The wound burned like fire in my side, a deep, pulsing ache that throbbed with every breath. The obsidian dagger had been laced with something—fae venom, maybe, or Dain’s own cursed magic—because it wasn’t healing. Not like it should. The runes on my arms flickered weakly, their crimson light dimming each time I tried to summon my magic. My vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting slightly as I lay on the bed, the sheets damp with sweat and blood.
Kaelen hadn’t left my side.
He hadn’t spoken much, either. Just moved with a quiet, lethal precision—cleaning the wound, pressing a cloth soaked in crushed vervain and moon-blessed silver to slow the poison’s spread, checking the wards on the windows and doors like he expected Dain or Lysara to burst through at any moment. His storm-gray eyes were sharp, his fangs slightly visible, his coat open, his presence a wall, a vow.
And I hated how much I needed it.
Not the care. 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 that.
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 he finally looked at me, his storm-gray eyes burning with something I couldn’t name—not anger, not guilt, not even love—
Need.
“The ritual failed,” I said, my voice rough. “The Blood Oath didn’t take.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed the cloth harder to my side, his fingers firm, his touch possessive. The bond flared—quiet, insistent—and I felt it. Not just his magic. His fear. He was 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.
“We can try again,” I said. “At the next moonrise. The magic will be stronger.”
“No,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “We’re not waiting. The bond is unstable. The Crown is calling. And Dain won’t stop until he breaks us.”
“Then what?” I asked. “You think we can just force it? That magic doesn’t work like that.”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “But there’s another way.”
I tensed. “What way?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached for me—his hand sliding beneath my gown, his fingers brushing the edge of the wound. I gasped, my body arching into his touch despite the pain. His magic flared, dark fire curling around his fingertips, seeping into my skin. The poison recoiled, the pain lessening, the flesh knitting together, the runes on my arms glowing faintly in response.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not yet.
“Blood alchemy,” he said, his voice rough. “An old ritual. Forgotten. Dangerous. It requires skin-to-skin contact. Blood exchange. A full merging of magic.”
My breath caught.
“You’re talking about a bonding ritual,” I whispered. “One that goes deeper than the Eternal Vow. One that fuses soul to soul.”
“Yes,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “And it will stabilize the bond. Heal your wound. Strengthen the magic between us.”
“And if it fails?” I asked. “If the magic rejects us? If we die in the process?”
“Then we die together,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
My heart stopped.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
—
We didn’t speak as we prepared.
He 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 poisoned. 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 side—the one from Lysara’s obsidian dagger, 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 ritual chamber.
Not because I couldn’t walk.
But because he wanted to.
The chamber was deep beneath the Court, a hidden sanctum of black stone and veined crystal, lit by a single basin of liquid fire 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 inside first, then reached for me, his hands steady as he lowered me onto the stone slab at the center.
“This will hurt,” he said, his voice low. “More than anything you’ve ever felt.”
“I’ve survived worse,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ve survived you.”
He didn’t smile. Just unbuttoned his coat, then his shirt, revealing the black tattoos along his ribs—ancient runes, written in vampire script, pulsing faintly with dark fire. His fangs lengthened, shadows coiling at his feet.
Then he turned to me.
“Your turn,” he said.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just slipped off my gown, letting it fall to the stone. The runes on my arms flared—brighter than ever—spreading across my skin like wildfire, climbing up my neck, my chest, my face. The sigils weren’t just witch-born. They weren’t just fae.
They were royal.
Old. Ancient. The script of the first Bloodline—the House of Vale, the original keepers of the Crown.
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, his storm-gray eyes burning. “You’re not just the heir,” he said. “You’re the true sovereign.”
“And you’re not just the king,” I said, stepping into him. “You’re the man who stole the Crown to save millions.”
“And the man who let you hate me,” he said, his hand cupping my face. “Because you needed your fire.”
“And now?” I asked, my voice soft. “Now that the fire’s here?”
“Now,” he said, stepping closer, “I let you love me.”
And then—
We began.
Not with words.
Not with spells.
With blood.
He drew his dagger across his palm, wincing as the blade bit deep. Then he pressed his hand to mine, letting his blood seep into my skin. The runes on my arms flared crimson, then black, then crimson again. The bond screamed to life, a surge of heat, of pain, of pure, unfiltered need.
And then—
I did the same.
My blade bit into my palm, blood welling in thick, dark drops. I pressed my hand to his chest, over his heart, and let the magic flow.
The chamber exploded.
Not with sound. Not with fire.
With light.
Crimson fire burst from the basin, spiraling upward, forming a column that reached the ceiling. The runes on our bodies flared brighter, spreading across our skin like living flame. The sigils weren’t just glowing.
They were singing.
A low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. The blood in the basin churned, then stilled, solidifying into a single, obsidian-black stone.
And then—
We were one.
Not just in body.
Not just in soul.
In magic.
I could feel him—his thoughts, his memories, his fears, his desires. His loneliness. His guilt. His love. And he could feel me—my rage, my fire, my purpose, my need. My mother’s death. My father’s betrayal. My years of hiding, of fighting, of surviving.
We were laid bare.
And we didn’t look away.
—
The pain was unbearable.
Like every vein in my body had been set on fire. Like my bones were being shattered and rebuilt. Like my soul was being torn apart and stitched back together. I screamed—raw, primal—but the sound was swallowed by the magic, by the fire, by the bond.
Kaelen was screaming too.
His body arched into mine, his fangs bared, his shadows coiling around us like a second skin. His blood mixed with mine, our magic merging, our souls fusing. The runes on our bodies flared brighter, hotter, until they were no longer on our skin—
They were us.
And then—
It stopped.
The fire faded. The hum silenced. The blood in the basin turned solid, black as night.
We collapsed onto the stone slab, gasping, trembling, our bodies slick with sweat, our blood still mingling where our hands were pressed together.
And then—
I felt it.
The bond.
Not weak.
Not broken.
Unbreakable.
Stronger than ever. Deeper than fate. A thread of fire and blood that tied us together, soul to soul, heart to heart.
And I knew.
Not just that I was the heir.
Not just that I was the true sovereign.
But that I was his.
And he was mine.
Not because of magic.
Not because of duty.
But because we chose each other.
—
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.