The war room had never felt so empty.
Maps still covered the table, their edges curling from old magic and too many late nights. Scrying mirrors flickered with updates from enclaves across Europe—peaceful reports, for once. No bloodshed. No betrayals. No assassinations. Just quiet. Stability. Normalcy.
And yet—
It was unbearable.
I stood at the window, my back to the door, my fingers gripping the sill until the stone cracked beneath my grip. The city of Geneva sprawled beneath the Obsidian Spire, its undercity glowing with lanterns and bloodwine fires, its surface world asleep beneath a blanket of snow. The moon hung low, full and heavy, casting silver light over the rooftops. It should have been beautiful.
It felt like a tomb.
Because she wasn’t here.
Cordelia.
She’d left an hour ago—after the Blood Oath Renewal, after the Council’s silent acknowledgment, after Seraphine’s quiet blessing. She’d walked out without a word, her storm-gray eyes burning, her cloak whispering secrets only witches could hear. Elara had followed, clutching her journal like it was the only thing holding her together. Mira had given me a look—sharp, knowing—before slipping into the shadows.
And I’d stayed.
Because I was afraid.
Not of war.
Not of power.
Of her.
Of what I wanted.
Of what I’d spent centuries denying.
---
My fingers twitched.
Not from hunger.
From need.
The bond between us hummed—low, insistent, a live wire of magic and desire that made my fangs lengthen, my pulse quicken. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist pulsed, warm and crimson, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t magic.
It was hers.
And I was tired of fighting it.
Tired of pretending I didn’t want her.
Tired of pretending I didn’t love her.
---
I left the war room.
Not in silence.
In purpose.
My boots echoed through the corridors, my coat open, my dagger sheathed. Vampires stepped aside. Werewolves bowed their heads. Fae envoys lowered their glamours. Even the human guards didn’t speak—just watched as I passed, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.
They knew.
Something had changed.
And I wasn’t going to hide it.
---
Her chambers were at the east wing—high above the city, overlooking the lake, the windows framed by silver willows that wept with frost. The door was closed. No guards. No wards. Just a single rune etched into the wood—a witch’s mark, a warning, a promise.
“Stay out.”
I didn’t knock.
Just turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was dark—no torches, no lanterns, just the pale glow of moonlight spilling through the windows. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, her dagger on the nightstand, its runes humming faintly. The grimoire lay open on the desk, its pages whispering, its ink shifting with every breath.
And there—
By the window.
She stood with her back to me, her cloak pooled at her feet, her gown slipping off one shoulder, her storm-gray eyes reflecting the moonlight. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, raven-black, threaded with silver from the magic she’d spent. She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
Just stood there.
Waiting.
---
“You left,” I said, my voice low, rough.
“You stayed,” she replied, not turning.
“I had to.”
“No,” she said. “You chose to.”
I didn’t argue. Just stepped forward, my boots silent on the stone. The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—and I didn’t pull back. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us closer until my breath grazed the nape of her neck, until my heat seeped through her gown, until my fangs grazed her pulse.
She didn’t flinch.
Just exhaled—slow, controlled.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured.
“I’m not,” she said. “I have Elara. I have Mira. I have—”
“Me,” I said, cutting her off. “You have me. Not as a ruler. Not as a vampire lord. As a man who would burn the world for you. As a man who would die for you. As a man who loves you.”
She stilled.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
And then—
She turned.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Her storm-gray eyes burned, not with anger, not with hatred, but with something deeper. Something I’d spent a lifetime afraid to name.
Need.
“You don’t get to say that,” she said, her voice breaking. “Not after what you did. Not after what you took from me.”
“I know,” I said. “And I’d do it again. Not for power. Not for control. For her. For you. Because I love you more than I hate myself for what I’ve done.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, her heat seeping through my coat, her presence a storm. “And if I said I loved you too?”
My breath caught.
Not from shock.
From fire.
“Then I’d say you’re lying,” I said, my voice a growl. “Because you don’t love me. You hate me. You’ve hated me since the first time I touched you.”
“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, “I let you.”
“Because of the bond.”
“No,” she said. “Because of us.”
The air stilled.
Not from magic.
From truth.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not to push me away.
To pull me in.
Her fingers curled into my coat, her nails scraping my chest, her breath unsteady. “I don’t want to hate you anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to pretend this—this thing between us—is just magic. It’s not. It’s us. And I’m tired of running from it.”
My fangs lengthened.
Not from hunger.
From need.
“Then don’t,” I said. “Stay. With me. In this room. In this bed. In this life.”
She didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
Her mouth crashed against mine, her tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring. I didn’t pull away. Just kissed her back—furious, desperate, electric—my hands sliding up her back, my fingers tangling in her hair, my body pressing hers against the wall.
The bond flared—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull back. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us together until our breaths mingled, until her nails dug into my shoulders, until my fangs grazed her lower lip.
And then—
I stopped.
Just an inch away. Just a breath.
“Say it,” I said, my voice a growl. “Say you want this. Say you want me.”
Her chest rose and fell, her storm-gray eyes burning. “I want this,” she said. “I want you. Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Because I choose you.”
And then—
I lifted her.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Hard. Possessive. Mine.
Her legs wrapped around my waist, her gown slipping lower, her breath catching as I carried her to the bed. I didn’t lay her down. Just pressed her into the mattress, my body a wall, my fangs grazing her pulse, my hands sliding up her thighs.
“You’re sure?” I asked, my voice rough.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said.
And then—
I undressed her.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Every inch of fabric peeled away—her cloak, her gown, her boots—until she was bare beneath me, her skin glowing in the moonlight, her body trembling, not from fear, but from need. I didn’t rush. Just traced every scar, every curve, every secret with my fingers, my mouth, my breath—her collarbone, her ribs, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.
And when I reached the edge of her panties—
She stopped me.
Not with words.
With touch.
Her hand covered mine, her fingers interlacing with mine, her thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—she moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until my palm rested over the hard peak of her breast, 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 not the bond,” she whispered. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving my 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.
---
I undressed next.
Not in silence.
In ritual.
My coat fell first. Then my boots. Then my shirt—slow, deliberate, every button undone with care. My dagger clattered to the floor. My belt followed. And then—
My trousers.
She didn’t look away.
Just watched as I stood before her, bare, hard, hers. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist pulsed, warm and crimson, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. And when I stepped toward the bed—
She reached for me.
Not to pull me down.
To touch.
Her fingers traced the scar across my abdomen, the curve of my hip, the edge of my cock. I didn’t flinch. Just let her feel me, her touch burning, her breath unsteady, 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 not the bond,” she whispered. “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 speak.
Just moved.
My body over hers, my mouth on her neck, her nails digging into my back. I didn’t rush. Just savored—her taste, her scent, the way she arched beneath me when I kissed the inside of her thigh, the way she moaned when I finally—finally—slid two fingers inside her, warm, wet, mine.
“Lysander,” she gasped, her voice breaking.
“Say it again,” I growled.
“Lysander,” she said, louder this time. “Please.”
And then—
I gave her what she wanted.
What we both wanted.
What we’d been fighting for since the first time our hands touched on that cursed stone.
I entered her—slow, deep, claiming—and she cried out, her body clenching around me, her magic flaring, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. I didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried inside her, my forehead pressed to hers, my breath unsteady.
“Still hate me?” I asked, my voice rough.
She didn’t answer.
Just pulled me deeper, her legs wrapping around my waist, her hips rising to meet mine.
And then—
We moved.
Slow at first. Then faster. Harder. Deeper. Every thrust a promise. Every gasp a vow. Every moan a truth we’d spent lifetimes denying.
And when she came—her body arching, her magic flaring, her voice breaking my name—I followed, spilling inside her with a roar that echoed through the spire, the bond surging, the Duskbane sigil glowing, the world narrowing to just this—her, me, us.
---
After, we didn’t speak.
Just lay there, tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my arms around her, my fangs grazing her temple. The bond hummed—warm, alive, ours—and I didn’t pull away. Just held her, my breath steady, my heart full.
“You’re not leaving,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we rule.”
I kissed her—soft, reverent, real—and then let her go.
Just enough to pull the blankets over us, to turn off the moonlight, to whisper, “Good.”
---
Later, as the stars pierced the sky, as the first light of dawn bled through the windows, 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 wasn’t studying it.
Wasn’t using it.
Just… remembering.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I 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.