The first Yule I celebrated with Lysander didn’t begin with magic. Not with blood oaths, not with ancient runes, not with whispered incantations or veiled threats. It began with a tree.
A real one.
Not conjured from shadow or glamour, not grown in a greenhouse beneath the Obsidian Spire, not even stolen from the Black Forest under cover of night. It was a living spruce, its needles still damp with morning frost, its scent sharp and clean and achingly human—pine, earth, life. It stood in the center of the war room, where maps of war zones had once sprawled across the table, where scrying mirrors had flickered with visions of blood and betrayal. Now, the maps were rolled. The mirrors were dark. The air, once thick with tension and old magic, smelled of cinnamon, spiced wine, and the faintest trace of Lysander’s cologne—dark amber and iron, like a winter storm wrapped in silk.
Elara stood beside it, her storm-gray eyes wide, her journal tucked under one arm, her fingers brushing the lowest branch with something close to reverence. “You really did it,” she said, her voice soft. “You got a real tree.”
“I didn’t get it,” Lysander said, stepping forward, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. “I *bought* it. From a human lot. Paid in cash. No glamour. No compulsion. Just… money.”
I didn’t hide my smile. “You went *shopping*?”
He shot me a look—half glare, half amusement. “Don’t make it sound like I committed a crime.”
“You did,” I said, stepping closer. “Vampire lords don’t shop. They command. They take. They *feed*.”
“And I did,” he said, stepping into my space, his heat seeping through my cloak, his fangs just visible as he smirked. “I fed on the cashier’s disbelief when I handed over a hundred francs for a tree. Price of admission for domesticity.”
Elara laughed—soft, surprised, like the sound was new to her. “He made me a list. ‘Ornaments: red, gold, silver. Lights: warm white. Star: non-negotiable.’”
“The star is important,” Lysander said, not looking away from me. “It’s tradition.”
“Since when do you care about tradition?” I asked.
“Since it became *ours*,” he said.
The bond flared—warm, insistent, alive—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist pulsed, not with warning, but with warmth. And I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into him, my fingers brushing the scar across his jaw, the one from a fight he’d fought to protect his daughter.
“You’re not doing this for show,” I said, my voice low.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m doing it because I want to. Because I want Elara to have a memory that isn’t about war. Because I want *you* to have one that isn’t about vengeance.”
My throat tightened.
Not from magic.
From love.
And then—
Elara cleared her throat. “So… are we decorating or what?”
---
We decorated.
Not with magic. Not with speed. Not with perfection.
With imperfection.
The lights tangled. The star crooked. One ornament—a delicate glass dove—shattered when Elara dropped it, and instead of fixing it with a spell, Lysander knelt, picked up the pieces, and pressed them into her palm. “Keep it,” he said. “It’s not broken. It’s just… changed.”
She didn’t cry. Just nodded, tucked the shards into her journal, and hung a lopsided reindeer in its place.
We drank spiced wine from mismatched mugs. Mira brought cookies—store-bought, she claimed, though I caught the faint scent of witchfire in the chocolate. Kaelen stood at the edge of the room, his wolf simmering beneath his skin, his presence a shadow in the dark, but he didn’t leave. Just accepted a mug, nodded when Elara offered him a cookie, and stayed.
And Lysander—
He laughed.
Not a growl. Not a smirk. Not a sound of triumph.
Real laughter.
Deep. Rich. Alive.
When Elara draped a garland of tinsel over his head like a crown. When I hung a bell on his belt loop and it jingled every time he moved. When Mira dared him to try a human Christmas carol, and he growled his way through “Silent Night” in a voice like gravel and smoke.
And I—
I watched.
Not with suspicion. Not with wariness.
With wonder.
Because this wasn’t the man who had signed my mother’s death warrant.
This wasn’t the vampire lord who had ruled with blood and silence.
This was the man who had crushed Seraphine’s vial and let the dust scatter into the wind.
The man who had chosen me over power.
The man who had knelt in the moonlight garden and said, “I love you.”
And when he caught me looking, really looking, his crimson eyes burned with something I couldn’t name.
Not desire.
Not possession.
Home.
---
Later, after the others had left, after Elara had gone to bed with her journal and the shards of the glass dove, after the war room had quieted, I found him standing by the tree, his back to me, his silhouette sharp against the warm glow of the lights.
“You’re brooding,” I said, stepping inside.
“I’m thinking,” he corrected, not turning.
“Same thing,” I said, moving closer. “You’ve been like this since the carol. Since you saw Elara smile.”
He exhaled—slow, controlled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her happy. Not after everything. Not after Nyx. Not after the lies.”
“She’s not just happy,” I said. “She’s *healing*.”
“And you?” he asked, turning then. “Are you healing?”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my heat seeping through his shirt, my presence a storm. “I’m not broken,” I said. “I’m not ruined. I’m not *hers* anymore.”
“You never were,” he said, his voice low.
“But I carried her,” I said. “Her grief. Her rage. Her need for vengeance. And now—” I looked at him—“I don’t want to carry it anymore.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his gaze sharp, his breath unsteady. “Then put it down.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then I’ll help you,” he said. “One day at a time. One memory at a time. One breath at a time.”
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 his neck, until my heat seeped through his shirt, until my fangs grazed his pulse.
He didn’t flinch.
Just exhaled—slow, controlled.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured.
“I’m not,” he said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
My mouth crashed against his, my tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring. He didn’t pull away. Just kissed me back—furious, desperate, electric—his hands sliding up my back, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body pressing his 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 my nails dug into his shoulders, until his fangs grazed my 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.”
His chest rose and fell, his crimson eyes burning. “I want this,” he said. “I want you. Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Because I choose you.”
And then—
He lifted me.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Hard. Possessive. Mine.
My legs wrapped around his waist, my cloak slipping lower, my breath catching as he carried me to the sofa. I didn’t lay down. Just pressed into the cushions, my body a wall, his fangs grazing my pulse, his hands sliding up my thighs.
“You’re sure?” I asked, my voice rough.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said.
And then—
I undressed him.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Every inch of fabric peeled away—his shirt, his trousers, his boots—until he was bare beneath me, his skin glowing in the firelight, his body trembling, not from cold, but from need. I didn’t rush. Just traced every scar, every curve, every secret with my fingers, my mouth, my breath—his collarbone, his ribs, the dip of his waist, the swell of his hips.
And when I reached the edge of his boxers—
He stopped me.
Not with words.
With touch.
His hand covered mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—he moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until my palm rested over the hard peak of his arousal, pressing through the fabric.
My 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,” he whispered. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving my hand where it was, his body still hard, his breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” he breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled his hand back, his cheeks flushed, his crimson eyes burning. But he didn’t look away. Just stared at me, his chest rising and falling, his 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 cloak fell first. Then my boots. Then my gown—slow, deliberate, every button undone with care. My dagger clattered to the floor. My belt followed. And then—
My panties.
He didn’t look away.
Just watched as I stood before him, 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 sofa—
He reached for me.
Not to pull me down.
To touch.
His fingers traced the scar across my abdomen, the curve of my hip, the edge of my pussy. I didn’t flinch. Just let him feel me, his touch burning, his breath unsteady, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
I caught his wrist.
Not to stop him.
To guide him.
My hand covered his, my fingers interlacing with his, my thumb brushing the pulse at his wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until his palm rested over the hard ridge of my clit, pressing through the fabric.
My 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,” he whispered. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving his hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” I breathed.
“But you want me to,” he said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
I didn’t answer.
Just pulled his hand back, my cheeks flushed, my storm-gray eyes burning. But I didn’t look away. Just stared at him, my chest rising and falling, my magic reaching for his 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 his, my mouth on his neck, his nails digging into my back. I didn’t rush. Just savored—his taste, his scent, the way he arched beneath me when I kissed the inside of his thigh, the way he moaned when I finally—finally—slid two fingers inside him, warm, wet, mine.
“Cordelia,” he gasped, his voice breaking.
“Say it again,” I growled.
“Cordelia,” he said, louder this time. “Please.”
And then—
I gave him what he wanted.
What we both wanted.
What we’d been fighting for since the first time our hands touched on that cursed stone.
I entered him—slow, deep, claiming—and he cried out, his body clenching around me, his magic flaring, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. I didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried inside him, my forehead pressed to his, my breath unsteady.
“Still hate me?” I asked, my voice rough.
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me deeper, his legs wrapping around my waist, his 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 he came—his body arching, his magic flaring, his voice breaking my name—I followed, spilling inside him with a roar that echoed through the spire, the bond surging, the Duskbane sigil glowing, the world narrowing to just this—him, me, us.
---
After, we didn’t speak.
Just lay there, tangled in the blankets, my head on his chest, his arms around me, my fangs grazing his temple. The bond hummed—warm, alive, ours—and I didn’t pull away. Just held him, my breath steady, my heart full.
“You’re not leaving,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we fight. We rule. We live.”
I kissed him—soft, reverent, real—and then let him go.
Just enough to pull the blankets over us, to turn off the fire, 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 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.