The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not from the fire—though it still crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of the mountain lodge. Not from the thick wool blanket tangled around our legs, or the soft furs beneath us.
No.
The warmth was *her*.
Cordelia.
She lay half on top of me, her head resting on my chest, one arm draped across my abdomen, her storm-gray hair spilling like ink over my skin. Her breath was slow, even—deep in sleep, for the first time in weeks. No fever. No pain. No war. Just peace. Just *us*.
And gods help me, I didn’t move.
I just lay there, my arms wrapped around her, my fingers tracing the curve of her spine, my fangs grazing my lower lip in quiet reverence. I could feel her magic beneath my touch—soft now, humming like a lullaby instead of a battle cry. The bond between us pulsed, steady and warm, no longer a chain, no longer a curse.
It was a promise.
And I’d spent centuries breaking promises.
But this one—I’d keep it with my last breath.
---
Outside, the dawn was breaking over the Swiss Alps—pale gold bleeding through the frost-laced windows, the valley below still wrapped in mist. The world was quiet. No sirens. No whispers. No assassins creeping through the dark.
Just silence.
And for the first time in my long, blood-soaked life, I didn’t hate it.
I *needed* it.
Because this—this moment—was fragile.
Not because she might still hate me.
But because she might *not*.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any war.
Because if she stopped hating me…
What would I be?
Not a ruler. Not a killer.
Just a man.
And I wasn’t sure I deserved that.
---
She stirred.
Just a shift of weight, a soft sigh against my chest, but it sent fire through my veins. My body responded instantly—hard, aching, *needing*—but I didn’t move. Didn’t pull her closer. Just held her, my fingers still tracing the curve of her spine, my breath steady.
“You’re awake,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
“Have been,” I said, my voice low.
She lifted her head, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. There was no fear. No anger. No defiance.
Just… *softness*.
And it undid me.
“You didn’t sleep,” she said, her fingers brushing the shadow beneath my eyes.
“Didn’t want to miss a second,” I admitted.
She didn’t smile. Just studied me—really studied me—her gaze tracing the scar across my abdomen, the bite mark on her own neck, the way my hand still cradled the back of her head like I was afraid she’d vanish.
“You held me all night,” she said.
“You needed it,” I said.
“And you?”
I didn’t answer.
Just looked at her, my crimson eyes burning. Because she already knew.
She’d seen it in the prison. In the ambush. In the way I’d stormed the Council’s fortress, slaughtered their enforcers, defied the law—all for *her*.
She’d seen it in the way I’d carried her through the night, my body shielding hers, my fangs bared at every shadow.
She’d seen it in the way I’d kissed her—slow, deep, *claiming*—before I made her mine.
And now—now she was seeing it again.
Not just in my touch.
In my *eyes*.
“You don’t have to pretend,” she said, her voice low. “That you don’t need me too.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I did it.
I reached for her.
Not to dominate. Not to possess.
>To *touch*.My fingers brushed the bite mark on her neck—the one I’d left last night, deep and red, a claim no one could deny. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—and she didn’t flinch. Just watched me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine.
“You marked me,” she said.
“You let me,” I said.
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Then I’d have waited,” I said. “Until you did.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “You could have taken it. Forced it. You’ve done it before.”
“With others,” I said. “Never with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not just my bond,” I said, my voice rough. “You’re my *equal*. My match. My *fire*. And I won’t take that by force. I’ll earn it. Every damn day.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached up, her fingers brushing 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 furs. 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.
---
Later, as the sun climbed over the peaks, as the mist burned away from the valley, 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.
---
She woke again just after noon.
The fire had burned down to embers, the room bathed in golden light, the scent of pine and old magic thick in the air. She stretched, her body arching like a cat, her storm-gray eyes blinking open. And then she saw me.
Watching her.
“You’re still here,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
She sat up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, revealing the marks I’d left on her skin—faint bruises from my grip, the bite on her neck, the redness on her inner thighs. And instead of flinching, she just… looked at me.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
“And if I asked you to leave?”
“Then I’d go,” I said. “But I’d be back by nightfall.”
She didn’t laugh. Just reached for me, her fingers brushing the scar across my abdomen. “You’ve never let anyone see this.”
“No,” I said. “You’re the first.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only one who wouldn’t use it against me,” I said. “The only one who’d see it for what it is—a reminder. Not of pain. Of survival.”
She didn’t answer.
Just leaned forward, her lips brushing the scar, soft, reverent. My breath caught. My body ached. My fangs lengthened.
And then—
She pulled back.
“We can’t stay here,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“Malrik’s still out there. Nyx is still hunting Elara. The Council still thinks I’m a traitor.”
“Then we fix it,” I said. “Together.”
She looked at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “And if they don’t believe us?”
“Then we make them,” I said. “Because my mother didn’t die for nothing. And I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for her clothes, pulling them on slowly, her movements deliberate. And when she was dressed, she turned to me, her dagger strapped to her thigh, her cloak pulled tight.
“Then we move now,” she said. “Before they can act.”
I stood, pulling on my coat, my fangs still bared, my aura flaring crimson. “Then we move now.”
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 coat, 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 broke it first, pulling back just enough to look at me, her breath unsteady, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“You’re not leaving,” she said. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Then we stop Malrik,” I said. “Together.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then we move now. Before he can act.”
---
We left the lodge at dusk.
The air was sharp with the scent of snow, the valley below glowing with the first lights of evening. We traveled in silence, the bond humming between us, warm, alive, *real*. And then—
My phone buzzed.
A message from Mira.
Nyx knows about Elara.
My breath caught.
Cordelia saw it. “What is it?”
I didn’t answer.
Just showed her the message.
Her storm-gray eyes burned. “Then we move faster.”
And we did.
Because this wasn’t just a war.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.