The moon hung low over Geneva, a silver sickle slicing through the clouds, its light spilling across the Obsidian Spire like liquid mercury. The city below was quiet—too quiet. No laughter from the bloodwine dens. No chants from the undercity. No rustle of cloaks or whisper of wings. Just stillness. The kind that comes after a storm. The kind that feels like a breath held too long.
I stood at the edge of the moonlit garden, my boots silent on the moss, my storm-gray eyes scanning the shadows. The black roses glowed faintly with dew, their petals edged in frost. The fountain was still—no ripples, no whispers, no magic curling through the water. Even the willows seemed to hold their breath.
And then—
He stepped through the trees.
Not with sound. Not with presence.
With inevitability.Lysander.
He wore no coat tonight. No armor. Just a simple black shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the Duskbane sigil etched into his wrist—crimson, pulsing, alive. His fangs were retracted. His aura was calm. But I felt it—the tension beneath the stillness, the weight of every decision, every life he’d taken, every lie he’d lived.
And yet—
He smiled.
Not sharp. Not feral.
Soft.And it undid me.
---
“You’re not in the war room,” I said, not turning to face him.
“Neither are you,” he replied, stepping beside me. His shoulder brushed mine, his heat seeping through my cloak. “Elara’s asleep. Mira’s on patrol. The Council’s quiet. For once.”
“And you?” I asked. “Why aren’t you working?”
“Because I’m tired,” he said. “Not of ruling. Not of fighting. Of pretending.”
I didn’t answer.
Just watched as he reached into the inner seam of his coat—slow, deliberate—and pulled out a vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
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.
“You kept it,” I said, my voice steady.
“I did,” he admitted, not looking at me. “Not because I wanted her. Not because I regret what I did. But because I needed to remember what I almost became.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he said, turning the vial in his fingers, “I don’t need it.”
And then—
He crushed it.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With his hand.The glass shattered. The dried blood turned to dust. The label flared once—gold, then crimson, then black—before dissolving into the air like ash on the wind.
And then—
He let the pieces fall.
They scattered across the moss, glinting in the moonlight, already being swallowed by the earth.
“You’re sure?” I asked, my voice low. “You’re really letting it go?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to pull me close.
To touch.
His hand slid up my arm, warm and solid, his fingers brushing the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s the magic,” I said. “It takes something from me every time.”
“And if it takes too much?”
“Then it takes,” I said. “But I’ll still stand.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body a wall, his breath warm against my neck. The bond flared—heat, awareness, need—and I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into him, my fingers fisting in his shirt, my breath unsteady.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” I said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
He kissed my temple—soft, reverent, real—and then let me go.
---
We didn’t speak.
Just walked—side by side, shoulder to shoulder, our boots silent on the moss. The garden was different now. Not just a sanctuary. Not just a battlefield. A home. The scars of war were still there—the cracked fountain, the scorched willow, the rune-carved stones—but they weren’t hidden. They were part of it. Like us.
Like our love.
Elara was asleep in her chambers, her journal tucked beneath her pillow, her face peaceful. Mira was on patrol, her dagger drawn, her dark eyes scanning the shadows. Kaelen stood at the edge of the undercity, his wolf simmering beneath his skin, his presence a storm. And Seraphine—
She was gone.
Not dead. Not exiled.
Free.She’d left a note on the dais—just two words, written in delicate script:
“Thank you.”
And beneath it, a vial.
Clear this time. Filled with water. Labeled: “For Truth.”
---
We stopped at the center of the garden, where the moonlight pooled like liquid silver, where the black roses glowed with dew, where the fountain whispered secrets only witches could hear. And then—
He turned to me.
Not with words.
With touch.
His hand slid to the small of my back, warm and solid, his fingers pressing through the fabric of my gown. My other hand rested on his shoulder, my palm feeling the strength beneath the black shirt, the steady beat of his heart. We didn’t move at first. Just stood there, our bodies close, our breaths mingling, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
And then—
We began to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Intimate.
No music. No rhythm. No pattern.
Just us.Our bodies swayed, our hips brushing, our chests nearly touching. The garden faded. The city disappeared. The world narrowed to just this—his hand on my back, my palm on his shoulder, our breaths syncing, our magic reaching for each other like drowning lovers grasping for shore.
“You’re not trembling,” he said, his voice a murmur against my ear.
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
“And if you were?”
“Then I’d still be here,” I said. “Because fear doesn’t stop me. It fuels me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just spun me—slow, careful, his hand never leaving my back. My gown flared, the hem catching the moonlight, the runes stitched into the fabric glowing faintly. And then—
He pulled me back.
Closer.
Tighter.
Until my body was pressed against his, until my breath hitched, until my storm-gray eyes locked onto his crimson ones.
“You’re shaking now,” he said.
“It’s not fear,” I whispered.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s the bond,” I said. “It’s the magic. It’s… us.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his gaze burning, his breath unsteady. “And if I kissed you?”
“Then I’d let you,” I said. “And I wouldn’t stop.”
The air stilled.
Not from magic.
From anticipation.
And then—
He leaned in.
Not fast. Not desperate.
Slow. Inevitable. Final.
His fangs grazed my lower lip. His breath was warm against my skin. His hand tightened on my back, pulling me impossibly closer. And then—
He stopped.
Just an inch away. Just a breath.
“Say it,” he said, his voice a growl. “Say you want this.”
My heart hammered.
Not from fear.
From need.
“I want this,” I said. “I want you.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
His mouth crashed against mine, his fangs nipping my lip, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring. I didn’t pull away. Just kissed him back—furious, desperate, electric—my fingers fisting in his shirt, my body arching into his, the bond flaring so hot it burned.
The garden erupted.
Not in violence.
In truth.
Witches gasped. Vampires hissed. Fae envoys stumbled back, their glamours flickering. Even the musicians faltered, their voices breaking mid-chant.
And then—
They began to clap.
Not polite. Not hesitant.
Thunderous. Unstoppable. Real.
We didn’t stop. Just kept kissing, our bodies pressed together, our magic entwined, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. And then—
He pulled back.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak.
“Still hate me?” he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip, still swollen from his kiss.
I didn’t answer.
Just smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. Real.
“Every damn day,” I said.
He grinned—sharp, feral, alive—and then spun me again, his hand low on my back, pulling me flush against him, our hips grinding, our breaths ragged.
And then—
The music shifted.
Not slower. Not softer.
But deeper.
A new rhythm—older, darker, laced with magic. The runes on my gown flared gold, then crimson, then black. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist burned, not with pain, but with power. And then—
The bond answered.
Not with fire.
With truth.
---
I saw it—not a vision, not a memory.
A future.
Me, standing at the head of the Council, my voice cutting through the silence. Lysander at my side, not in silver, but in black—his armor etched with the crest of House Duskbane, his fangs bared, his aura flaring crimson. Elara between us, her fingers gripping the grimoire, her storm-gray eyes burning. The coalition behind us—wolves, witches, Fae, humans—united, unbroken, alive.
And then—
A child.
Not Elara.
Another.
With raven hair. Storm-gray eyes. A dagger etched with runes.
Our child.
And then—
I snapped back.
Still in his arms. Still dancing. Still his.
“You saw it,” he said, his voice low, rough.
“I saw us,” I whispered.
“And if it’s real?”
“Then I’ll spend every damn day proving I deserve it,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, claiming—and then pulled me into a final spin, his hand low on my back, his body a wall, his breath warm against my neck.
And as the music faded, as the lanterns dimmed, as the first stars pierced the sky, I knew—
This wasn’t just a dance.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.
---
Later, as the moon rose over the spire, as the garden emptied, as the music faded into silence, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his shirt—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
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 he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.