The suite was quiet when I woke, but not still. The silence hummed—low, constant, alive—with the pulse of the bond. My body ached, a deep, dull throb in my wrists, my neck, my side where Dain’s truth-serum had burned through my veins. The runes on my arms glowed faintly, like embers beneath my skin, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. I could feel him—Kaelen—close, present, mine—his breath steady, his heartbeat slow, his magic a quiet storm just beyond the edge of sleep.
I didn’t open my eyes.
Didn’t need to.
I could feel the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his body beside me, the way his hand rested on my hip—possessive, grounding, a vow. He wasn’t touching me like I was fragile. Not this time. His fingers were firm, his palm hot, his thumb tracing slow circles over the fabric of my gown. The bond flared—quiet, insistent—every time his skin brushed mine, every time his breath caught, every time I remembered the way he’d carried me through the Veil, torn Dain apart, whispered, I’ve got you, like it was the only truth he’d ever known.
I wasn’t supposed to want this.
Not the safety. Not the protection.
But him.
The way his voice had broken when he said, I’ve got you. The way his hands had trembled when he pulled me from the Chamber of Echoes. The way he’d carried me through the Veil like I was something sacred, something worth burning the world for.
I wasn’t supposed to want him.
I was Onyx Vale. Daughter of Elira. Heir to the Blood Crown. A weapon forged in fire and blood.
And yet—
When I finally opened my eyes, when I saw him sitting beside the bed, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, his coat open, his fangs slightly visible—he didn’t look like a king.
He looked like a man who’d just fought the devil and won.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low, rough.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, my voice a ghost of itself. I swallowed, wincing at the pain. My neck ached where Dain’s fingers had tightened, my wrists burned where the silver cords had bitten into my skin.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
Before I could stop him, he was beside me, his hand brushing my cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. His touch was gentle—too gentle—but it sent a jolt through me, like lightning under my skin. The bond flared, a quiet, insistent pulse, and I felt it—his relief, his fear, his hunger.
“Don’t,” I whispered, turning my face away. “Don’t touch me like I’m fragile.”
He didn’t pull back.
Just leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re not fragile. You’re not weak. You’re alive. And you’re mine.”
My breath caught.
“And if I don’t want to be?” I asked, my voice breaking. “If I don’t want to be yours? If I don’t want to be anyone’s?”
He didn’t answer.
Just cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. His storm-gray eyes burned with something I couldn’t name—not anger, not guilt, not even love.
Need.
“You don’t get to choose that,” he said, his voice a growl. “Not after what he did to you. Not after what you survived. You’re mine, Onyx. Whether you like it or not. Whether you admit it or not. And I’m not letting you go again.”
I wanted to fight him.
Wanted to shove him away, to remind him that I wasn’t his pet, his prisoner, his queen. That I’d come here to destroy him, not to be saved by him.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because he was right.
I was alive.
And I was his.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because I’d chosen him.
Even in the Chamber of Echoes, even with the truth-serum burning through my veins, even with Dain whispering lies in my ear—I’d chosen him.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
—
He didn’t let me out of bed.
Not that I could have, even if I’d tried. My body was still weak, my magic sluggish, my limbs trembling with every movement. But it wasn’t just my condition that kept me there.
It was him.
Kaelen moved through the suite like a storm given form—silent, deliberate, possessive. He lit the hearth with a flick of his wrist, the flames roaring to life in a burst of crimson fire. He summoned blood from the kitchens—dark, rich, laced with healing herbs—and brought it to me in a silver chalice, his fingers brushing mine as he handed it over. He adjusted the blankets, smoothed the sheets, checked the wards on the windows and doors—every action precise, controlled, obsessive.
And I watched him.
Not with anger. Not with suspicion.
With wonder.
This was not the cold, ruthless king the world feared.
This was the man who’d carried me through the Veil, who’d torn Dain apart with his bare hands, who’d whispered, I’ve got you, like it was the only truth he’d ever known.
“You’re staring,” he said, not looking at me.
“You’re hovering,” I said, my voice still rough.
He turned, his storm-gray eyes narrowing. “You were tortured. Drugged. Nearly broken. Forgive me if I don’t trust the world to keep you safe.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” I said, sitting up. Pain flared in my side, but I ignored it. “I need you to fight with me. Not for me.”
He stepped closer, his presence a wall. “I fought for you because you were gone. Because the bond was fading. Because if I’d lost you—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
“What?” I asked, my voice low. “What would you have done?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to pull me close.
Not to kiss me.
To heal.
His hand pressed to the wound on my arm—the one from the rogue Alpha’s claw, still raw, still tender. His magic flared, dark fire curling around his fingers, seeping into my skin. The pain lessened, the flesh knitting together, the runes on my arms glowing faintly in response. It wasn’t blood magic. Not quite. But something older. Deeper. A vampire’s touch, not a king’s.
And then—
He leaned down.
His lips brushed the scar.
Not to claim.
Not to mark.
To honor.
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just his magic. His relief. He’d been afraid I’d die. Afraid I’d leave him. Afraid he’d fail me.
Good.
Let him be afraid.
Because I wasn’t.
Not anymore.
“You’re not cold,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re not ruthless. You’re not the monster they say you are.”
He didn’t look up. Just kept his lips against my skin, his breath warm, his fangs grazing the edge of the scar. “I am,” he said, his voice rough. “But I’m also yours.”
And then he kissed me.
Not gently. Not softly.
A brutal, claiming thing—his mouth crashing into mine, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting, conquering. My magic flared, lighting the air between us with crimson fire. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
He was choosing me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because he wanted to.
And when he pulled back, his fangs bared, his eyes black with hunger, he whispered, “You’re not as cold as you pretend.”
“No,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
—
Later, when the fire had died to embers and the suite was quiet, he carried me to the bath.
Not because I couldn’t walk.
But because he wanted to.
The Obsidian Springs were deep beneath the Court, a hidden chamber of black stone and steaming water, lit by veins of crimson crystal that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and iron, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. He stepped into the water first, then reached for me, his hands steady as he lowered me into the heat.
“Let me,” he said, when I reached for the soap.
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t push. Just worked in silence, his hands moving over my skin with a reverence that made my breath catch. The soap was jasmine-scented, the water hot, his touch firm but gentle. He washed my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp, his nails grazing my neck. He ran the cloth over my shoulders, down my arms, across my back, his touch lingering at the runes that still glowed faintly beneath my skin.
And then—
His hands trailed lower.
Not to grope. Not to claim.
To heal.
His fingers brushed the scars on my hips—the ones from Dain’s truth-serum, the ones from years of hiding, of fighting, of surviving. His magic flared, dark fire curling around his fingertips, seeping into my skin. The pain lessened. The tension eased. The bond hummed, a quiet, insistent pulse.
And then—
I felt it.
A whisper in the dark, not from the bond, but from me.
You want him. I can taste it.
I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because I did.
I wanted him.
Not just his touch.
Not just his body.
But him.
The man who’d watched my mother die.
The king who’d taken the Crown to save millions.
The vampire who’d kissed me in front of the entire Court and called me his.
I wanted him.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t.
“Kaelen,” I said, my voice breaking.
He stilled.
Didn’t look at me.
Just waited.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I asked. “Why do you keep saving me?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned me, his hands on my hips, his storm-gray eyes searching mine. “Because you’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “And I’m not letting you go.”
“And if I don’t want to be saved?”
“Then I’ll save you anyway,” he said, stepping closer. “Because I don’t care what you want. I care what you are.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
I wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
I wasn’t just the heir.
I was fire.
I was war.
And I was ready.
—
He carried me back to the suite, his steps silent, his presence a storm. He laid me on the bed, his hands gentle as he dried my skin, his storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not guilt. Not regret.
Hunger.
“Rest,” he said, pulling the blankets over me. “I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, my voice soft.
“Yes,” he said, lying beside me, his body shielding mine. “I do.”
I didn’t argue.
Just turned to him, my hand finding his chest, my fingers tracing the edge of his coat. The bond hummed between us—low, steady, alive. And for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
For the first time, I let myself believe it.
He wasn’t just my king.
He wasn’t just my mate.
He was my home.
And I was ready to let him in.
—
That night, I dreamed of fire.
Not the fire that had taken my family. Not the fire of magic or battle.
The fire of his mouth on my skin.
I woke gasping, my skin hot, my core tight, my fingers trembling as I touched the mark on my neck—still tender, still warm, pulsing faintly beneath my skin like a second pulse. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
And then—
I felt it.
A whisper in the dark, not from the bond, but from me.
You want him. I can taste it.
I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because I did.
I wanted him.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t.
I turned to him.
He was awake.
Watching me.
Waiting.
And I knew—
He’d been waiting for me to choose him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the fever.
But because I wanted to.
So I did.
I kissed him.
Not in anger.
Not in war.
But in surrender.
Soft. Slow. Aching.
His lips parted beneath mine, his tongue brushing mine, tentative, searching. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him close, deepening the kiss. His magic flared, lighting the air between us with crimson fire. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
He was choosing me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because he wanted to.
And when I pulled back, my fangs bared, my eyes black with hunger, I whispered, “You’re not as cold as you pretend.”
“No,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
And as I leaned into him, the scent of jasmine and iron wrapping around us like a vow, I realized something:
The fire wasn’t coming to destroy me.
It was here to remake me.
And I was ready.