The silence after Nyx fled was worse than any battle cry.
Not the absence of sound—there were still whispers, still the flicker of torches, still the hum of ancient runes beneath the Council chamber’s floor—but the absence of *resistance*. For the first time since Opal had stepped into the Winter Court, since she’d saved my life, since the bond had seared its mark into both our souls, the air wasn’t thick with defiance, with challenge, with the unspoken war between us.
It was thick with *recognition*.
The Court had seen. They had *felt* it—the way the truth-ordeal had burned away Nyx’s illusion, the way the magic had confirmed what the bond already knew: Opal was mine. Not because of politics. Not because of duty. Not even because of the Council’s decree.
Because she was.
And I—
I was hers.
I stood beside her, my hand still pressed to the sigil on her collarbone, the heat of her skin burning through the fabric of her tunic. The bond flared between us—hot, electric, *alive*—a pulse of energy that matched my heartbeat, that lived in the space between breaths, in the way her breath hitched when I touched her.
She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t flinch.
Just stood there, her spine straight, her chin high, her dark eyes sweeping the room like a queen who had just reclaimed her throne.
And she had.
Not just from Nyx.
From the lies. From the fear. From the part of herself that still believed she didn’t belong.
She did.
And I would spend the rest of my life proving it to her.
“This assembly is adjourned,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “Any who speak against the queen will answer to me.”
No one argued.
No one even breathed too loud.
Because they knew.
I wasn’t just the Alpha of the Black Thorn Pack.
I wasn’t just the Enforcer of the Winter Court.
I was a man who had just chosen his queen.
And I would burn the world for her.
I turned, my coat swirling behind me like a storm, and walked out of the chamber, Opal beside me. We didn’t speak. Didn’t touch. But the bond hummed between us, a constant, maddening awareness of her presence, of her heat, of the way her magic flared when I was near.
When we reached the corridor, she finally broke the silence.
“You let her wear the fake bite,” she said, voice low. “You *knew*.”
I didn’t look at her. “I did.”
“Why?”
“To see how far she’d go. To see what she’d sacrifice for power.” I turned, my silver eyes locking onto hers. “And to see if you’d fight for what’s yours.”
She didn’t flinch. “You think I needed a test?”
“No.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “I needed to know if you’d *believe* it. If you’d trust that what we have—this bond, this fire, this *us*—is more real than any lie they could spin.”
Her breath stilled.
And then—
She smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m *your* bastard.”
She didn’t answer.
Just turned and walked down the corridor, her boots silent on stone, her spine straight, her head high.
And I—
I followed.
Because I had no choice.
The bond wouldn’t let me.
That night, I dreamed of her.
Not the cold, controlled queen. Not the vengeful daughter. Not even the woman who had burned the purity sigil and shattered Nyx’s lies.
I dreamed of *Opal*.
She stood in a field of ash and fire, her hair braided back, her tunic torn at the shoulder, her dagger in hand. The sky above was blood-red, the moon full, the air thick with the scent of burnt parchment and old magic. And in her eyes—
Not hate.
Not rage.
But *grief*.
“You were there,” she said, her voice breaking. “You tried to save her.”
And then—
I remembered.
Not the dream.
But the *memory*.
The tribunal. The chains. The fire that had already begun to rise around her. And me—kneeling before the Council, my voice raw from pleading, my hands clenched into fists, my wolf howling in my chest.
“She’s innocent!” I’d shouted. “She didn’t corrupt Fae blood—she *honored* it! Her magic isn’t a crime—it’s a gift! Let her go! Let me take her place!”
But they hadn’t listened.
Mordrek had silenced me with a single word. The Council had sealed the verdict. And I—
I had watched her burn.
And now, in the dream, Opal stood before me, her eyes wet with tears, her voice trembling. “You tried,” she whispered. “But you couldn’t reach her.”
“No,” I said, my voice rough. “I was too late.”
“And my father?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
But the bond—this cursed, relentless thing—knew. It pulsed between us, hot and alive, a truth neither of us could deny.
“He was executed too,” I said. “For loving her. For defying the Council. For daring to believe that a Fae noble could love a witch.”
She didn’t speak.
Just stood there, her chest rising and falling, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger.
And then—
She stepped forward.
Not to attack.
Not to strike.
But to *touch*.
Her hand rose, fingers brushing the scar on my cheek—the one from the first time I’d shifted in front of the Council, the one from when they’d called me abomination, the one from when I’d fought to protect her mother and lost.
“You carry it,” she said, voice soft. “The guilt. The grief. The way you loved her—and couldn’t save her.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “And now I love *you*.”
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
Just looked at me—long, hard, searching. “And if I asked you to burn the system for me—would you?”
“I already have,” I said. “The moment I called you queen.”
And then—
She kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Slow. Deep. *Claiming*.
Her mouth moved against mine, hot and sure, her hands fisting in my coat, pulling me close. The bond exploded—white-hot, electric, unstoppable. My hands slid to her waist, pulling her against me, my body arching into hers. I moaned—low, broken, *unfiltered*—and the sound was swallowed by her kiss.
And then—
I woke up.
Gasping.
Trembling.
My cock hard, my skin on fire, my heart pounding like a war drum.
The bond flared beneath my skin, a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat. I could feel her—near, close, *alive*. Not in my chambers. Not in the Spire.
But in my blood.
In my bones.
In my *soul*.
I sat up, my breath coming slow, controlled. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. Frost clung to the edges of the windows, the air sharp with the scent of pine and iron. My shirt was damp with sweat, my hands clenched into fists.
It hadn’t just been a dream.
It had been a *memory*.
And she had been there.
Not in body.
But in spirit.
Because the bond—this cursed, relentless, *beautiful* bond—had let her in.
I stood, pulling on my coat, and left the chambers without a word. The corridors were dim, lit only by flickering torches and the cold glow of frost-runes etched into the walls. The air was thick with old magic and colder stone. My boots echoed on the stone, but I didn’t care. Didn’t try to be silent.
Because I wasn’t hiding.
I was *coming*.
I found her in the library, just like I’d suspected. She sat at the far end of the archive section, her boots propped on the table, a stack of scrolls spread before her. The candlelight flickered across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone, the faint scar just above her brow. Her hair was braided back, secured with a silver dagger. Her tunic was open at the collar, the sigil on her collarbone glowing faintly in the dim light.
She didn’t look up as I approached.
“You dreamed it too,” I said, stopping beside her.
She didn’t answer.
Just kept reading.
“You saw me,” I said. “In the tribunal. When I tried to save her.”
She turned a page. “I saw *us*.”
“And?”
“And I saw the truth.” She finally looked up, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. “You loved her. You tried to save her. And you failed.”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
“Executed,” I said. “For loving her. For defying the Council.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just nodded, slow, like she’d already known. “And now?”
“Now I love *you*.”
She didn’t speak.
Just stared at me—long, hard, searching. And then—
“You think I don’t feel it?” she asked, voice low. “The way your guilt weighs on you. The way your grief lives in your bones. The way you carry it like a second skin.”
“I do.”
“And you think I don’t carry mine?” She stood, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “I carry the fire she left behind. The rage. The need to burn them all. And the part of me that still believes I should’ve saved her. That I should’ve been there.”
“You were a child.”
“And you were the Alpha,” she snapped. “And you let her die.”
“I *tried*,” I growled, stepping forward, my hands clenching at my sides. “I argued. I begged. I swore on my life. But they wouldn’t listen. And now—” I cupped her face, my thumb tracing her lower lip. “Now I have *you*. And I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Her breath hitched.
“And if I asked you to burn the Oath-Book?” she whispered. “Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it broke the bond?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Even then.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, pressing her body against mine, her hands fisting in my coat. The bond flared—hot, electric, *unstoppable*. My hands slid to her waist, pulling her close, my mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was fire and frost and *everything*.
And then—
A sound.
From the hallway.
Footsteps.
Fast. Deliberate.
We broke apart, breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together. The bond pulsed between us—hot, alive, *unbroken*.
“Silas,” I said, voice rough.
The door opened.
He stood there, his expression unreadable. “We have a problem,” he said. “The Shadow Pact has taken the Oath-Book.”
My stomach dropped.
Opal stepped back, her eyes wide. “What?”
“They intercepted a courier,” Silas said. “They have it. And they’re demanding your presence, Opal. Alone.”
I didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“They said if you don’t come,” Silas continued, “they’ll destroy it.”
Opal looked at me—long, hard, searching. “And if they do?”
“Then every bond, every oath, every contract in the Concord unravels,” I said. “The Council falls. The Packs fracture. The vampire Houses descend into chaos.”
“And us?”
I didn’t look away. “The bond would break.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down. Just nodded, slow, like she’d already known. “Then I go.”
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “I go with you.”
“They said *alone*.”
“Then they’ll have to deal with me.” I cupped her face, my thumb tracing her lower lip. “You’re not just fighting for vengeance anymore, Opal. You’re fighting for *us*. And I’m not letting you face this alone.”
She didn’t argue.
Just stepped forward, pressing her body against mine, her hands fisting in my coat. “Then we go together.”
“Always,” I said.
And as we left the library, the bond pulsed between us—hot, alive, *unbroken*.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t fight it.
I just let it burn.
That night, I dreamed of her again.
Not in fire.
Not in ash.
But in light.
And this time—
She dreamed with me.