The silence after the Council vote was not victory.
It was the stillness of a blade pulled from flesh—bloodied, heavy, unfinished.
We left the chamber not with cheers, not with celebration, but with the weight of what had just been done. The Council hadn’t exiled me. They hadn’t stripped me of my title. But they hadn’t accepted me either. The vote had been tied. Mordrek’s final word had been silenced not by law, but by threat—by Kaelen’s promise to burn the Spire, to fracture the Concord, to crown me in ashes.
And so, they had done nothing.
Which meant everything was still at stake.
We walked through the corridors of the Obsidian Spire in silence, our boots silent on frost-rimed stone, our hands still laced together. The bond pulsed between us—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t just magic anymore. It was something deeper. Something that lived in the space between our breaths, in the way his thumb traced the inside of my wrist, in the way my body leaned into his without thought.
“You didn’t have to threaten them,” I said, voice low, as we turned into the private wing.
“I didn’t threaten them,” he said, not looking at me. “I told them the truth.”
“And if they call it?”
“Then I’ll burn the Spire.”
My breath stilled.
Because I believed him.
And worse—
I liked it.
We reached his chambers—no, our chambers—and he didn’t let go. Just pushed the door open, the heavy oak groaning on its hinges, the fire in the hearth already lit, the furs on the bed smooth, untouched. The room was cold, but not from the frost that clung to the windows. It was cold from memory—from the fire I’d burned, the scream I’d let loose, the way I’d walked out barefoot and naked, my skin flushed with fury.
And now—
Now I was back.
And he was here.
And the bond—this cursed, relentless thing—was screaming between us.
He closed the door behind us, the click of the lock echoing through the room. Then he turned to 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.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said, voice rough.
“I know.”
“You could go to your chambers. Sleep. Rest. Forget this ever happened.”
“And if I don’t want to forget?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, his hand rising to brush 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. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. My core ached.
“You’re trembling,” he said, voice low.
“It’s not fear,” I whispered.
“Then what is it?”
“Need.”
His breath caught.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not slow. Not tentative.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
His mouth crashed 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.
I didn’t hesitate. Just answered—my hands sliding up, fingers tangling in his hair, my body arching into his, my hips grinding against his. He growled, low and feral, his hands sliding down, gripping my ass, lifting me off the ground. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, my mouth never leaving his.
He carried me to the bed, not gently, not carefully, but like he couldn’t wait, like he’d been starving, like every second without me was a wound. He dropped me onto the furs, then followed, his body covering mine, his weight a promise, a threat, a vow.
And then—
He pulled back.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at me.
“This isn’t magic,” he said, voice rough. “This isn’t the bond. This isn’t fate.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“This is you. This is me. This is choice.”
My breath stilled.
Because he was right.
This wasn’t the ritual. This wasn’t the heat. This wasn’t the desperate kiss in the Council chamber, the almost-sex in the bonding ritual, the blood-sharing in the library.
This was consent.
This was desire.
This was love.
“Then make me yours,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “Not as your queen. Not as your mate. Not as your prisoner. But as me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for the hem of my tunic.
Slow. Deliberate. Worship.
He pulled it up, inch by inch, his fingers brushing my skin, sending sparks through my veins. The fire in my core flared, my breath coming faster, my body arching into his touch. He didn’t rush. Just took his time—kissing my stomach, my ribs, the curve of my breasts, his mouth hot against my skin. When he reached the clasp of my bra, he didn’t fumble. Just unhooked it with one hand, then pulled it away, his silver eyes burning as he looked at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice rough.
“And you’re overdressed.”
He smirked—just a flicker, just a flash—but it was enough. He sat up, pulling his tunic over his head, revealing the scars that mapped his chest, the muscles that flexed with every movement. I reached for him, my fingers tracing the old wounds, the bite marks, the way his skin tightened when I touched him. He didn’t flinch. Just watched me, his breath slow, controlled.
Then he leaned down, his mouth finding mine again, his hands sliding down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my trousers. He pulled them down slowly, his fingers brushing my thighs, my hips, the sensitive skin just above my core. I lifted my hips, letting him strip me bare, my breath coming faster, my skin flushing.
And then—
He stopped.
Just looked at me.
Naked. Exposed. Mine.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He didn’t answer.
Just lowered his head.
Not to my mouth.
Not to my neck.
But to my core.
His breath was hot against my skin, his hands spreading my thighs, his silver eyes burning as he looked up at me. And then—
He tasted me.
Not tentative. Not gentle.
Deep. Hard. Claiming.
His tongue slid through my folds, finding my clit, circling it, pressing, sucking. I gasped, my back arching, my hands fisting in the furs. Fire surged through me—white-hot, blinding—not pain, not rage, but pleasure. My core ached. My thighs clenched. My breath came in ragged gasps.
“Kaelen—” I moaned, my voice breaking.
He didn’t stop. Just kept going—faster, deeper, relentless. His fingers slid inside me, two, then three, curling, pressing against that spot that made me see stars. I cried out, my body trembling, my hips grinding against his mouth, my hands reaching for him.
And then—
I came.
Not quietly. Not softly.
Hard. Shattering. Unfiltered.
My body arched, my back lifting off the bed, my mouth open in a silent scream. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable—a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat. I could feel him—his heat, his breath, the way his hands gripped my thighs, the way his mouth never left me.
And when I finally came down, gasping, trembling, my skin slick with sweat—he was still there.
Watching me.
Smirking.
Claiming.
“You’re not done,” he said, voice rough.
“And you’re still dressed.”
He laughed—low, throaty, dangerous—and stood, stripping off his trousers, his boxers, revealing himself—hard, thick, ready. I reached for him, my hand wrapping around his length, stroking slowly, feeling him pulse in my grip. He hissed, his head falling back, his hands fisting at his sides.
“You do that again,” he said, voice rough, “and I won’t last.”
“And if I want you to?”
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed me back onto the bed, his body covering mine, his cock pressing against my entrance. He didn’t enter. Just hovered—close, so close, his breath hot against my neck.
“Say it,” he said, voice low.
“Say what?”
“Say you’re mine.”
My breath stilled.
Because I could. I could say it. I could mean it. I could let him in, let him claim me, let him own me.
But that wasn’t what this was.
“I’m not yours,” I whispered, lifting my chin. “I’m with you. I’m for you. I’m in you. But I’m not yours.”
He didn’t flinch. Just smiled—slow, dangerous, victorious.
“Then take me,” he said, voice rough. “Make me yours.”
And then—
I did.
I reached between us, guiding him inside me—slow, deliberate, full. He filled me—stretching, claiming, burning. I gasped, my body arching, my nails digging into his back. He didn’t move. Just stayed there—deep, so deep, his breath hot against my neck, his body trembling.
“You feel that?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “That’s not magic. That’s not fate. That’s us.”
He didn’t answer.
Just started to move.
Slow. Deep. Claiming.
His hips rocked against mine, his cock sliding in and out, each thrust deeper, harder, more relentless. I met him—hips rising, legs wrapping around his waist, hands fisting in his hair. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable—a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. My core ached.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough, his thrusts growing faster, harder.
“Only,” I gasped, “if you’re mine too.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me—hard, deep, claiming—as he came, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside me, his breath hot against my lips. I followed—my body arching, my core clenching, my mouth open in a silent scream. The bond exploded—white-hot, electric, unstoppable—a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat. I could feel him—his heat, his breath, the way his hands gripped my waist, the way his body covered mine.
And when it was over, when we were both gasping, trembling, our bodies slick with sweat—he didn’t pull out.
Just stayed there—deep, so deep, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot against my lips.
“Still hate me?” he asked, voice rough.
“Only,” I whispered, “when you’re late to bed, King.”
He laughed—low, throaty, dangerous—and rolled us over, so I was on top, straddling him, his cock still inside me. I didn’t move. Just looked down at him—silver eyes burning, jaw tight, lips parted. And then—
I kissed him.
Slow. Deep. Claiming.
Because he was right.
I did want him.
Not just his power. Not just his protection.
But him.
And I wasn’t going to let him go.
Not now.
Not ever.
The bond flared—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.
Not in fire.
Not in ash.
But in light.
And this time—
He dreamed with me.