The wound didn’t bleed.
Not with red. Not with life.
With shadow.
It pulsed in Lysander’s chest like a second heart—ink-black, shimmering, alive—its edges crawling beneath his skin as if trying to burrow deeper, to root itself in the marrow of his bones. I knelt beside him on the war room floor, my fingers hovering just above the tear in his shirt, my storm-gray eyes locked onto the darkness writhing beneath the surface. The air smelled of old magic and iron, of blood and something older—something that had existed before oaths, before bloodlines, before the first vampire drew breath.
It was still feeding.
Even now, even after it had been driven back, it clung to him. Not as a parasite. Not as a curse.
As a memory.
And memories were the hardest things to kill.
---
“It’s not healing,” I said, my voice low.
“It’s not meant to,” Lysander replied, his voice rough, his crimson eyes half-lidded. He lay propped against the shattered remains of the scrying mirror, his coat discarded, his shirt torn open, his chest bare. The Duskbane sigil on his wrist pulsed faintly, not with its usual warmth, but with a dull, sickly throb. “It’s not a wound. It’s a *presence*. And it’s using my guilt like a door.”
“Then we burn the door down,” I said.
He didn’t argue. Just watched as I reached for the grimoire, its cover worn, its pages whispering secrets only witches could hear. I didn’t open it to a spell. Didn’t search for a ritual. Just placed it on his lap, the leather warm against his skin, the runes along the spine glowing faintly.
“Your mother’s blood is in these pages,” he said. “Her magic. Her rage. Her vengeance.”
“And now it’s mine,” I said. “Not to destroy. Not to punish. To *heal*.”
He didn’t flinch. Just placed his hand over mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” I said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—and I didn’t pull away. 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.
And then—
I began.
---
The first cut was shallow.
Not with a blade. Not with magic.
With truth.
I pressed my palm to the wound, my fingers splayed over the darkness, and I *spoke*.
Not in the old tongue. Not in incantation.
In memory.
“You were sixteen when you were turned,” I said, my voice steady. “Your sire was a vampire from House Nocturne. He didn’t love you. He didn’t want you. He turned you because he was bored. Because he wanted a pet.”
Lysander tensed beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away. Just exhaled—slow, controlled.
“You hated him,” I continued. “Not because he fed on you. Not because he chained you in the cellar. But because he made you *thank him*. Because he made you beg for the bite, for the power, for the *life* he gave you.”
His fangs lengthened. Not from hunger. From memory.
“And when you killed him,” I said, “you didn’t feel free. You felt guilty. Because you’d needed him. Because you’d *wanted* him. And that guilt—” I pressed deeper, my magic flaring—“it’s still here. It’s still feeding the darkness.”
He didn’t speak. Just gripped my wrist, his fingers tight, his breath unsteady.
And then—
I cut deeper.
---
“Elara was six when you found her,” I said, my voice softer now. “Abandoned in a London alley. Human. Mortal. And you *knew* you shouldn’t take her. Knew it was dangerous. Knew it would make you a target.”
He swallowed. Hard.
“But you did it anyway,” I said. “You brought her into the spire. You hid her. You raised her in silence, in shadows, in fear. And when Queen Nyx threatened her life—” my voice broke—“you signed the death warrant. Not for power. Not for control. For *her*.”
Tears tracked down his temples, not from pain, but from something worse.
Recognition.
“And you’ve carried that,” I said. “Every day. Every breath. You’ve punished yourself for it. You’ve let it eat at you. You’ve let it *define* you.”
The darkness in his chest writhed, pulsing like a living thing, its edges blackening, spreading.
And then—
I pressed my lips to the wound.
Not to heal.
To consume.
---
My mouth sealed over the shadow, my breath steady, my magic flaring. I didn’t pull it out. Didn’t force it. Just *took* it—sucked it into me like poison from a bite, like grief from a wound, like guilt from a soul. It burned as it passed through my lips—bitter, rancid, alive—but I didn’t pull away. Just swallowed it, let it coil in my stomach, let it sear my insides, let it try to take root.
And then—
I burned it.
Not with fire. Not with magic.
With *love*.
I thought of the first time he kissed me in the moonlit garden—desperate, furious, electric. I thought of the way he crushed Seraphine’s vial and let the dust scatter into the wind. I thought of the way he stood between me and the shadow, his body a shield, his voice steady, his love *real*.
And I burned the guilt.
Not because it didn’t matter.
Because it did.
And because he was worth more than his past.
---
The darkness poured out of him in thick, rancid smoke, hissing as it touched the air, curling around my arms, my neck, my face. It tried to speak—hollow, cold, not human—but I didn’t listen. Just kept feeding it into the fire of my magic, my love, my *choice*. And when it screamed—when it clawed at my mind, at my heart, at my soul—I didn’t flinch.
I *laughed*.
“You think you can take him?” I whispered against his skin. “You think you can use his guilt, his fear, his love against him? You don’t know him. You don’t know *us*.”
And then—
I bit him.
Not to feed.
To claim.
My fangs pierced the skin just above the wound, my mouth sealing over the puncture, my magic flaring as I drew a single drop of blood—dark, rich, *alive*. I didn’t swallow it. Just held it on my tongue, let it mix with the shadow still in my mouth, let it burn, let it purify, let it *become*.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
My mouth crashed against his, my tongue sweeping inside, the mixture of blood and shadow spilling between us, our magic flaring, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. He didn’t pull away. Just kissed me back—furious, desperate, electric—his hands sliding up my back, my fingers tangling in his hair, our breaths mingling.
And then—
The darkness *burned*.
Not with fire.
With *truth*.
It curled back into itself, shrieking, dissolving, vanishing into the air like ash on the wind. The wound in Lysander’s chest sealed—not with scar, not with magic—but with light. A soft, golden glow, warm and steady, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of death.
Of peace.
---
I didn’t move. Just stayed there, my lips pressed to his, my body trembling, my magic spent. The grimoire lay open on the floor, its pages still, its whispers silenced. The war room was quiet—maps torn, mirrors shattered, the Yule tree still glowing with warm white lights—but it didn’t feel broken.
It felt healed.
And then—
Lysander cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip, still swollen from the kiss. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s not the magic,” I said. “It’s the truth. 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.
Just enough to pull the blankets over us, to turn off the fire, to whisper, “Good.”
---
Later, in the quiet of the war room, as the first light of dawn bled through the windows, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—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.