The silence in the east suite was heavier than stone.
It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t calm. It was the quiet before the storm—the kind that pressed against your ribs, made your breath shallow, your skin too tight. I sat on the edge of the bed, my boots still on, my fingers tracing the bandage on my arm where Lysara’s shadow-whip had cut me. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed in time with the bond, a dull, insistent pulse that matched the rhythm of my thoughts.
I’d fought for him.
I’d *kissed* him in front of the entire Council, magic flaring, vines tightening around Lysara’s throat, my body arching into his like I was starving.
And for a heartbeat—just one—I hadn’t cared about the lies, the politics, the Blood Crown.
I’d only cared about *him.*
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
The door opened without a sound. I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. The bond flared—hot, sudden—like a match struck in the dark. My pulse jumped. My skin warmed. My core clenched, just slightly, just enough.
Kaelen stepped inside, his coat open, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his storm-gray eyes locked on mine. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move toward me. Just stood there, watching, like he was waiting for me to break.
Good.
Let him wait.
“They want us to consummate the bond,” I said, my voice low. “The Elder said it. If we don’t… we’ll go mad. Or die.”
He didn’t flinch. Just crossed the room, slow, deliberate, and sat beside me. Not too close. Not too far. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of jasmine and blood clinging to his skin.
“Then we will,” he said.
My breath caught.
“Just like that?” I asked, turning to him. “No hesitation? No concern about what it means?”
“I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into my throne room,” he said, his voice rough. “The bond didn’t create this. It just *revealed* it. And now that we know what’s at stake—your life, your mind, *us*—there’s no point in pretending we can walk away.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” I whispered. “What if I’m not ready?”
He turned his head, his eyes searching mine. “You are. You’ve been ready since the night in the verification suite. Since the springs. Since you kissed me in the library and called me yours.”
“I didn’t call you mine,” I said, my voice breaking.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “Your body did.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. The truth in his words. The way my magic surged when he touched me. The way my breath hitched when he looked at me. The way my hips had rocked into his in the springs, my thighs tightening around his waist, my core aching for him.
I *was* ready.
And that was the problem.
“I came here to destroy you,” I said, standing, pacing to the window. “To expose you. To take back what’s mine. And now…” I pressed my forehead to the cold glass. “Now I’m standing here, wondering if I can survive *not* touching you.”
He didn’t answer. Just stood, moving behind me, his presence like a storm rolling in. I could feel him—his heat, his power, the pull of the bond—like a weight against my spine.
“You don’t have to destroy me,” he said, his voice low, rough. “You can have the truth. You can have justice. You can have the Crown. But you don’t have to do it alone. Let me help you.”
“And what do you get?” I asked, turning to him. “Power? Stability? Another way to control me?”
“I get *you*,” he said, stepping closer. “Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. As my equal. As my mate. As the only person who’s ever made me feel *alive*.”
My breath trembled.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whispered. “You don’t get to make me believe in you.”
“Then don’t believe me,” he said, his hands finding my waist, pulling me against him. “Just feel me.”
Our bodies pressed together, heat flaring between us. His cock was hard against my stomach, thick and aching, and the bond screamed to life, a surge of magic that made my vision blur. My hands fisted in his coat, holding on, grounding myself.
“I hate you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I hate what you are. I hate what you’ve done. I hate that I can’t stop *wanting* you.”
“Then mean it,” he growled, his lips brushing my ear. “If you hate me, *show* me.”
And I did.
I shoved him.
Hard.
He stumbled back, surprise flashing in his eyes—just for a second—before his back hit the wall. 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.
—
The next morning, I found it.
Not in the library. Not in the war room.
In *my* suite.
A single folder, slipped beneath my door in the dead of night. No seal. No signature. Just my name—*Onyx*—written in a hand I recognized instantly.
Dain’s.
My uncle.
The man who’d betrayed our family. Who’d framed me. Who’d taken the Blood Crown and left me to burn.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside: a series of surveillance images. Grainy, but clear enough.
Kaelen. In a dimly lit chamber. Blood on his hands. A body at his feet.
My mother.
Her throat torn open. Her eyes wide with terror. And Kaelen—standing over her, fangs bared, his coat splattered with her blood.
No.
No, no, *no.*
This wasn’t possible.
He’d said he hadn’t killed her. That he’d watched from the shadows. That he’d *remembered* me.
But here it was. Proof. Cold, undeniable.
He’d *lied.*
All of it—the bond, the truth, the way he’d touched me, kissed me, called me his—had been a lie.
He wasn’t just complicit.
He was *guilty.*
The room spun. My breath came in shallow gasps. My magic surged, lighting the air with crimson fire. The runes on my arms flared, reacting to the rage, the betrayal, the *pain.*
I’d let myself believe in him.
I’d let myself *want* him.
And he’d *killed* her.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan.
I just *moved.*
—
I found him in the throne room, standing at the dais, his back to me, his coat open, his hands resting on the armrests of his throne. The torches flickered, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and lies.
He turned as I entered, his storm-gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Onyx. You’re pale. Are you—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I crossed the room in three strides and *slapped* him.
My palm cracked against his cheek, the sound echoing through the chamber. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared at me, his expression unreadable.
“You *lied*,” I said, my voice shaking. “You said you didn’t kill her. You said you watched. You said you *remembered* me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“I have proof,” I said, shoving the folder into his chest. “Surveillance. You. Her. Blood on your hands. You *killed* her.”
He opened the folder. Scanned the images. And then—
He laughed.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
But *bitter.*
“You think this is real?” he said, tossing the folder aside. “You think Dain would give you *truth*?”
“It’s *you*,” I said, my voice breaking. “In the chamber. With her body. Blood on your coat.”
“And whose magic do you think forged those images?” he asked, stepping closer. “Whose hand do you think manipulated the surveillance logs?”
“You’re saying they’re fake?”
“I’m saying Dain *wanted* you to see this,” he said. “He wanted you to doubt me. To turn against me. Because if we break, the bond breaks. And if the bond breaks, we die. And if we die, *he wins.*”
“And what if they’re not fake?” I demanded. “What if you *did* kill her? What if you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, his hand cupping my jaw, forcing my face up. His touch was fire and ice, sending shocks through my body. His breath brushed my lips—cool, scented with night-blooming jasmine and something darker. Blood.
“You want me to say I didn’t do it?” he said, his voice low. “I can’t. I was there. I saw her die. I *let* her die.”
My breath caught.
“But I didn’t kill her,” he said. “Dain did. And I was too late to stop him. Too weak to save her. And every night since, I’ve carried that failure like a blade in my heart.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
“Then why didn’t you say so?” I whispered. “Why let me believe you were innocent?”
“Because I *am* guilty,” he said. “Not of murder. But of inaction. Of cowardice. Of letting power blind me to what was right.”
My chest heaved.
“You’re saying you watched her die,” I said. “And did *nothing*?”
“I did what I had to,” he said. “To stabilize the Council. To prevent war. To keep the Crown from falling into chaos.”
“And my family?” I spat. “We were just… collateral?”
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 kissed him.
Not gently. Not softly.
A brutal, furious thing—my lips crashing into his, my teeth scraping his bottom lip, my hands fisting in his coat. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t surrender.
It was *war.*
And he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it.
Like he’d been starving for it.
His hands tangled in my hair, holding me in place as his tongue swept inside, claiming, conquering. My magic flared, lighting the room in pulses of red. The books on the shelves trembled. The portraits cracked further.
And then—
A sound.
A gasp.
We broke apart.
Guards stood at the door, their eyes wide, their weapons drawn. The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I realized—
We were still in the throne room.
Our lips swollen. Our clothes half-ripped. Our bodies pressed together like we couldn’t bear to be apart.
And the truth—
Was written in the way I still hadn’t let go.