough. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because you want to.”
“I do,” I say. “But I can’t do it alone. I need you. Not just your strength. Not just your power. But your life. Your blood. Your breath. Your heart.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m not worth it.”
“You are,” I say, kneeling beside the bed. “You’re the only one who ever saw me. The only one who let me be broken so I could heal. The only one who loved me when I was too angry to love myself.”
He doesn’t answer.
But his hand finds mine.
And the bond—
It sings.
Not with pain.
Not with fear.
With need.
“Then feed,” I say, pulling the silver dagger from my boot. “Take from me.”
His eyes snap open. “No.”
“Yes,” I say, pressing the blade to my palm. Blood wells, thick and dark. I let three drops fall onto his lips. “You took my blood to save me. Now I’m giving it to save you. That’s how this works. That’s how the bond works. We don’t just take. We give. We heal. We live.”
He stares at me. “You don’t understand. Blood magic between mates—it’s not just power. It’s… intimacy. It’s surrender. It’s—”
“I know what it is,” I say. “It’s love. Not magic. Not fate. Not compulsion. Love. And I’m not afraid of it anymore.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. “You should be.”
“Then be afraid with me,” I say, pressing my palm to his mouth. “Drink. Take what you need. Take me.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Then—
His lips part.
His tongue brushes my palm.
And he drinks.
Not deep. Not desperate. Just a slow, steady pull, like he’s savoring it. Like he’s afraid it’s the last time.
And the bond—
It explodes.
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 gasp, my free hand flying to the bed, gripping the sheets.
But I don’t pull away.
I let him take.
Let him heal.
Let him live.
Minutes pass. Hours. I don’t know. The room fades. The fire dims. The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on my skin, the rhythm of his breath, the pulse of the bond.
And then—
He stops.
His lips part from my palm. His eyes open. Crimson. Clear. Alive.
“You taste like truth,” he whispers.
“And you,” I say, voice rough, “taste like home.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he pulls me onto the bed.
Rolls me beneath him.
And kisses me.
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 onto the floor.
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.