The fever broke at dawn.
Not with a scream. Not with a collapse. But with silence.
One moment, my body was writhing, my magic clawing at the edges of my skin, the bond screaming through my veins like a live wire about to snap. The next—stillness. A deep, steady warmth spreading from my chest outward, like sunlight after a storm. My breath evened. My pulse slowed. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist no longer burned—it glowed, soft and steady, a pulse in time with his.
I opened my eyes.
Lysander was still beside me, his body a wall, his arm still beneath my shoulders, his hand cradling the back of my head. He hadn’t moved all night. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t let go. His crimson eyes were shadowed, his jaw clenched, his fangs grazing his lower lip in exhaustion. But the moment I stirred, he was awake—fully, instantly, like a predator sensing prey.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice rough, raw.
“I never left,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
He didn’t smile. Just studied me—really studied me—his gaze tracing the curve of my cheek, the bruise on my temple, the bite mark above my collarbone. And then, slowly, his thumb brushed the pulse at my wrist, right over the sigil.
“The bond’s stable,” he said. “It’s not rejecting you anymore.”
“Or I’ve stopped rejecting it,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me, his crimson eyes burning with something I couldn’t name—relief? Fear? Need?
And then—
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Claiming.
His lips moved against mine, soft and sure, his hand sliding to my waist, pulling me flush against his body. The bond flared—fire pooling low in my belly, my magic reaching for his, my body aching—and I kissed him back, my fingers fisting in his hair, my nails scraping his scalp.
He broke it first, pulling back just enough to look at me, his breath unsteady, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“You’re not leaving,” he said. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Then we stop Malrik,” I said. “Together.”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then we move now. Before he can act.”
---
We left the safe house at midday.
The city was alive—cobblestone streets bustling with humans, café awnings flapping in the breeze, the scent of fresh bread and coffee curling through the air. But beneath it, the tension was palpable. Vampires moved faster, their eyes sharper. Fae envoys lingered in shadows, their glamours flickering. The war hadn’t been declared, but everyone felt it. In the way the air crackled. In the way the moonlight seemed sharper, colder, hungrier.
We traveled through the tunnels—Cordelia in front, her dagger drawn, her storm-gray eyes scanning the darkness; Elara between us, her hand gripping mine; Mira at the rear, her presence a wall. The bond hummed between us—warm, alive, real—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum.
And then—
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
From ahead.
“Ambush,” Cordelia whispered, dropping into a crouch.
I nodded, pulling Elara behind me, my fangs lengthening, my aura flaring crimson. The first wave came fast—vampire thralls, armed with silver blades, their eyes gleaming with Malrik’s mark. They lunged from the shadows, silent, precise.
But they weren’t fast enough.
I moved like shadow, my dagger finding the first’s throat, severing the spinal cord before he could react. Cordelia spun, her dagger slicing across the second’s abdomen, her magic flaring as she whispered a binding spell. He fell, screaming, his blood black on the stone.
The third came from the left.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pulled.
Blood Dominion—my power, my curse, my gift.
I reached into his veins, felt the pulse of his heart, and stopped it.
He collapsed.
Dead.
But then—
A flicker.
From the ceiling.
Fae gliders—three of them, their wings shimmering with illusion, their blades of frozen light gleaming. They dropped like vultures, silent, deadly.
Cordelia reacted first.
Her hand shot out, a pulse of magic tearing through the air, shattering the lead glider’s wing. He screamed, falling, his body crashing into the stone. The second lunged for Elara.
I intercepted.
My body became a wall, my fangs finding his throat. I tore it out.
He fell.
Dead.
The third—
He didn’t attack.
He smiled.
And then he threw something.
A vial.
It shattered at my feet, releasing a cloud of shimmering dust—Fae glamour, designed to disorient, to blind.
I held my breath, lunging forward, but he was ready. A blade of ice pierced my side, just below the ribs. Pain lanced through me, my vision blurring, my strength waning.
And then—
Elara screamed.
I turned.
The glider had her by the throat, a dagger to her neck, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror.
“Drop the weapon,” he said, his voice like wind through glass. “Or I slit her throat.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I dropped the dagger.
It clattered to the stone.
“Good,” he said. “Now, kneel.”
I didn’t move.
Just watched him, my crimson eyes burning.
And then—
I pulled.
Not with my hands.
With my blood.
Blood Dominion.
I reached into his veins, felt the pulse of his heart, the flow of his magic, and twisted.
He gasped.
His grip on Elara faltered.
And I was on him.
My hands closed around his throat, my fangs bared, my voice a growl. “You touch her again,” I said, “and I will rip your heart out and feed it to the crows.”
He didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because I crushed his windpipe.
He fell.
Dead.
I turned to Elara, pulling her into my arms. “You’re safe,” I said. “You’re safe.”
She clung to me, sobbing. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” I said. “With me.”
And then—
The bond screamed.
Not pain.
Betrayal.
I looked down at my phone.
A news alert.
BREAKING: Pact of Ashes stolen. Cordelia Vale apprehended at scene. Council declares witch treason. Execution at dawn.
My blood turned to ice.
No.
Not possible.
She’d gone after the Pact. She’d been with Seraphine. She’d been framed.
And now—
They were going to kill her.
Before I could move, before I could call, before I could think—
Elara looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Dad… who’s Cordelia?”
I didn’t answer.
Just held her tighter, my mind racing.
I had to get her to safety.
And then I had to save the woman I loved.
---
The prison was beneath the Obsidian Spire—cold, silent, its walls lined with silver-infused stone, its cells warded against magic. I broke in like shadow, my fangs bared, my aura flaring crimson. The guards didn’t stand a chance. My dagger found their throats. My blood dominion stopped their hearts. I moved through the corridors like death, silent, precise, unstoppable.
And then—
I saw her.
Cordelia.
She was in the central cell, her wrists bound in silver chains, her storm-gray eyes burning with defiance. Her cloak was torn, her lip split, her cheek bruised—but she was alive. Alive.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice hoarse but sharp.
“You’re still breathing,” I said, my voice rough. “That’s all that matters.”
I shattered the lock with a pulse of blood magic, yanking the door open. She didn’t flinch. Just stood there, her chains clinking, her gaze locked onto mine.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said.
“And if I hadn’t?” I asked, stepping closer. “You’d be dead by dawn.”
“Then I’d die knowing I tried.”
“No,” I said, my voice a growl. “You’d die knowing I couldn’t live without hating you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. And then—
She did it.
She reached for me.
Not to fight.
Not to push me away.
To touch.
Her fingers brushed the tear in my coat, the blood staining my side. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” she said, pushing the coat aside. The wound was shallow, but it was still bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric. “Let me see it.”
I didn’t move. Just watched her, my crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she said.
And then she did the one thing she’d sworn she’d never do.
She pulled my shirt up.
Her fingers were cool, precise, gentle as she poured salve over the wound, her breath unsteady, her magic humming beneath her skin. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, my breath ragged, my fangs grazing my lower lip.
And then—
Her hand slipped.
Just a brush. Just a whisper of contact.
But it was enough.
The bond exploded—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull back. Just let her touch me, her fingers tracing the scar across my abdomen, the curve of my hip, the edge of my trousers.
She didn’t stop.
Just kept going, her breath catching, her storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
I caught her wrist.
Not to stop her.
To guide her.
My hand covered hers, my fingers interlacing with hers, my thumb brushing the pulse at her wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until her palm rested over the hard ridge of my arousal, pressing through the fabric.
Her breath caught.
“You want this,” I said, my voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving her hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” she breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pulled her hand back, her cheeks flushed, her storm-gray eyes burning. But she didn’t look away. Just stared at me, her chest rising and falling, her magic reaching for mine like a drowning woman grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.
---
We didn’t go back to Lyon.
Instead, we went to the mountain lodge—a hidden sanctuary in the Swiss Alps, its stone walls carved into the cliffs, its windows overlooking the valley below. No wards. No spies. No war.
Just us.
The moment we stepped inside, the bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum. The fire roared in the hearth, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. The scent of pine and old magic filled the air. And then—
She turned to me.
Not with anger. Not with defiance.
With hunger.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” she said, her voice low, raw.
“Then don’t,” I said, stepping closer. “Let me have you.”
“Not because of magic,” she said. “Not because of the bond. Because you choose me.”
“I’ve chosen you since the moment you lied to my face,” I said, my voice a growl. “Even when I hated you. Even when I wanted to destroy you. I chose you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Her hands fisted in my coat, pulling me down to her. The bond exploded—fire pooling low in my belly, my magic reaching for hers, my body aching—and I kissed her back, my hands sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against my body.
She broke it first, her breath unsteady, her storm-gray eyes burning. “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 then—
I lifted her.
One arm locked around her waist, the other fisted in her hair, pulling her against me as I carried her to the bed. She didn’t protest. Just wrapped her legs around my waist, her nails digging into my shoulders, her breath hot against my neck.
I laid her down, my body hovering over hers, my fangs grazing her lip. “Say it,” I said. “Say you want this.”
“I want this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I want you.”
And then—
I gave her what she wanted.
My mouth found her neck, my fangs grazing the pulse beneath her skin. She gasped, arching into me, her hands fisting in my shirt. I didn’t bite. Not yet. Just kissed her—slow, deep, claiming—my hands sliding beneath her cloak, peeling it from her shoulders, then her shirt, then her bra, until her skin was bare beneath my touch.
She was beautiful.
Not just in form. In fire. In fury. In the way her body arched toward mine, desperate, starving. I traced the curve of her breast with my tongue, her nipple hardening beneath my lips, her breath catching, her magic flaring. I kissed down her stomach, my hands sliding to her hips, pulling her leggings down, then her panties, until she was bare beneath me.
And then—
I tasted her.
My tongue found her clit, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until she was writhing beneath me, her fingers fisting in my hair, her breath coming fast. “Lysander,” she gasped. “Gods.”
I didn’t stop.
Just kept going, my hands holding her hips, my mouth claiming her, until she came—hard, fierce, beautiful—her back arching off the bed, her cry echoing through the room.
And then—
She pulled me up.
Her hands went to my belt, yanking it open, then my pants, then my boxers, until I was bare beneath her touch. Her hand wrapped around my cock, warm, tight, perfect. She stroked me once, twice, then guided me to her entrance.
“Now,” she said, her voice raw. “Now.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I thrust in.
She was tight, wet, hot—clenching around me like a vice, her breath catching, her eyes wide. I didn’t move. Just held her, my forehead pressed to hers, my breath unsteady.
“You’re mine,” I said.
“And you’re mine,” she whispered.
And then—
I moved.
Slow at first. Deep. Then harder. Faster. My hands locked around her hips, pulling her toward me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails digging into my back. The bond flared—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t fight it. Just let it consume us, two bodies, one soul, inevitable.
She came first—her back arching, her cry echoing, her walls clenching around me—and I followed, my fangs finding her neck, biting down as I spilled inside her, my roar muffled against her skin.
And then—
Stillness.
We lay there, tangled, breathless, real. Her head on my chest, my arms around her, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat.
“Still hate me?” I asked, my voice rough.
She didn’t answer.
Just looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes glistening. “Every damn day,” she whispered.
I smiled.
“Good.”