The fire had burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the rough-hewn walls of the safe house. Outside, the storm still raged—wind howling through the Black Forest, rain lashing the roof, thunder cracking like the sky itself was splitting open. But inside, the air was thick with silence. Not the silence of absence. The silence of waiting.
Cordelia sat on the edge of the bed, her wrists wrapped in linen, her storm-gray eyes fixed on the hearth. She hadn’t spoken since I’d stepped back, leaving her hand pressed against the hard ridge of my arousal, her breath unsteady, her pulse screaming through the bond. She hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t cursed. Hadn’t slapped me.
She’d just… stayed.
And that terrified me more than any fight, any betrayal, any war.
I stood by the window, my back to her, my fingers gripping the sill. The wound below my ribs still burned, but not from the blade. From *her*. From the way her fingers had traced my scars, the way her palm had lingered, the way her magic had reached for mine, slow and sure, like she was claiming me back.
And gods help me, I let her.
“You don’t have to pretend,” she said, her voice low, cutting through the silence like a blade. “That you didn’t want it.”
I didn’t turn. “I’ve never pretended with you.”
“Then why stop?”
I exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Because if I hadn’t, you’d be beneath me right now. And I won’t take you like that. Not here. Not like this. Not until you *choose* me.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stood, the linen slipping from her wrists as she crossed the room. I could feel her behind me—her heat, her breath, the steady thrum of the bond—but I didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Just stared into the storm, my jaw clenched, my fangs grazing my lower lip.
And then—
Her hand touched my back.
Not a slap. Not a shove.
A *caress*.
Her fingers brushed the scar across my spine—the one from Nyx’s ice blade, the one I’d never let anyone see. And then she stepped closer, her body warm against mine, her breath warm on my neck.
“You think I don’t know pain?” she said, her voice low. “You think I don’t carry scars too?”
“I know,” I said, my voice rough. “I feel it. In the bond. In your magic. In the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
She turned me, her hands on my chest, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “Then stop pretending you’re the only one who’s suffered.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just the only one who’s still standing.”
She looked up at me, her eyes glistening. “And what if I don’t want you to?”
“Then fall,” I said. “But I’ll catch you.”
And then she did it.
She kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Claiming.
Her lips moved against mine, soft and sure, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me down to her. The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t fight it. I kissed her back, my hands sliding to her waist, pulling her against me, my fangs grazing her lip.
She moaned—into my mouth, into the fire, into the bond that screamed between us.
And then she broke it.
Pushing me back, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with tears.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Then hate me,” I said, my voice rough. “But do it like this.”
And I kissed her again.
Harder this time. Deeper. My hands in her hair, my body pressing her back against the wall. The fire roared behind us, casting our shadows across the room—two figures, tangled, desperate, *inevitable*.
She didn’t fight.
Didn’t push me away.
Just kissed me back—furious, hungry, *alive*.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.
---
But then—
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
From my pocket.
I broke the kiss, stepping back, my breath unsteady, my body still aching for her. Reaching into my coat, I pulled out the encrypted phone Mira had given me. One message.
Elara is in Lyon. Safe. She’s asking for you.
My breath caught.
Cordelia saw it. “She’s safe?”
I nodded. “In Lyon. Hidden. Mira’s network moved her.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Good.”
But I didn’t miss it—the flicker in her eyes, the way her fingers brushed the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. She cared. Not just about the mission. Not just about the war.
About *her*.
“You want to see her,” I said.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“You want to meet her,” I said. “Don’t lie. I can feel it.”
She didn’t deny it. Just looked at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll see the truth,” I said. “Not just about me. About *us*. About why the Stone bound us. Why your mother protected her. Why the debt is known.”
She swallowed hard. “And if I’m not ready?”
“Then you’ll never be,” I said. “Because the truth doesn’t wait. It doesn’t care if you’re ready. It just *is*.”
Long silence.
Then—softly—she nodded. “Then take me to her.”
---
We left at dawn.
The storm had passed, leaving the forest slick with rain, the air sharp with the scent of pine and old magic. I carried her through the tunnels, her body still weak, her breath unsteady, but she didn’t complain. Just held on, her fingers gripping my coat, her head resting against my shoulder.
The bond hummed between us, warm, alive, *real*.
By the time we reached Lyon, the city was waking—cobblestone streets glistening, café awnings flapping in the breeze, the scent of fresh bread and coffee curling through the air. Mira’s safe house was tucked in the back alleys of the old quarter, a narrow building with black shutters and wards etched into the stone.
She met us at the door, her dark eyes sharp, her stance tense. “You’re lucky the Council hasn’t declared war yet,” she said, stepping aside. “Nyx is calling for your heads. Malrik’s demanding extradition.”
“Let them talk,” I said, stepping inside. “We’re not going back.”
Mira’s gaze slid to Cordelia. “And you?”
“I’m not going back either,” Cordelia said. “Not until the truth is known.”
Mira nodded. “Then you’ll want to see her.”
She led us down a narrow staircase, into a hidden chamber beneath the house. The walls were lined with books, relics, and old maps. And in the center—
Elara.
She sat on the edge of a bed, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, my mother’s grimoire in her lap. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, her hands trembling. But when she saw me—
She smiled.
“Dad,” she whispered.
I dropped to my knees, pulling her into my arms. She clung to me, her breath coming fast, her fingers clutching my coat like she was afraid I’d vanish.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
She buried her face in my chest, sobbing. “I thought you were dead. They said you didn’t want me.”
“I want you,” I said, my fangs bared in silent rage. “More than anything. And I will *never* let them take you.”
And then—
She looked past me.
At Cordelia.
Her eyes widened. “You’re her.”
Cordelia froze. “What?”
“In my dreams,” Elara said, her voice soft. “You’re the witch with storm-gray eyes. The one who saved me.”
Cordelia’s breath caught. “I—”
“Your mother protected me,” Elara said. “In the sanctum. When the roof caved in. She threw herself in front of me.”
Cordelia went still. “You were there?”
Elara nodded. “I was hiding. I didn’t mean to. I just—I was scared. And your mother… she saw me. She *knew* me.”
Tears filled Cordelia’s eyes. “And she saved you.”
“She did,” Elara said. “And now you’re here. And you’re with *him*.”
“It’s complicated,” Cordelia said.
Elara smiled. “Love usually is.”
Cordelia looked at me, stunned. I just shrugged. “She’s sixteen. She’s seen more in her life than most do in a century.”
Elara turned to her. “You’re not what he said you were.”
“And what did he say?”
“That you were dangerous,” Elara said. “That you’d destroy him.”
“And am I?”
Elara studied her—long, quiet, *searching*. Then, slowly, she smiled. “No. I think you’re the one who’s going to save him.”
Cordelia didn’t answer.
Just looked at me, her storm-gray eyes glistening. And in that moment, I saw it—not hate, not fury, not vengeance.
Something softer.
Something fragile.
Something *breakable*.
And then—
Elara reached for her.
“Will you stay?” she asked. “Just for a little while? I want to know you. I want to know *her*.”
Cordelia looked at me.
I didn’t speak.
Just nodded.
And then—softly—she smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll stay.”
---
Later, as the sun set over Lyon, as the city lights flickered to life, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of her cloak—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
She’d kept it.
Again.
And this time—
She hadn’t destroyed it.
She’d *studied* it.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that she wasn’t losing.
She was *winning*.
And if she thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
She didn’t know me at all.
But I knew her.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.