The full moon hung low over Lyon, a silver disc bleeding light across the rooftops, its glow spilling through the cracked shutters of Mira’s safe house like liquid mercury. Outside, the city slept beneath a veil of fog, the cobblestone streets slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and old magic. But inside, the silence was alive—crackling with tension, with truth, with the weight of everything we hadn’t said.
Elara was asleep in the back room, curled beneath a wool blanket, my mother’s grimoire clutched to her chest like a talisman. Mira had returned hours ago, her dark eyes sharp, her stance tense, before slipping out again—back to her network, gathering allies, testing loyalties. And Cordelia—
She sat by the hearth, her storm-gray eyes fixed on the dying fire, her fingers tracing the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. The vial of blood—Seraphine’s vial—sat on the table between us, its glass catching the candlelight, the dried blood inside dark as sin. She hadn’t destroyed it. Hadn’t thrown it into the flames. Just left it there, like a challenge. Like a test.
And I was failing it.
Because I couldn’t look away from her.
Not from the bruise on her cheek, still faint but healing. Not from the bite mark above her collarbone, fresh and raw and *mine*. Not from the way her fingers trembled when she thought I wasn’t watching. She’d seen the truth. Felt it. Believed it. And still, she hesitated.
Still, she *doubted*.
And gods help me, I wanted to make her stop.
“You’re thinking too loud,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
She didn’t turn. Just kept staring at the fire, her breath unsteady, her magic humming beneath her skin like a caged storm. “You gave her your blood.”
“To save her life,” I said. “Not to claim her. Not to desire her. To *save* her.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect,” I said, stepping closer. My boots were silent on the stone floor, my coat open, my shirt torn at the shoulder—the wound from the prison fight still a dull ache beneath the salve. “I *know* you believe it. I can feel it. In the bond. In your magic. In the way your body leans toward me when you think I’m not looking.”
She turned then, her storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “And what if I don’t want to?”
“Then lie to yourself,” I said, closing the distance. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—as I stepped into her space, my body a wall, my presence a storm. “But don’t lie to me. Not after everything. Not after what you’ve seen.”
She didn’t flinch. Just looked up at me, her chest rising and falling, her pulse screaming through the bond. “You could have let her die.”
“And what kind of monster would that make me?” I asked, my voice low, rough. “You think I don’t carry enough blood on my hands? You think I needed *hers* too?”
“You’re not innocent,” she said, her voice breaking. “You signed the order. You let my mother die.”
“I *didn’t*,” I said, stepping closer, my hands clenching at my sides. “Nyx threatened Elara. She sent proof—photos, recordings, a vial of her blood. If I refused, she would have killed her. So I signed. Not for power. Not for control. To save a child. Just like your mother did for mine.”
She froze.
And then—
Tears.
They filled her eyes, glistening in the firelight, but she didn’t let them fall. Just stood there, trembling, her breath coming fast, her magic reaching for mine like a drowning woman grasping for shore.
“You think I don’t know what it means to sacrifice?” she whispered. “You think I haven’t lived with that choice every damn day since she died?”
“Then you know,” I said, stepping into her space, my hands lifting, my fingers brushing the bruise on her cheek. “You know what it costs. You know the weight of it. And you know—*you know*—that I didn’t do it for power. I did it for *her*.”
She didn’t pull away. Just stood there, her breath unsteady, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “And Seraphine?”
“A pawn,” I said. “A tool. I used her to gather information. She used me to survive. And when she twisted the truth, I let her. Because it made her useful. It made *me* stronger.”
“And the mark on her collarbone?”
“Glamour,” I said. “Fae illusion. She wanted the world to think I’d claimed her. So they would fear her. So they would fear *me*.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “And you didn’t correct them?”
“Why?” I asked. “So they could see how weak I was? So they could know I’d been played? No. Let them believe what they want. Let them think she had power over me. It was better that way.”
Long silence.
Then—softly—she nodded. “I believe you.”
My breath caught.
Not from relief.
From *recognition*.
Because she wasn’t just saying it.
She *meant* it.
And in that moment, the bond—steady now, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—was no longer a chain.
It was a bridge.
And she was crossing it.
---
We left the safe house at midnight.
The streets were empty, the city wrapped in fog, the moon a silver eye watching from above. I led her through the back alleys, my hand on the small of her back, my presence a wall between her and the world. She didn’t speak. Just walked beside me, her cloak pulled tight, her storm-gray eyes scanning the shadows.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice low.
“Somewhere quiet,” I said. “Somewhere we won’t be found.”
She didn’t argue. Just followed, her breath steady, her magic humming beneath her skin. And when we reached the old cemetery on the edge of the city—a forgotten place of crumbling headstones and overgrown ivy, its gates rusted open—I knew she understood.
This wasn’t just a walk.
It was a reckoning.
We stepped inside, the gravel crunching beneath our boots, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old magic. The moonlight spilled through the trees, casting long, wavering shadows across the graves. And at the center—
A bench.
Carved from black stone, its surface etched with runes, its back shaped like a pair of wings. A lover’s bench. A mourner’s bench. A place for confessions.
I sat first, my coat pooling around me, my crimson eyes scanning the shadows. She hesitated, then sat beside me, her body tense, her breath unsteady.
“You didn’t have to bring me here,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
She turned to me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “Why?”
“Because you need to hear it,” I said. “Not through the bond. Not through magic. Not through lies. You need to hear it from *me*.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me, her breath catching, her pulse screaming.
And then—
I told her.
Everything.
About the night Nyx came to me—her gown shimmering like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice, the vial of Elara’s blood in her hand. About the choice I’d been given: sign the order or watch my daughter die. About the way my hand had trembled as I took the quill. About the way my fangs had bared in silent rage as I signed my name. About the way I’d whispered, *“I’m sorry,”* as the roof caved in, as the fire surged, as your mother threw herself in front of Elara.
And when I finished, she didn’t speak.
Just sat there, her breath unsteady, her fingers digging into the stone.
“You think I don’t carry it?” I asked, my voice rough. “You think I don’t wake up every night, every damn night, seeing her face? Hearing her scream? Feeling her blood on my hands?”
She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “And the bond?”
“Not a punishment,” I said. “A gift. Because for the first time in centuries, someone looked at me and saw the man beneath the monster. Someone fought me. Challenged me. Made me feel—”
“Alive?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “And I will *not* let you go.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to fight.
Not to push me away.
To *touch*.
Her fingers brushed the scar across my abdomen—the one from a werewolf’s claw, 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 bench. The moonlight spilled over us, casting our shadows across the graves—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.
---
The summons came at dawn.
A raven—its feathers black as midnight, its eyes glowing crimson—landed on the windowsill, a scroll tied to its leg. Mira took it, her dark eyes narrowing as she unrolled it.
“It’s from Kaelen,” she said. “The Council has declared war. Nyx has mobilized the Fae armies. Malrik is rallying the vampire houses. They’re coming for you.”
My breath caught.
Cordelia didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, her presence a storm. “Then we meet them.”
“You can’t,” Mira said. “Not yet. The wards here are strong, but not strong enough to hold an army. You need time. Allies. A plan.”
“We have one,” Cordelia said. “The truth. The grimoire. The debt.”
“And if they don’t believe you?”
“Then we make them,” she said. “Because my mother didn’t die for nothing. And I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”
I looked at her, my crimson eyes burning. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I never was,” she said.
And then—
Elara stepped forward.
She stood between us, her face pale, her eyes wide. “I want to go with you.”
“No,” I said, my voice sharp. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m already a target,” she said. “And if I stay, they’ll find me. But if I’m with you, I can help. I can *fight*.”
“You’re sixteen,” Cordelia said.
“And I’ve survived assassins,” she said. “I’ve lived in shadows. I’ve dreamed of fire. I’m not a child.”
Long silence.
Then—
I exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then you stay between us. You do what we say. No risks. No heroics.”
She smiled—soft, real, *hers*. “Yes, Dad.”
And then she turned to Cordelia.
“And you?”
“I’m not your mother,” Cordelia said.
“No,” she said. “But you’re the closest thing I have.”
Cordelia’s breath caught.
And then—
She pulled her into a hug.
Tight. Desperate. *Real*.
And when she let go, I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.
---
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.