The moment I step into the King’s chambers, I know it’s a trap.
Not because Veylan is waiting—though he is, seated on a throne of carved bone and moonstone, his pale fingers steepled, his ice-chip eyes sharp with calculation. Not because the air is thick with glamour, a veil of false serenity that does nothing to hide the rot beneath. No, I know it’s a trap because he called for me. And my father doesn’t summon the Regent unless he wants something. Or unless he’s afraid.
And the only thing he fears is losing control.
“Son,” he says, voice smooth as poisoned honey. “You kept me waiting.”
I don’t bow. I don’t kneel. I walk forward, boots silent on the black marble, until I stand before him. “I was detained.”
“By a diplomat?” His lip curls. “A witch from the Eastern Coven, no less. I heard she disrupted the vote. Spoke of vampires as allies. Showed fire magic in the Council Chamber.” He leans forward. “Unseelie fire.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s a skilled negotiator.”
“She’s a liar.” He stands, slow, deliberate. Tall, gaunt, draped in silver robes that shimmer like frost. “And you’re letting her manipulate you.”
“I’m assessing her.”
“You’re compromised.” His voice drops. “I felt the bond flare during the ritual. I saw the way you looked at her. You think I don’t know what that means?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He sees it in my face—the flicker of defiance, the heat in my blood, the way my magic hums just beneath the surface, stronger than it’s been in decades.
Because of her.
“Fated mates are a myth,” he says, circling me like a vulture. “A weakness. A distraction. And if you let this—this hybrid—cloud your judgment, you will lose everything.”
“I am not clouded.”
“Then prove it.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the decay beneath his glamour—old magic, old blood, old lies. “Order her expulsion. Now.”
My fingers twitch. The storm magic in my veins crackles, begging to be unleashed. But I don’t move. I don’t flinch.
“No.”
His eyes narrow. “You defy me?”
“I am Regent,” I say, voice low, final. “And she has not broken any law. She is a diplomat. She has a right to speak. To vote. To exist.”
“She is a threat.”
“And if she is?” I meet his gaze. “Then I will deal with her. On my terms.”
He stares at me—long, cold, calculating. Then he smiles. Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s smile. “Very well. But know this, son: if she destroys you, I will not mourn. And if she tries to destroy me—” He leans in. “—I will burn her alive.”
I don’t answer. I turn and walk out.
The door seals behind me with a soft click. My hands are clenched into fists. My breath is tight. The magic in my blood is a storm, barely leashed.
He thinks he can control me. He thinks he can control her.
He’s wrong.
I stride down the hall, my guards falling into step behind me. Taryn matches my pace, silent, observant. He knows better than to speak. He felt the tension in the air, the crackle of magic, the weight of the confrontation.
But he doesn’t know the worst of it.
He doesn’t know that when I walked away from Brielle in the archives, every instinct in my body screamed to go back. To press her against the bookshelf again. To feel her breath against my lips. To taste the fire in her mouth.
He doesn’t know that I almost did it.
That I want to.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because I’ve spent centuries mastering control. Suppressing emotion. Locking away need. I’ve ruled with an iron will, a cold mind, a heart of stone. And now—now, with one touch, one look, one word from a woman I shouldn’t want, everything is unraveling.
The bond is winning.
And I’m not sure I want to fight it.
I reach the west wing and dismiss my guards. Taryn hesitates. “Sire—”
“I need air,” I say. “Alone.”
He nods and steps back.
I walk to the moonlit garden—a secluded courtyard of silver willows and frozen fountains, their waters turned to ice by Fae magic. The air is sharp, clean, laced with the scent of frost and old stone. I pace the path, my boots crunching on gravel, my breath visible in the cold. The sky is clear, the stars bright, the moon a sliver of silver.
And then I see her.
Brielle.
She’s standing beneath a willow, her back to me, her auburn hair catching the moonlight like embers in ash. She’s in simpler clothes—dark trousers, a fitted tunic, her sleeves rolled to the elbows. No gown. No glamour. Just her.
And she’s trembling.
Not from the cold. I can feel the heat radiating from her, the fire in her blood, the magic coiled tight beneath her skin. She’s trying to control it. To smother it. But it’s fighting back.
Like me.
I stop. My breath catches. The bond hums between us—a live wire, a current of need. I should turn. I should walk away. I should go back to my chambers, pour a glass of black wine, and pretend this never happened.
But I don’t.
I step forward.
Gravel crunches under my boots.
She tenses. Doesn’t turn. “Come to gloat, Prince?”
“Come to find you,” I say, stopping a few paces away.
“I don’t need finding.”
“No,” I agree. “But you’re not as alone as you think.”
She turns then, her green eyes sharp, defiant. “What do you want, Kaelen?”
“You know what I want.”
“You want control. You want power. You want to prove you’re not like your father.”
“And you?” I step closer. “What do you want?”
“Revenge.”
“And after that?”
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it—the flicker of uncertainty, of fear, of longing.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“You want to burn,” I say. “But not just the throne. Not just Veylan. You want to burn me.”
“Yes.”
“And I want to burn with you.”
She stares at me. Her breath hitches. The fire in her blood flares—unbidden, unstoppable. The torches along the path flicker red. The ice in the fountain cracks.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she says.
“I do.” I step closer. The bond hums, a live wire. “I felt it in the archives. When I had you against the shelf. When your body arched into mine. When your breath caught and your lips parted.”
Her chest rises and falls. “That meant nothing.”
“Liar.” I close the distance. Now we’re inches apart. I can smell her—smoke and storm, like me. Power. Her. “You wanted it. You want it.”
“I don’t want you.”
“Yes, you do.” My hand lifts, slow, deliberate. I don’t touch her. Not yet. But my fingers hover near her jaw. “You’re trembling.”
“It’s the cold.”
“It’s not.” I lean in, my breath warm against her ear. “It’s the bond. It’s the fire. It’s me.”
She shivers. Her eyes close. Her lips part.
And I know—
She’s mine.
My hand cups her jaw. Her skin is warm. Alive. Her pulse races beneath my thumb. I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. Silver to green. Storm to fire.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur. “Say the word, and I’ll let you go.”
She doesn’t answer.
Her breath hitches. Her body arches into me. Her hands rise, gripping my arms, not to push me away—but to hold on.
And then—
Our mouths are a breath apart.
Not touching. Not yet. But so close I can feel her warmth, her breath, the unsteady rhythm of her heart. My body is taut, every muscle strung tight with need. My magic hums, a storm about to break. The air crackles.
And I know—
If I kiss her now, I won’t stop.
If I taste her fire, I’ll be lost.
But I don’t care.
My other hand moves to her waist, pulling her against me. Her hips press into mine. She’s soft and strong, heat and steel. My cock hardens, thick, insistent. She feels it. Her breath catches. Her nails dig into my arms.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh.” I brush my lips over hers—just a whisper of contact. A tease. A promise. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
She whimpers. A small, broken sound. Her body arches into me, pressing closer, begging.
And then—
—my lips meet hers.
Not fully. Not yet. Just a brush. A spark.
But it’s enough.
The bond explodes.
Fire and ice tear through me, a current so violent I stagger. My breath is gone. My vision whites out. I feel her—everywhere. In my blood, in my bones, in the hollow of my throat. Her heartbeat echoes mine. Her breath matches my gasp. The magic surges, the air crackling with energy.
And then—
—a voice.
“Sire.”
Taryn.
Standing at the edge of the garden, his wolf-blooded eyes wide. “The Council demands you. Now.”
I don’t move. My lips are still a breath from hers. Her body is still pressed against mine. Her hands are still gripping my arms.
“Not yet,” I say, voice rough.
“He said immediately.”
I exhale—slow, controlled. Then I pull back, just enough to meet her eyes. Her pupils are dilated. Her lips are swollen. Her breath is ragged.
And she’s not letting go.
“This isn’t over,” I say.
She swallows. Nods.
I step away. Straighten my tunic. My expression is cold again. Regal. Untouchable.
But my body is still on fire.
And as I walk past Taryn, I know—
I won’t be able to stop next time.
Not even for the Council.
Not even for the throne.
Because the bond isn’t just magic.
It’s hunger.
And I’m done fighting it.
—
Later, in my chambers, I pour a glass of black wine and drink it in one swallow. The bitterness burns my throat, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my blood.
I strip off my tunic, the fabric heavy with the scent of storm and iron. I go to the mirror. My reflection stares back—pale skin, sharp features, silver eyes that look more like weapons than windows to a soul.
But beneath the surface, something is shifting.
I roll up my sleeve and trace the old scar on my forearm—the wound that never healed. The skin is still numb. Dead.
But my magic?
I close my eyes and reach for it. Lightning crackles at my fingertips, brighter than it’s been in years. The air hums. The sconces flicker.
The bond is feeding it.
And I’m not afraid anymore.
Because for the first time in centuries, I feel alive.
And I know—
She’s the only one who can burn me.
And I’ll burn with her.
Even if it destroys us both.