The first time I imagined a future with Cordelia, it was a war strategy.
Not a dream. Not a fantasy. A tactical projection—mapped out in the war room, etched into the scrying mirror with blood and silver dust. I’d been tracking the movements of House Nocturne, analyzing Queen Nyx’s weakening grip on the Fae High Court, calculating the probability of rebellion within the Northern Pack. And somewhere between the third and fourth layer of defense, my mind had slipped.
Not into weakness.
Into *vision*.
I saw her standing beside me at the head of the Council, not as a prisoner, not as a pawn, but as a ruler—her storm-gray eyes sharp, her dagger bared, her voice cutting through silence like a blade. I saw Elara between us, no longer hiding, no longer afraid, but leading the youth coalition with fire in her gaze and truth on her tongue. I saw the Obsidian Spire not as a fortress, but as a home—lanterns glowing in the undercity, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of spiced wine and old magic curling through the air.
And then—
I saw a child.
Not Elara.
Another.
With raven hair. Storm-gray eyes. A dagger etched with runes.
Our child.
I’d shattered the mirror that day. Not in rage. Not in denial.
In *fear*.
Because wanting her was one thing.
Wanting a future with her—wanting *more*—was something else entirely.
But that was before the Veil cracked.
Before the shadow fed on my guilt.
Before Cordelia knelt beside me, her lips sealing over the wound, her magic burning the darkness from my soul.
Now—
I wasn’t afraid.
Now, I *wanted* it.
Not as a strategy.
As a promise.
---
The sun had just begun to rise over Geneva, its pale gold light slicing through the clouds, painting the Obsidian Spire in streaks of fire and shadow. The city below was still quiet—the undercity asleep, the bloodwine dens shuttered, the cobblestone streets slick with dew. But inside the spire, the war room was alive.
Not with tension.
With *life*.
Maps still covered the table—Geneva’s ley lines, London’s safe houses, the Black Forest’s hidden paths—but they weren’t marked with threats. With *plans*. Elara’s journal lay open beside them, her handwriting sharp and precise, her notes detailing the coalition’s next moves: refugee resettlement, hybrid education programs, the reopening of the Bloodfire Shrine. Mira stood by the scrying mirror, her dark eyes scanning the network’s latest reports, her dagger at her hip. Kaelen leaned against the far wall, his wolf simmering beneath his skin, his storm-gray eyes burning with quiet loyalty.
And Cordelia—
She sat at the head of the table, her raven hair unbound, her storm-gray eyes scanning the reports, her fingers tracing the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. She wore no armor. No cloak. Just a simple black gown, its hem stitched with silver thread that shimmered like lightning. Her dagger rested on the table beside her, not drawn, not ready for battle.
Just *hers*.
She looked up as I entered, not with challenge, not with wariness.
With *recognition*.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice low.
“I was thinking,” I replied, stepping inside.
“Dangerous habit,” she said, a slow, dangerous smile curving her lips. “Could get you killed.”
“Only if I’m not careful,” I said, moving toward her.
She didn’t flinch. Just watched as I pulled out the chair beside her, my heat seeping through her gown as I sat. 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.
“You’re brooding,” she said, not looking at me.
“I’m planning,” I corrected.
“Same thing,” she said. “You’ve been like this since the Council Reforms. Since you saw Elara stand in front of the Council and demand justice for hybrids.”
I exhaled—slow, controlled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her speak like that. Not after everything. Not after Nyx. Not after the lies.”
“She’s not just speaking,” I said. “She’s *leading*.”
“And you?” she asked, turning then. “Are you leading?”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for her hand, my fingers interlacing with hers, my thumb brushing the pulse at her wrist. “I’m not just a ruler anymore,” I said. “I’m a father. A partner. A man who’s finally learning how to *live*.”
She stilled.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
And then—
Elara cleared her throat. “So… are we doing this or what?”
---
We were.
The coalition’s first long-term strategy session. Not about war. Not about survival.
About *future*.
“First,” Elara said, standing, her journal in hand, “we need safe houses in every major city. Not just for witches. For hybrids. For humans who’ve been used as pawns. For anyone who’s been silenced.”
“Already underway,” Mira said. “We’ve secured properties in Paris, Prague, London. The network’s handling logistics.”
“Good,” Elara said. “Second—education. Hybrids need schools. Not human ones. Not vampire academies. *Ours*. Where they can learn to control their magic, their shifts, their voices.”
“I can help with that,” Kaelen said, stepping forward. “The Northern Pack has elders who’ve trained mixed-bloods before. They’d be willing to teach.”
“Third,” Elara continued, “the Bloodfire Shrine. It shouldn’t just be a memorial. It should be a school. A place where every child—witch, vampire, fae, human—can learn the truth. No more lies. No more silence.”
The room stilled.
Even Mira looked at her—really looked at her.
Not with surprise.
With pride.
And then—
Cordelia stood.
Not with force. Not with fire.
With *certainty*.
“I agree,” she said. “But it can’t just be about the past. It has to be about the future. We need a new generation of leaders—ones who aren’t afraid of truth, who don’t see difference as weakness. And that starts with *us*.”
She looked at me.
And I looked back.
“We’ve spent our lives fighting for survival,” she said. “Now it’s time to fight for *legacy*.”
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 her neck, until my heat seeped through her gown, until my fangs grazed her pulse.
She didn’t flinch.
Just exhaled—slow, controlled.
And then—
I said it.
Not as a question.
As a vow.
“We should have children.”
The room stilled.
Not in shock.
In recognition.
Elara didn’t gasp. Didn’t smile. Just looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it.
Not fear.
Hope.
Mira raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes sharp. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious,” I said, not looking away from Cordelia. “Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Because I want to build a future. A real one. With you. With her. With *us*.”
Cordelia didn’t answer.
Just studied me—her storm-gray eyes burning, her breath unsteady. “You know what it means,” she said. “A child of ours wouldn’t just be powerful. It would be *targeted*. House Nocturne. The remnants of the High Court. Anyone who still believes in the old ways—they’ll come for them.”
“Then we’ll protect them,” I said. “Like I protected Elara. Like you protected the truth. Like we’ve protected each other.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we’ll die trying,” I said. “But I’d rather die building a future than living in the past.”
She didn’t flinch.
Just reached for me.
Not to pull me close.
To *touch*.
Her hand slid up my arm, warm and solid, her fingers brushing the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. “You’re shaking,” she said.
“It’s not fear,” I said. “It’s *need*.”
“And if I said no?”
“Then I’d wait,” I said. “A century. A millennium. However long it takes.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into her arms, her body a wall, her breath warm against my neck. The bond flared—heat, awareness, need—and I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into her, my fingers fisting in her gown, my breath unsteady.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured.
“I’m not,” she said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
And then—
She 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, our bodies pressing together until the table dug into my spine, until her nails dug into my shoulders, until my fangs grazed her lower lip.
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 magic flared, until the Duskbane sigil on her wrist glowed, not with pain, but with power.
And then—
I broke the kiss.
Just enough to speak.
“Say it,” I said, my voice a growl. “Say you want this. Say you want me. Say you want *us*—a future, a family, a life.”
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 if that means a child—” her voice broke—“then I choose that too.”
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 sofa. I didn’t lay her down. Just pressed her into the cushions, 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 morning light, 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.
---
Later, as the sun rose over the spire, as the city awakened, as the first birds sang in the moonlit garden, 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.