The morning after the Unity Trial, I woke with his scent on my skin.
Not just the jasmine and blood—though that lingered like a brand—but something deeper. Warmer. A quiet hum beneath my ribs, as if his heartbeat had woven itself into mine. The bond had deepened in the springs, tangled tighter with every shared memory, every pulse of magic. I’d seen him—*really* seen him—for the first time. Not the cold tyrant. Not the thief. But the man who’d watched my mother die and done nothing, not out of cruelty, but because he believed the greater good demanded it.
I hated that I understood him.
I hated that, in the flicker of shared visions, I’d felt something that wasn’t rage. Something that curled low in my belly and made my breath catch when he looked at me.
And I *especially* hated that I’d let him hold me. That I’d buried my face in his neck and *stayed*.
Weakness. That’s what it was. A crack in my armor, and in this court, cracks got you killed.
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The sheets were tangled, still warm. My body ached—not from battle, but from tension, from magic, from the memory of his hands on me, his cock pressed against my core, the way I’d *rocked* into him like I was starving.
I clenched my fists.
It didn’t matter what I felt. It didn’t matter what the bond whispered in my blood.
My mission hadn’t changed.
Dain had the Crown. Dain had burned my family. And Kaelen—no matter his reasons—had let it happen. Had *benefited* from it.
I wasn’t here to forgive. I wasn’t here to fall.
I was here to burn it all down.
—
He found me in the east library, three hours after dawn.
I’d spent the morning poring over ancient texts—treaties, blood oaths, fae contracts—anything that might explain how the Blood Crown could be reclaimed without a full ritual. The bond had given me power, yes. It had awakened something in my blood, something *old*. But I needed more. I needed a way to take it back without playing their games.
The library was silent, lit only by narrow slits of gray light filtering through stained glass. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by the soft rustle of pages. I sat at a long oak table, my fingers tracing the faded ink of a pre-Collapse treaty between the Hollow Thorne and the Obsidian Court. My hair was pulled back, my face bare of illusion. Let them see me. Let them know I wasn’t hiding.
And then the door opened.
He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t knock. Just stepped inside, his presence like a storm rolling in. I didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just turned the page, my pulse steady, my breathing even.
Lies.
Inside, I was anything but calm.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice low, rough with sleep or something darker.
“I’m working,” I said, not looking up. “Something you should try.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Just walked toward me, his boots silent on the stone. I could feel him—his heat, his power, the pull of the bond—like a weight against my spine.
“The Council is calling for a joint statement,” he said, stopping beside me. “About the Trial. About the bond.”
“So write it,” I said. “I’m not your puppet.”
“No,” he said. “You’re my mate.”
My hand stilled on the page.
That word—*mate*—sent a jolt through me. Not just from the bond. From *him*. From the way he said it, like it was inevitable. Like it was already written in stone.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, my voice low. “We’re not mated. Not yet. And not unless I choose it.”
He leaned down, bracing one hand on the table, caging me in. His breath brushed my ear. “You already chose it. The night you walked into my throne room. The night your magic screamed for mine.”
I turned my head, my lips inches from his. “I chose vengeance. Not you.”
His storm-gray eyes darkened. “And yet, here we are.”
I shoved the ledger toward him—the one I’d stolen from his study, the one with the truth about Dain, about the fire, about everything. “Here we are,” I said. “With *this*.”
He didn’t touch it. Just looked at me. “You think I don’t know what’s in there?”
“I think you don’t care.”
“I care,” he said, his voice rough. “I care every damn day.”
“Then why keep it?” I demanded, standing, knocking my chair back. “Why keep the lies? Why keep *power* over truth?”
“Because power *is* truth here,” he said, stepping closer. “You think exposing Dain would bring your family back? You think it would restore your name? It would start a war. The Fae High Court would fracture. The Witches would take sides. The Werewolves would smell blood and move in. Millions would die.”
“And my family?” I spat. “We were worth less than *millions*?”
He didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze. “You’re alive. That’s more than most get.”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “Don’t you *dare* try to make this about me. You didn’t save me. You didn’t even *try*. You just took what was left and called it yours.”
“I took the Crown to *stabilize*,” he said, his voice rising. “To prevent more bloodshed. To keep the Council from tearing itself apart.”
“And now?” I said, stepping into him, my chest pressing against his. “Now that you have it? Now that you have *me*? What’s your excuse?”
“There is no excuse,” he said, his hands gripping my arms. “Only survival. Only this—” He pulled me closer, our bodies flush. “This thing between us. It’s not just magic. It’s not just fate. It’s *real*. And you know it.”
“I know you used me,” I said, my voice shaking. “You used the bond to keep me here. To control me. To make me *yours*.”
“I didn’t *make* you anything,” he growled. “You were already mine the moment you touched me.”
“I hate you,” I said, my hands fisting in his coat. “I hate what you are. I hate what you’ve done. I hate that I can *feel* you in my blood like you’re part of me.”
“Then mean it,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “If you hate me, *show* me.”
And then I did.
I shoved him.
Hard.
He stumbled back, surprise flashing in his eyes—just for a second—before his back hit the bookshelf. Books tumbled, parchment scattering across the floor. But he didn’t fall. Just braced himself, his gaze locked on mine, dark with something I couldn’t name.
“Is that all?” he said, his voice rough. “You think a little push will break me?”
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “But this might.”
I lunged, my magic flaring, a whip of crimson energy snapping toward him. He dodged—fast, too fast—but I was ready. I shifted the spell, not to strike, but to *bind*, the energy wrapping around his wrist, yanking him forward.
He came.
And I wasn’t ready.
One second I was attacking. The next, I was falling, his weight crashing into mine, my back hitting the floor with a jolt that knocked the breath from my lungs. The impact sent a fresh wave of magic through me—wild, uncontrolled—and the air between us lit with crimson sparks.
And then—
Our lips crashed together.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.
It was *war.*
His mouth was brutal, claiming, his teeth scraping my bottom lip, his tongue sweeping inside like he was conquering. I bit him—hard—and he groaned, the sound vibrating through my bones. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him in place as I kissed him back with everything I had—fury, pain, *need.*
Because gods help me, I *needed* this.
Needed the fight. Needed the fire. Needed to feel him, real and solid and *alive*, even as I tried to destroy him.
His hand slid to my waist, pulling me against him, and I could feel him—his cock, thick and hard, pressing into my thigh. The bond flared, a surge of heat that made my vision blur. My magic pulsed, lighting the air between us, the runes on my arms glowing like embers.
And then—
He broke the kiss.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to growl, “*Again.*”
And I did.
I kissed him again, harder, deeper, my body arching into his, my hips rocking against his thigh. He groaned, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my ass, pulling me closer. The heat between us was unbearable—thick, desperate, *consuming.*
And then—
A sound.
A gasp.
We broke apart.
At the door stood Maeve.
My childhood friend. My sister in all but blood. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, a stack of scrolls clutched to her chest. She’d seen everything. The kiss. The magic. The way my body had arched into his like I was starving.
“Onyx,” she whispered.
I pushed Kaelen off me, scrambling to my feet, my heart pounding. “Maeve— I didn’t—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, backing away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Silence.
Kaelen stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat. He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the door, his expression unreadable.
“She knows,” I said, my voice hollow.
“Knows what?”
“That I’m not just here to destroy you,” I said. “That I’m… falling.”
He turned to me, his eyes softening. “You’re not falling. You’re *choosing*.”
“I’m not choosing anything,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m trapped. By the bond. By you. By this—” I gestured between us. “This *thing* that won’t let me hate you the way I should.”
“Maybe you don’t hate me,” he said, stepping closer. “Maybe you just don’t want to admit you *want* me.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he said, cupping my face. “You want me in your bed. In your blood. In your soul. And I want you. Not because of duty. Not because of the bond. Because you’re *mine*.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes,” he said, his voice low, final. “You are. And that kiss? That wasn’t hate. That was *everything*.”
I turned my face away, but not before he saw the tears in my eyes.
He didn’t wipe them. Didn’t comfort me.
Just stepped back.
“You can keep fighting,” he said. “You can keep pretending this is just about revenge. But I’ll be here. Waiting. Because I know the truth.”
He turned to leave.
“What truth?” I whispered.
He paused at the door, not looking back.
“That you already love me. You just don’t know it yet.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there, my chest heaving, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my body aching with the memory of his touch.
I hated him.
I hated that he was right.
And I hated myself most of all—for wanting him to be.
—
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 mine.
I woke gasping, my skin hot, my core tight with need. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a quiet, insistent pulse. I could feel him—distant, guarded, *waiting*—like he knew I was awake. Like he knew what I was thinking.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the sheets, my thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache.
And then, in the silence, I whispered the words I’d never say to his face:
“I do.”
Not hate him.
Not anymore.
And that terrified me more than anything.