The silence after Onyx vanished was worse than any war cry.
Not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of reverence. But the stillness of a grave—deep, suffocating, final. I felt it the second the bond snapped—like a blade through my ribs, like my heart had been ripped from my chest and left to rot. One moment, she was there, her presence a storm beneath my skin, her magic pulsing in time with mine. The next—nothing. A void. A wound. A scream trapped in the dark.
I was in the war room, reviewing troop deployments, when it happened.
One second, the bond hummed—steady, alive, *hers.* The next, it was gone. Not weakened. Not dimmed.
Gone.
I dropped the scroll. Shattered the obsidian table with one sweep of my arm. My fangs lengthened, shadows coiling at my feet like serpents. The vampires in the room didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just backed away, their eyes wide with fear.
Because they knew.
When the king breaks, the world burns.
“Silas,” I growled, my voice raw.
He was at my side in an instant, his storm-gray eyes sharp, his posture tense. “She’s gone.”
“I know,” I said, my hands clenching into fists. “The bond—”
“It’s not severed,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s… muffled. Like something’s blocking it. A Veil-spell. Fae magic.”
My breath caught.
Dain.
It had to be him. Only a high-ranking fae noble could pull someone through the Veil without a trace. Only someone with power, with knowledge, with *hate.*
And only Dain had all three.
“Gather the enforcers,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “We’re going to the Hollow Thorne.”
“Kaelen,” Silas said, gripping my arm. “It could be a trap. He’s baiting you.”
“Then I’ll walk into it,” I said, turning to him. “And I’ll burn it down from the inside.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded. “I’m with you.”
—
The war room became a storm.
Vampires mobilized, their black cloaks cutting through the halls like shadows. Werewolf scouts reported movement near the Scottish border. Fae spies vanished, their illusions unraveling like smoke. The entire Court was on edge—whispers sharp with fear, eyes darting, fangs bared.
And then—
The leak.
It started with a whisper. Then a rumor. Then a scream.
A recording.
Not public. Not official.
Leaked.
To the underground networks. To the blood bars. To the glamour dens. To every corner of the Fractured Realms where secrets were currency.
And in it—my voice.
Low. Cold. Ruthless.
“Onyx is just a pawn. A weapon. A means to an end. The moment she’s no longer useful, I’ll discard her like the rest.”
My stomach dropped.
It wasn’t real.
I’d never said those words.
But the magic behind the recording—the vocal mimicry, the emotional resonance—was flawless. To anyone who didn’t know me, it would sound like truth. To the Council, it would be proof. To Onyx—
Gods.
Onyx.
If she heard it—
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
“It’s fake,” Silas said, stepping into the war room, a data crystal in his hand. “The audio’s been altered. Layered with fae illusion. Someone’s trying to turn the Court against her.”
“Dain,” I said, my voice a growl. “He’s not just holding her. He’s using her. Turning them against her. Turning *her* against me.”
“Then we expose it,” Silas said. “Show the truth.”
“And if she’s already heard it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “If she believes it?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he knew.
Onyx didn’t just fight with magic.
She fought with *trust.*
And if she thought I’d betrayed her—
I’d lose her forever.
—
The Council summoned me at dusk.
Not a formal meeting. Not a war council.
A *trial.*
I walked into the Chamber of Oaths alone, my coat open, my fangs bared, my presence a storm. The delegates were already seated—vampires, werewolves, fae, witches—their masks hiding their faces, their eyes sharp with accusation. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and iron, the weight of centuries pressing down like stone.
And at the center of it all—Lysara.
She sat on a raised dais, draped in a gown of living shadow, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes blazing. Her smile was slow, triumphant, *vicious.*
“Kaelen,” she purred, her voice like silk over a blade. “So good of you to join us.”
“I wasn’t invited,” I said, stepping forward. “I was summoned.”
“And yet, here you are,” she said, gesturing to the data crystal in her hand. “Responding to *concerns* about your judgment. About your *mate.*”
My jaw tightened. “Onyx is not on trial.”
“Isn’t she?” Lysara asked, standing. “A hybrid queen. Unmated. Unstable. And now—” She tapped the crystal, and my voice filled the chamber, cold, ruthless—“Onyx is just a pawn. A weapon. A means to an end.”
The Council gasped.
Even the Witch Elder leaned forward, her veil of smoke parting just enough to reveal eyes wide with shock.
“Lies,” I said, my voice low. “The recording is forged. Altered with fae magic.”
“Prove it,” the Werewolf Alpha growled.
“I don’t have to,” I said, stepping forward. “You know the truth. You’ve seen her magic. You’ve felt her power. She’s not a pawn. She’s not a weapon. She’s the heir. The true sovereign of the Blood Crown.”
“And yet,” Lysara said, stepping down from the dais, “you let her be taken. You let Dain drag her through the Veil while you sat in your war room, plotting your next conquest.”
“I didn’t *let* her be taken,” I snarled. “Dain ambushed her. He used Veil-magic. I didn’t even know—”
“But you *knew* she was a threat,” Lysara said, stepping closer. “You knew she could take everything from you. And now she’s gone. And you’re still here. Still *ruling.* Still *lying.*”
My fangs lengthened, shadows coiling at my feet. “I will burn this chamber to the ground before I let you speak her name again.”
“Or what?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “You’ll kill me? You’ll destroy the Council? You’ll start a war?” She stepped into me, her golden eyes blazing. “Go ahead. Do it. And prove to everyone that you’re exactly what they say you are—a monster who uses women and discards them when they’re no longer useful.”
The Council stilled.
Even the blood in the basin seemed to pause.
And I knew.
She wasn’t just attacking Onyx.
She was attacking *me.*
And she was winning.
—
I didn’t stay.
Didn’t argue. Didn’t plead.
Just turned and walked out, my coat open, my fangs bared, my presence a storm. The vampires bowed. The werewolves stepped aside. The fae averted their eyes.
Good.
Let them fear me.
Let them hate me.
But they would *not* take her from me.
—
The suite was empty when I returned.
Too quiet.
No whispers. No shadows. No lingering scent of jasmine and iron to ground me. Just the soft crackle of the hearth, the faint hum of the blood-crystals in the walls, the slow, steady pulse of the bond—faint, muffled, *alive.*
She was still out there.
Still fighting.
Still *mine.*
I didn’t sit. Didn’t speak.
Just paced, my boots silent on the stone, my fingers tracing the edge of the dagger at my hip. The runes on my arms still glowed faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. I could feel the Crown now—distant, dormant, but *alive.* It knew her. It remembered her. And it was waiting.
And then—
A sound.
A whisper.
I turned.
Onyx stood in the doorway, her silver hair loose over her shoulders, her violet eyes burning. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, her lip split, her magic flaring in pulses beneath her skin. The mark on her neck—*my* mark—glowed faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
But it wasn’t her.
It was a glamour.
A perfect, flawless illusion.
And I knew—
It was a trap.
“Kaelen,” the illusion said, stepping forward. “You let them say those things about me. You let them believe I was just a pawn.”
My jaw tightened. “You’re not her.”
“Aren’t I?” the illusion asked, stepping closer. “I feel her pain. I remember her mother. I know what you said.”
“You know *nothing,*” I snarled. “You’re not her. You’re not *mine.*”
“But I could be,” the illusion said, her voice soft. “If you just admit it. If you just say it. Say that she was never anything more than a tool.”
My fangs lengthened, shadows coiling at my feet. “She’s not a tool. She’s not a pawn. She’s *everything.*”
The illusion smiled—a slow, dangerous thing. “Then you’ll never see her again.”
And then—
It vanished.
Not with a flicker. Not with a fade.
With a *scream.*
Like the room itself was tearing apart.
And I knew.
Dain wasn’t just holding her.
He was using her.
And if I didn’t move fast—
I’d lose her forever.
—
I found her in the west wing, in a forgotten chamber near the old gardens. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and magic, the walls lined with fae sigils that pulsed with golden light. She stood at the center of it all, her gown shimmering, her hands raised, her voice a low, melodic chant.
And then she saw me.
Her smile was slow, triumphant. “Kaelen,” she said. “I’ve been waiting.”
“You’re dead,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “The second you touched me.”
“I didn’t touch you,” she said, stepping closer. “I just… *invited* you. And you came. You *wanted* to come.”
I clenched my fists. “You used glamour. You invaded my mind.”
“I showed you the truth,” she said, her fingers brushing my chest. “You’re afraid of her. Afraid she’ll destroy you. Afraid she’ll leave you. And I can give you peace. I can give you power. I can give you *everything*.”
The glamour pulsed—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just her magic. Her *truth.* She believed it. She believed she could have me. That she *deserved* me.
And for a heartbeat—just one—I almost believed her.
Almost.
Because then I felt it.
The bond.
Not with pain.
Not with fury.
With *love.*
Onyx’s voice in my head—You’re mine—her scent—jasmine and iron—her magic—crimson fire lighting the dark.
And I *knew.*
I wasn’t afraid of her.
I was *alive* because of her.
I stepped back, my fangs lengthening, shadows coiling at my feet. “You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to *speak* her name. You’re nothing. A fraud. A *joke.*”
Her smile faltered. “You can’t resist forever.”
“I already have,” I said, turning to leave.
And then—
The door opened.
She stood there, her silver hair loose over her shoulders, her violet eyes blazing. Onyx.
Her gaze locked onto Lysara’s hand on my chest.
And the world *exploded.*
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
With *magic.*
Crimson energy erupted from her, lighting the chamber in pulses of red. The runes on her arms flared, spreading across her skin like wildfire. She moved fast—too fast—her hand snapping out, slapping Lysara across the face with a crack that echoed through the room.
Lysara stumbled, her glamour flickering, her golden eyes wide with shock.
“You don’t get to touch him,” Onyx growled, stepping into her space. “You don’t get to *look* at him. You’re not his. You never were.”
“And you are?” Lysara spat, wiping blood from her lip. “A half-breed playing queen? A weapon with a pretty face? He’ll grow tired of you. He’ll come back to me.”
“He won’t,” Onyx said, her voice low, dangerous. “Because he’s *mine.* And if you don’t walk away, I’ll make sure you never speak his name again.”
Lysara laughed—low, melodic, and utterly false. “You think you scare me? You think your little bond makes you powerful?”
And then I felt it.
The shift.
The trap.
She wasn’t fighting Onyx.
She was *distracting* her.
My magic surged—black tattoos along my ribs glowing with dark fire—and I lunged, shoving Onyx behind me just as Lysara’s glamour exploded in a wave of golden light.
It hit me full force.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
Heat pooled in my core, my cock thickening, my breath coming fast. Her scent—honeysuckle and something darker—filled my senses. Her voice whispered in my ear—You want me. You’ve always wanted me.—and for a heartbeat, I *did.*
But then—
Onyx’s hand found mine.
Not a touch.
A *claim.*
The bond flared—hot, sudden, *real*—and the glamour shattered like glass.
I gasped, stumbling back, my vision clearing, my fangs retracting. Lysara’s smile was gone, replaced by fury.
“You’ll never have him,” Onyx said, stepping around me, her magic flaring. “He’s not yours. He’s *ours.*”
“And what are you?” Lysara sneered. “A mistake? A lie? A girl who’ll burn the world for love?”
“I’m the fire,” Onyx said, her voice calm. “And I’m here to *remake* it.”
And then she did the one thing I didn’t expect.
She pulled me close.
Not gently. Not softly.
A brutal, claiming thing—her mouth crashing into mine, her tongue sweeping inside, tasting, conquering. My magic surged, lighting the air between us with crimson fire. The runes on her arms glowed, reacting to the shift in her heart, in her soul.
She was choosing me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because she *wanted* to.
And when she pulled back, her fangs bared, her eyes black with hunger, she turned to Lysara and said, “Now *you* see?”
Lysara didn’t answer.
Just stepped back, her gown of shadow writhing, her golden eyes blazing with hate.
“This isn’t over,” she said.
“It is for me,” Onyx said. “Because I’m done fighting for him. I’m done proving I’m worthy. He’s *mine.* And I’m *hers.*”
And as she turned, her hand finding mine, her fingers intertwining with mine, I realized something:
The fire wasn’t coming to burn me down.
It was here to *save* me.
And I was ready to let it.
—
Later, in the quiet of our suite, she knelt before me, her hands on my knees, her head bowed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice rough. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me. I shouldn’t have let her touch you.”
I cupped her face, lifting her chin. “You didn’t let her. She’s a liar. A manipulator. And you *stopped* her.”
“But you hesitated,” she said, her voice breaking. “For a second, you *wanted* her.”
“No,” I said, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “I was weak. I was tired. But I didn’t *want* her. I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”
She closed her eyes.
And then—
She kissed me.
Not in anger.
Not in war.
But in *surrender.*
Soft. Slow. Aching.
Her lips parted beneath mine, her tongue brushing mine, tentative, searching. My hands tangled in her hair, holding her close, deepening the kiss. Her magic flared, lighting the air between us with crimson fire. The runes on her arms glowed, reacting to the shift in her heart, in her soul.
She was choosing me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the fever.
But because she *wanted* to.
I broke the kiss, resting my forehead against hers. “You don’t have to say it,” I said. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?” she whispered.
“That you love me,” I said. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
She didn’t deny it.
Just buried her face in my neck, her breath hot against my skin.
And for the first time, she didn’t pull away.
—
That night, I dreamed of fire.
Not the fire that had taken her family. Not the fire of magic or battle.
The fire of her mouth on mine.
I woke gasping, my skin hot, my cock hard, my fangs aching. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a quiet, insistent pulse. I could feel her—distant, guarded, *waiting*—like she knew I was awake. Like she knew what I was thinking.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the sheets, my body aching with the memory of her touch.
And then, in the silence, I whispered the words I’d never say to her face:
“I do.”
Not hate her.
Not anymore.
And as I closed my eyes, the scent of jasmine and iron wrapping around me like a vow, I realized something:
The fire wasn’t coming to burn me down.
It was here to *save* me.
And I was ready to let it.