The rain came like a curse from the gods—violent, unrelenting, as if the sky itself had split open to drown the Obsidian Spire in penance. It fell in sheets, hammering the black roses into the earth, turning the garden paths to rivers of mud and mercury. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the stone foundations, and lightning split the sky in jagged veins of white fire.
And Cordelia ran.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. Just plunged into the storm, her soaked gown clinging to her legs, her breath ragged, her pulse screaming through the bond like a war drum. I felt every step—every stumble, every gasp—as if they were my own. The bond fever had already taken hold. Her vision blurred. Her muscles seized. But still, she ran.
Because she couldn’t face the truth.
Not mine.
Hers.
She’d kissed me back.
For one searing, desperate moment, her lips had moved against mine, her hands gripping my arms, her body arching into mine. Not because of magic. Not because of the bond.
Because she *wanted* to.
And now she was running from it—from me, from herself, from the terrifying realization that her hate wasn’t strong enough to drown out what she felt.
I didn’t hesitate.
I followed.
The moment I stepped into the storm, the cold bit through my coat like silver blades. Rain lashed my face, stinging my eyes, but I didn’t slow. My vampire senses cut through the downpour—tracking her scent, her heartbeat, the faint glow of the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. She was weakening. The bond fever was taking its toll. Every step was agony. Every breath, a battle.
And still, she ran.
Through the thorned arches, past the bone statues, toward the edge of the garden where the land dropped into a sheer cliff overlooking Lake Geneva. The wind howled, tearing at my hair, my coat, my control. I could feel the bond straining—pulling, screaming, *begging* for us to be close. Ten feet. That was the limit. But she was pushing it. Pushing *me*.
“Cordelia!” I roared over the storm. “Stop!”
She didn’t.
Instead, she stumbled, her foot catching on a root, and went down hard in the mud. I was on her in an instant, dropping to my knees beside her, my hands closing around her arms. She fought—slapping, kicking, her nails raking my cheek—but her strength was gone. The fever had her. Her skin was burning, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The rune on her palm flared crimson, and the mark on her wrist pulsed like a dying star.
“You idiot,” I growled, pulling her into my arms. “You think running will change anything?”
“Let me go,” she spat, her voice raw. “I’d rather die than be trapped with you.”
“Then you’ll die,” I said, lifting her. “And for what? Pride? Vengeance? You think your mother would want this? You think she’d want you to throw your life away just to prove a point?”
She went still. “Don’t speak her name.”
“Then stop using her as a weapon,” I snapped. “You don’t know what she knew. You don’t know what she sacrificed. And you *certainly* don’t know what I did to keep her death from being in vain.”
She glared up at me, her storm-gray eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then tell me.”
“Not here.”
“When, then?” she demanded, struggling again. “After you’ve silenced me? After you’ve made me your obedient little witch?”
“Never,” I said, my voice rough. “I don’t want obedience. I want *truth*. But you have to be ready to hear it. And right now, you’re not.”
She turned her face away, but I felt the shift in the bond—less hate, more doubt. Good. Let her question. Let her wonder. Let her see that I wasn’t the monster she’d painted me to be.
I carried her back toward the spire, ignoring the sting of her nails in my shoulders, the way her body trembled against mine. The bond hummed between us, a live wire of pain and need, but I didn’t let go. Couldn’t. If I did, she’d collapse. If I did, she’d die.
And I wasn’t ready to lose her.
Not yet.
Not ever.
But then she twisted in my arms, her wet hair whipping across my face, her eyes blazing with fury and something else—something deeper, darker.
“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Carrying me like I’m some broken thing? Like I’m yours to control?”
“I’m not controlling you,” I said. “I’m *saving* you.”
“From what? From the truth? From *myself*?”
“From *this*,” I said, nodding toward the storm. “From the bond. From the fever. From the fact that you’re too damn stubborn to admit that you *feel* something when I touch you.”
She froze. “I don’t.”
“Liar,” I said. “Your pulse jumps. Your breath hitches. Your body *arches* toward me. And when I kissed you—”
“You *attacked* me.”
“No,” I said. “I *claimed* you. And you let me.”
Her breath caught. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” I said. “For one second, you stopped fighting. You *wanted* it. And you hate yourself for it.”
She looked away, her jaw clenched, her fingers digging into my coat. “I hate *you*.”
“Good,” I said. “Then hate me. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to me. Because I can *feel* it. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your heart beats when I’m near. The way your body responds when I’m inside your space.”
“It’s the bond.”
“It’s *us*,” I said. “And you know it.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared into the storm, her face streaked with rain and something else—tears? I couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to know.
Because if she was crying, I might do something stupid.
Like believe she cared.
---
I set her down just inside the garden’s arched entrance, where the stone overhang offered shelter from the worst of the rain. She swayed, her legs unsteady, but I kept my hands on her arms, holding her upright.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I said. “Not until the fever passes.”
“You don’t get to order me.”
“No,” I agreed. “But the bond does.”
She lifted her wrist, staring at the mark. “You think this makes me yours?”
“I think it makes us *connected*,” I said. “And that connection is the only thing keeping you alive right now. Because if you’d stayed in that chamber, Nyx would have torn you apart. Malrik would have used your accusation to rally the other houses against me. And the Accord would have collapsed.”
She looked up. “And that’s worse than justice?”
“Yes,” I said. “Because justice without peace is just more blood. And I’ve seen enough blood to last a thousand lifetimes.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared into the storm, her expression unreadable.
I moved to the edge of the overhang, watching the lightning split the sky. “You think I don’t carry her death?” I said quietly. “You think I don’t see her face every time I close my eyes? She was the only one who ever looked at me and saw *more* than a vampire lord. She saw the man beneath the title. And when she died, a part of me died with her.”
She turned, her eyes searching mine. “Then why?”
“Because I was given a choice,” I said. “Sign the order, or watch my daughter die.”
Her breath caught. “You have a daughter?”
I nodded. “Human. Sixteen. Hidden in London. Queen Nyx threatened her life if I refused. So I signed. Not for power. Not for control. For *her*.”
She stared at me, stunned. “You never told anyone.”
“No,” I said. “Because if anyone knew, she’d be a target. And I’ve spent the last sixteen years making sure she’s safe. Even if it meant becoming the monster you think I am.”
Long silence.
Then, softly: “What’s her name?”
“Elara.”
She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “You’re saying you did it to protect her.”
“I’m saying I did it to save a child,” I said. “Just like your mother tried to save hers.”
She looked away, her fingers brushing the mark on her wrist. “And the bond? The mark? Is that part of your plan too?”
“No,” I said. “That was the Stone. That was fate. Or punishment. I don’t know. But it’s real. And it’s *ours*. Whether we like it or not.”
She didn’t answer.
But the bond—quiet now, steady—pulsed between us like a second heartbeat.
And for the first time, I felt it shift.
Not hate.
Not rage.
Doubt.
And something else.
Something dangerously close to *trust*.
---
Back in the suite, I stripped off my soaked coat, tossing it onto the floor. Cordelia stood by the hearth, shivering, her gown plastered to her skin. The fire had been relit, blue flames dancing in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across her face.
“You need to change,” I said. “Before you catch your death.”
She didn’t move. Just stood there, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes distant.
I stepped closer. “Cordelia.”
“Don’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t pretend you care.”
“I don’t pretend,” I said. “I *do* care. Not because of the bond. Not because of politics. Because you’re *here*. Because you’re *alive*. Because despite everything, you still look at me like I’m worth hating.”
She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “You think that’s a compliment?”
“I think it’s the closest thing to love you’ve ever given me,” I said. “And I’ll take it.”
She stared at me, stunned. Then, slowly, she reached for the clasp of her gown.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
The silk slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before me in nothing but her undergarments, her skin pale, her body trembling—not from cold, but from something else. Something raw. Unfiltered. *Real*.
The bite mark above her collarbone glowed faintly, a fresh wound layered over the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. Two brands. Two claims. Two truths.
And then she stepped forward.
Close.
Too close.
Her hand lifted, her fingers brushing the mark on my neck—the old scar from where Seraphine had bitten me. The one I’d never let anyone see.
“You think I don’t know pain?” she said, her voice low. “You think I don’t carry scars too?”
I didn’t answer. Just watched her, my breath caught in my throat.
“You think I haven’t bled?” she said. “That I haven’t lost? That I haven’t *killed*?”
“I know,” I said. “I feel it. In the bond. In your magic. In the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
She stepped even closer, her body almost touching mine. “Then stop pretending you’re the only one who’s suffered.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just the only one who’s still standing.”
Her breath hitched. “And what if I don’t want you to?”
“Then fall,” I said. “But I’ll catch you.”
She looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. And for the first time, I saw it—not hate, not fury, not vengeance.
Something softer.
Something fragile.
Something *breakable*.
And then she did it.
She kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Claiming.
Her lips moved against mine, soft and sure, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me down to her. The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t fight it. I kissed her back, my hands sliding to her waist, pulling her against me, my fangs grazing her lip.
She moaned—into my mouth, into the fire, into the bond that screamed between us.
And then she broke it.
Pushing me back, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with tears.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Then hate me,” I said, my voice rough. “But do it like this.”
And I kissed her again.
Harder this time. Deeper. My hands in her hair, my body pressing her back against the wall. The fire roared behind us, blue flames licking at the stone, casting our shadows across the room—two figures, tangled, desperate, *inevitable*.
She didn’t fight.
Didn’t push me away.
Just kissed me back—furious, hungry, *alive*.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.