The first light of dawn had not yet cracked the horizon when I felt it—like a blade through the quiet hum of the bond, a cold, sharp twist in the magic that tethered me to Kaelen. My eyes snapped open, my breath catching in my throat. I was still in the suite, beneath the heavy crimson blankets, my body curled into Kaelen’s heat. His arm lay across my waist, his fingers splayed possessively over my hip, his storm-gray eyes closed, his fangs just visible beneath his lips. The bond pulsed—steady, warm, alive—but beneath it, something else.
Danger.
I sat up too fast, pain flaring in my side where Dain’s truth-serum had burned through my veins. The runes on my arms flared faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. Kaelen stirred, his hand tightening on my hip, his voice rough with sleep. “Onyx?”
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered, my fingers curling around the dagger at my bedside. “I can feel it.”
He was awake in an instant, his fangs lengthening, shadows coiling at his feet like serpents. He sat up, his presence a wall, a vow, his storm-gray eyes scanning the room. “Where?”
I didn’t answer. Just moved to the balcony, barefoot, my gown slipping off one shoulder, the runes on my arms glowing faintly in the predawn gloom. Vienna stretched below, the city still wrapped in shadow, the spires of the Obsidian Court piercing the sky like fangs. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and iron, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath.
And then—
I saw it.
A flicker of gold.
Not sunlight.
Glamour.
It shimmered at the edge of the courtyard, near the western gate—just a ripple in the air, like heat rising from stone. But I knew it. I’d felt it before. The slow, seductive pulse of fae illusion, the kind that could make a whisper feel like a scream, a touch feel like fire.
Lysara.
“She’s here,” I said, my voice low, dangerous.
Kaelen was at my side in a heartbeat, his coat open, his magic flaring in pulses of dark fire. “You’re sure?”
“I’d know her magic anywhere,” I said, my fingers tightening on the dagger. “She’s not here to talk. She’s here to destroy.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Then we end this.”
—
The courtyard was silent when we arrived, the torches flickering low, the blood-crystals in the walls dim. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something darker—something sharp, like ozone before a storm. My magic flared, the runes on my arms glowing crimson, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. Kaelen moved beside me, his presence a storm, his fangs bared, his shadows coiling at his feet.
And then—
She appeared.
Not from the shadows.
Not from the gate.
From the *air* itself—like she’d been waiting in the silence, woven into the very fabric of the night. Lysara stepped forward, her gown of living shadow writhing around her, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes blazing. Her smile was slow, perfect, *deadly.*
“Onyx,” she purred, her voice like silk over a blade. “So good of you to join us.”
“You don’t get to speak my name,” I said, stepping forward. My voice was low, but it carried—like thunder before a storm. “You don’t get to stand in this Court. You don’t get to *breathe* the same air as him.”
Her smile didn’t falter. Just widened. “And yet, here I am. Still breathing. Still *wanting.*” She stepped closer, her golden eyes locking onto Kaelen. “You could have had me, you know. Before her. Before the lies. Before the bond.”
“You were never an option,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me, shielding me with his body. “You’re not my mate. You’re not my queen. You’re nothing.”
Her smile vanished.
Replaced by fury.
“I am *more* than she is,” Lysara spat, her voice sharp. “I am pure. I am ancient. I am *worthy.* And you—” She turned to me, her golden eyes blazing. “You’re a half-blood playing queen. A weapon with a pretty face. He’ll grow tired of you. He’ll come back to me.”
“He won’t,” I said, stepping around Kaelen, my violet eyes burning. “Because he’s *mine.* And if you don’t walk away, I’ll make sure you never speak his name again.”
She 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 me.
She was *distracting* me.
My magic surged—crimson fire lighting the air between us—but before I could move, Kaelen lunged, shoving me behind him just as Lysara’s glamour exploded in a wave of golden light.
It hit him full force.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
Heat pooled in his core, his cock thickening, his breath coming fast. Her scent—honeysuckle and something darker—filled his senses. Her voice whispered in his ear—You want me. You’ve always wanted me.—and for a heartbeat, he *did.*
But then—
My hand found his.
Not a touch.
A *claim.*
The bond flared—hot, sudden, *real*—and the glamour shattered like glass.
Kaelen gasped, stumbling back, his vision clearing, his fangs retracting. Lysara’s smile was gone, replaced by fury.
“You’ll never have him,” I said, stepping around him, my 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,” I said, my voice calm. “And I’m here to *remake* it.”
And then she did the one thing I didn’t expect.
She pulled out a dagger.
Not silver.
Not steel.
Obsidian.
Carved with runes I recognized instantly—my mother’s script. The House of Vale. The original keepers of the Blood Crown. Her blood.
My breath caught.
“You don’t get to touch that,” I said, my voice low, dangerous.
“Oh, but I do,” Lysara said, stepping forward. “Because Dain gave it to me. Said it would cut through your magic. Said it would sever the bond.”
My blood turned to ice.
“And if it does?” Kaelen asked, stepping beside me, his presence a wall. “If it breaks the bond? If it kills us both?”
“Then you die,” Lysara said, her golden eyes blazing. “And I take what’s left.”
And then—
She lunged.
Not at me.
At *him.*
Her body moved like a shadow, the obsidian dagger flashing in the dim light. I moved without thought—my body slamming into hers, knocking her off course. The blade grazed Kaelen’s arm, drawing a thin line of blood. He hissed, shadows coiling at his feet, his fangs lengthening.
But I didn’t stop.
Just drove my dagger into her shoulder, twisting, *ripping.* She screamed, stumbling back, her golden eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped from the wound, black in the low light, sizzling where it hit the stone.
“You don’t get to touch him,” I growled, stepping into her space. “You don’t get to *look* at him. You’re not his. You never were.”
She spat blood, her smile returning—slow, dangerous. “You think this is over? You think you’ve won?”
“I know I have,” I said, my voice steady. “Because he’s *mine.* And I’m *hers.*”
And then—
She vanished.
Not with a flicker.
Not with a fade.
With a *scream.*
Like the air itself was tearing apart.
And I knew.
She wasn’t gone.
She was coming back.
—
We didn’t speak as we returned to the suite.
Kaelen’s arm bled where the obsidian dagger had grazed him, the wound slow to close. I pressed a cloth to it, my fingers trembling, my magic flaring in pulses beneath my skin. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
“She’s desperate,” I said, my voice low. “Dain gave her that dagger. He’s using her.”
“And she’s using him,” Kaelen said, his storm-gray eyes dark. “She thinks she can take the Crown. She thinks she can rule.”
“She’s wrong,” I said, pressing harder on the wound. “The Crown won’t answer to her. It won’t answer to Dain. It only answers to *me.*”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re not as cold as you pretend.”
“No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
And then he kissed me.
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 the fever.
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.”
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 burn me down.
It was here to *remake* me.
And I was ready.
—
The ritual was set for dusk.
A Blood Oath—meant to stabilize the bond, to strengthen the magic between us. The Chamber of Echoes had been cleansed, the sigils rewritten, the air thick with the scent of old blood and iron. Kaelen stood at the center of it, his coat open, his storm-gray eyes burning, his presence a wall, a vow. I stood beside him, my gown of crimson shimmering, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
And then—
It happened.
Not with warning.
Not with sound.
With *silence.*
One second, we were alone.
The next—
She was there.
Lysara.
Not in the flesh.
In *illusion.*
Perfect. Flawless. Her golden eyes blazing, her gown of shadow writhing, her smile slow, dangerous. She stepped forward, her voice a whisper. “You think you’re safe? You think the bond can protect you?”
“You’re not real,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me. “You’re just a shadow. A lie.”
“Am I?” she asked, stepping closer. “Then why does it hurt?”
And then—
She lunged.
Not at us.
At the *ritual.*
Her hand snapped out, shattering the blood basin, spilling crimson liquid across the stone. The sigils flared—golden, then black, then golden again—and the magic *screamed.*
Kaelen roared, shadows coiling at his feet, his fangs lengthening. He moved fast—too fast—his body slamming into the illusion, tearing it apart like smoke. But it wasn’t enough.
The damage was done.
The ritual was broken.
And then—
The real attack came.
Not from the door.
Not from the shadows.
From *above.*
Lysara dropped from the ceiling, her obsidian dagger flashing, her golden eyes blazing. She didn’t aim for me.
She aimed for *him.*
And I moved without thought.
My body slammed into his, knocking him aside. The dagger plunged into my side—just below the ribs—black fire spreading through my veins. I screamed, stumbling back, blood soaking my gown.
“Onyx!” Kaelen roared, catching me before I fell.
But I didn’t need him.
Not this time.
Just reached for the dagger, yanked it free, and drove it into Lysara’s chest.
She gasped, her golden eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped from her lips, black in the low light. “You… you’ll never… win…”
“I already have,” I said, my voice steady.
And then—
She vanished.
Not with a flicker.
Not with a fade.
With a *scream.*
Like the air itself was tearing apart.
And I knew.
She wasn’t dead.
But she was broken.
—
Kaelen carried me back to the suite, his steps silent, his presence a storm. He laid me on the bed, his hands gentle as he tore the fabric from my wound, his storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not guilt. Not regret.
Hunger.
“You’re not supposed to save me,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m supposed to save *you.*”
“And I’m supposed to save you,” he said, pressing a cloth to the wound. “Because you’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
“Why?” I asked, my voice soft. “Why do you keep doing this?”
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned down, his lips brushing the wound.
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 he’d fail me. Afraid he’d lose 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 wound. “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.”
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.