The war room had never felt so full of silence.
Maps still covered the table—Geneva’s undercity, the Black Forest, London’s ley lines—all marked with sigils only witches could read, all humming with residual magic. Scrying mirrors flickered at the edges of the room, their surfaces showing nothing but static, as if the world itself had gone quiet. The air was thick with the scent of old ink, dried blood, and the faintest trace of Cordelia’s magic—storm-gray, sharp, alive. It clung to the walls, to the chairs, to the very breath in my lungs.
And yet—
It was empty.
Not of objects. Not of power.
Of her.
She’d been gone for three hours. Three hours since she’d slipped out after the Veil vision, since she’d kissed my temple and whispered, “I need to check on Elara,” since she’d walked out without looking back. I hadn’t stopped her. Didn’t want to. She needed space. We both did. The future we’d seen—Elara bound, the city in ruins, me possessed—it had carved something into us. Not fear. Not despair.
Determination.
But still.
I missed her.
Not just the bond—though it hummed beneath my skin, a second heartbeat, warm and insistent. Not just the heat of her body against mine, the way she arched when I touched her, the way she whispered my name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
I missed her.
The woman who had come to destroy me.
The witch who had chosen me anyway.
---
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.
And without her, even victory felt hollow.
---
The door opened.
Not with a creak. Not with a whisper.
With inevitability.I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. I felt her before I saw her—the shift in the air, the drop in temperature, the way the bond flared, not with pain, but with recognition. Her boots were silent on the stone, her cloak pooled at her feet, her gown slipping off one shoulder, her storm-gray eyes burning in the dim light.
“You’re brooding,” she said, stepping inside.
“I’m thinking,” I corrected, still not turning.
“Same thing,” she said, moving closer. “You’ve been like this since the vision. Since you saw her—the one wearing Seraphine’s name.”
I exhaled—slow, controlled. “I don’t like being used.”
“No,” she said. “But you were. We both were. The Veil didn’t break by accident. It was pushed. And whatever’s coming—it’s been waiting for us.”
I turned then.
And there she was.
Taller than I remembered. Sharper. Coiled with power. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, raven-black, threaded with silver from the magic she’d spent. Her dagger was at her hip, its runes humming faintly. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—burned with the light of a thousand winters, sharp and knowing and hungry.
“And if we walk away?” I asked. “If we take Elara. If we disappear. If we let the Council burn.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, her heat seeping through my shirt, her presence a storm. “Then they win. The lie wins. The silence wins. And I didn’t spend my life fighting for truth just to run from it when it gets hard.”
“And if it kills you?”
“Then it kills me,” she said. “But I’ll die standing. Not hiding. Not pretending.”
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 reached for me.
Not to push me away.
To pull me in.
Her fingers curled into my shirt, 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 war. 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 table. I didn’t lay her down. Just pressed her into the maps, 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 shirt fell first. Then my boots. Then my trousers—slow, deliberate, every button undone with care. My dagger clattered to the floor. And then—
My belt.
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 table—
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 my 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 maps, 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 fight.”
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.