The Grand Hall fell silent after Solen’s departure, the weight of what had just happened pressing down like frost on stone. No one spoke. No one dared. The music had died mid-note, the dancers frozen in place, their breaths held. Even the flicker of the torches seemed to still, as if the entire Spire was holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next.
Kaelen stood before me, his coat swirling behind him like a storm, his silver eyes burning, his presence a blade drawn across the air. Frost clung to his shoulders, his breath a pale mist in the cold. He hadn’t looked away from me since he’d dropped Solen. Not to the Court. Not to Silas. Not even to Mordrek, who lingered in the shadows like a ghost.
Just me.
And the bond—this cursed, relentless thing—screamed between us, hot and electric, alive with something I couldn’t name. Not just possession. Not just power. But *need*. A raw, unfiltered hunger that lived in the space between our breaths, in the way his hand still hovered near the sigil on my collarbone, in the way my body arched toward him even as I tried to stand still.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, voice low.
His jaw tightened. “It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
During the fight, Solen had slashed at him with a hidden dagger—just a graze, but deep enough to draw blood. A thin line ran from his collarbone down his chest, staining the fabric of his tunic black with frost and iron. The wound wasn’t fatal. Wasn’t even serious. But it was *his*. And it was *open*. And the bond—this relentless, screaming thing—pulsed with every beat of his heart, a constant, maddening awareness of his pain.
“It’s not nothing,” I said, stepping forward. “You don’t get to bleed in front of the entire Court and call it nothing.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just watched me, his eyes searching mine. “And what do you suggest, Queen?”
“That you let me heal you.”
The Court erupted.
“She’ll poison him!” a Fae noble spat.
“A witch’s touch is death,” a vampire elder hissed.
“You think she won’t use it to bind him further?” Mordrek’s voice cut through the chamber, cold, calculating. “She’s already claimed him. Do you want her to *own* him?”
I didn’t look at them. Didn’t react. Just kept my eyes on Kaelen. “I’m not asking for their permission. I’m asking for *yours*.”
He studied me—long, hard, searching. And then—
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “Heal me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.
I stepped forward, my boots silent on stone, my hand rising to the hilt of my dagger. I drew it slowly, the blade catching the torchlight, its edge sharp, unyielding. The bond flared—hot, sudden, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My skin flushed. My breath hitched.
And then—
I cut.
Not him.
Me.
The blade bit into my palm, clean and deep, blood welling up in a dark, glistening line. The Court gasped. Mordrek stepped forward. But I didn’t stop. Just pressed my bleeding palm to the wound on Kaelen’s chest.
Fire surged through me—white-hot, blinding—not pain, not rage, but *power*. My blood magic, rare in witches, awakened not by hate, but by *need*. By truth. By the knowledge that I was no longer just fighting for vengeance.
I was fighting for *him*.
The wound closed beneath my touch, the skin knitting together, the frost melting, the blood staining his tunic fading like ash in the wind. The bond flared—hot, electric, *unstoppable*. My skin flushed. My nipples hardened. My core ached. I could feel him—his heat, his breath, the way his heart pounded beneath my palm.
And then—
It was over.
The wound was gone.
But the bond—this cursed, relentless thing—was louder than ever.
“You used blood magic,” Mordrek said, voice cold. “You’ve bound him further. You’ve—”
“No,” I said, stepping back, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I healed him. Not with chains. Not with oaths. Not with magic that binds.” I turned to Kaelen, my dark eyes locking onto his. “With *this*.” I pressed my palm to the sigil on my collarbone. “With what’s already between us.”
The Court stilled.
Even Mordrek stepped back.
And then—
Kaelen reached for me.
Not to pull me close. Not to shield me.
But to *claim* me.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the sigil on my collarbone. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My breath hitched. My skin flushed. My core ached.
And then—
He leaned in.
Not to kiss me.
But to *breathe* against my neck.
His breath was cold. His scent—pine and iron and *him*—wrapped around me like a shroud. The bond screamed. My body arched. My mouth fell open in a silent moan.
“You see?” he said, voice low, for the Court, for me, for *us*. “She doesn’t need blood magic. She has *this*.” He pressed his palm to the sigil. “And it’s more real than any spell.”
The hall erupted.
Not in outrage. Not in protest.
But in *silence*.
And in that silence—
I felt it.
The shift.
The power.
The truth.
I wasn’t just the Marked Queen.
I was *coming*.
That night, I dreamed of him.
Not the cold, controlled Alpha. Not the executioner.
But *Kaelen*.
His hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. His voice in my ear, whispering, *“You’re mine.”*
And this time—I didn’t fight.
This time, I *answered*.
“Only,” I whispered in the dream, “if you’re mine too.”
The bond flared.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t wake up screaming.
I woke up *smiling*.
And in my room, on the pillow beside me—
Lay a single frost-lily.
Pure white.
Unbroken.
And *mine*.
The next morning, I found him in the training yard.
It was early—dawn still clinging to the horizon, the air sharp with frost, the sky a bruised purple. He stood in the center of the ring, shirtless, his muscles flexing with every movement, his fists striking the training dummy with brutal precision. Sweat glistened on his chest, his breath a pale mist in the cold. The wound was gone, but the memory of it lingered—on his skin, in the bond, in the way my palm still tingled from where I’d pressed it to his chest.
He didn’t look up as I approached.
Just kept fighting.
Like he was trying to burn something out.
“You’re up early,” I said, stopping at the edge of the ring.
“So are you,” he replied, not pausing. His fist slammed into the dummy’s chest, the sound echoing through the yard.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“No.” He turned, finally looking at me. His silver eyes burned. “You?”
“No.” I stepped inside the ring, my boots silent on stone. “I kept thinking about last night.”
“About Solen?”
“About you.” I reached into my tunic and pulled out a small vial—dark glass, sealed with wax. “I made this.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me. “What is it?”
“A salve. For your skin. To keep it strong. To keep it safe.” I stepped closer, holding it out. “I know you don’t need it. I know you heal fast. But—” My voice softened. “—I wanted to give it to you.”
He stared at the vial. Then at me. And then—
He took it.
His fingers brushed mine, sending a jolt through my veins. The bond flared—hot, sudden, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My skin flushed. My breath hitched.
“You made this for me?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I care,” I said, lifting my chin. “And because I’m not afraid to say it.”
He didn’t answer.
Just uncorked the vial and poured a drop onto his palm. The salve was thick, dark, smelling of herbs and fire and something older—something that tasted like power. He rubbed it into his chest, his fingers moving slowly, deliberately, his skin absorbing it like it was meant for him.
And then—
He stepped forward.
Not to pull me close.
Not to claim me.
But to *touch*.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the sigil on my collarbone. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My mouth fell open. My body arched toward him.
“You’re not just healing me,” he said, voice rough. “You’re *marking* me.”
“Maybe,” I said, not pulling away. “But not with magic. Not with blood. With *this*.” I pressed my palm to his chest, over his heart. “With what’s already between us.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just looked at me—long, hard, searching. And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Slow. Deep. *Claiming*.
His mouth moved against mine, hot and sure, his hands fisting in my tunic, pulling me close. The bond exploded—white-hot, electric, unstoppable. My skin flushed. My nipples hardened. My core ached. I moaned—low, broken, *unfiltered*—and the sound was swallowed by his kiss.
And then—
He broke the kiss.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at me.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice rough. “Not as my queen. Not as my mate. But as *you*.”
My breath stilled.
And then—
“Always,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me, his breath warm against my neck. 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 him again.
Not in fire.
Not in ash.
But in light.
And this time—
He dreamed with me.