The silence after she spoke was louder than any war cry.
She stood before me, small in her black gown, her eyes wide, her breath unsteady, her lips still parted from the words she’d just whispered like a vow: “I’d let you.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t dare believe it.
Because if I did—if I let myself believe that Stella Vey, the woman who had come here to destroy me, who had fought the bond with every breath, who had screamed my name in pleasure and hatred in the same breath—was now offering herself to me…
I would break.
And I had spent two centuries learning how not to break.
How to wear the mask. How to carry the crown. How to silence the darkness that lived in my veins, the bloodlust that demanded sacrifice, the loneliness that hollowed me out like a tomb.
But she had cracked it.
With her defiance. Her fire. Her refusal to kneel.
And now—now she was offering to stay.
Not because of the Council.
Not because of the rituals.
But because she wanted to.
“Say it again,” I said, voice rough, barely above a whisper.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I’d let you touch me. Again.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of lying,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you. I’m tired of hating you for making me feel this. For making me *need* this.”
She stepped closer. “I came here to destroy the bond. To erase what you did to me. To be free.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I want.” Her hands trembled at her sides. “I just know that when you’re near, the world stops. When you touch me, I forget how to hate. When you look at me—” She swallowed. “I feel *seen*.”
My chest tightened.
Not from the bond.
From *her*.
From the raw, aching honesty in her voice, the way her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the way her breath hitched like she was afraid of her own words.
She wasn’t just surrendering.
She was *trusting*.
And that—more than any kiss, more than any claim—was the most dangerous thing of all.
“You think I don’t know what you’re risking?” I asked, stepping closer. “You think I don’t see the war in your eyes? The fear? The need?”
“Then why make me fight it?” she whispered. “Why force the rituals? Why let Nyxara wear your mark? Why make me doubt you?”
“Because I didn’t know how to be anything else,” I admitted, the words tearing from my throat. “I’ve spent my life playing a role. King. Monster. Weapon. I didn’t know how to be *me*—not until you walked in.”
She looked up at me, her gaze searching. “And now?”
“Now I know I don’t want to be a king with you.” I reached out, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. “I want to be a man. A lover. A *partner*.”
My fingers brushed her cheek, and the bond *sang*—not a scream, not a demand, but a soft, golden hum, like a lullaby. Her breath hitched. Her pulse jumped. Her mark flared beneath her sleeve, a dull throb of crimson light.
“But you don’t understand,” I said, voice low. “The bond… it’s not just magic. It’s not just fate. It’s *life*.”
“I know,” she said. “You told me. Break it, and I die.”
“No.” I stepped back, pulling up the sleeve of my coat. “That’s not the whole truth.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
I turned my wrist, showing her the mark—the same crimson sigil that burned on her skin. But it wasn’t just glowing.
It was *bleeding*.
Thin trails of dark blood seeped from the edges of the sigil, staining my pale skin, dripping onto the marble floor. I hadn’t noticed it before. Hadn’t felt it. But now, in the quiet, in the stillness between us, I could feel it—aching, burning, *dying*.
“This started the moment you walked into my court,” I said, voice raw. “The bond flared—and it hasn’t stopped since. It’s not just reacting to you. It’s *feeding* on you. On us. On the truth we’re denying.”
She reached out, fingers hovering over the wound. “What happens if it keeps bleeding?”
“Then I die.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Breaking the bond without mutual consent kills the one who resists,” I said. “But if the bond is *denied*—if we keep fighting it, if we keep pretending it’s not real—it consumes us both. Slowly. Painfully. It’ll blacken your veins. Stop your heart. And when you die—” I looked at her, gold eyes burning. “I’ll die with you.”
She stared at me. “That’s not in the records.”
“The Blood Codex isn’t public knowledge,” I said. “And my father made sure the truth died with him. But I’ve seen it happen. To others who tried to sever their bonds. To lovers who refused their fate. They didn’t just die. They *rotted*. From the inside out.”
Her hand trembled. “And you’ve been hiding this.”
“I didn’t want you to feel trapped,” I said. “I didn’t want you to stay out of fear. I wanted you to stay because you *wanted* to. Because you chose me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we both die.”
She stepped back, shaking her head. “You’re saying I have no choice.”
“You have every choice,” I said. “You can walk away. You can run. You can try to destroy the Codex. But if you do—if you reject the bond, if you deny what we are—then you’re not just choosing freedom.” I stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re choosing death. Yours. Mine. *Ours*.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I turned my wrist, showing her the blood again. “Then touch it. Feel it. Smell it. This isn’t magic. This is *truth*.”
She didn’t move.
Just stood there, trembling, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“You want to destroy it,” I said, stepping closer. “You want to cut the tether. You want to be free of me.”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.” I held out my wrist. “Break the bond. Sever it. Prove me wrong.”
She didn’t take it.
Just looked at me, her chest rising and falling, her mark pulsing beneath her sleeve.
“But if you won’t,” I said, voice soft, “then stop fighting it. Stop pretending this is just magic. Stop pretending you don’t want me.” I reached out, cupping her face. “Because the bond isn’t the only thing keeping you alive.”
“Then what is?” she whispered.
“*Me*.”
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time, she leaned into my touch.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
But because she *wanted* to.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice breaking. “I came here to destroy you. To destroy *this*. But now—” She opened her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Now I don’t know if I can.”
“Then don’t,” I murmured, pulling her into my arms. “Don’t destroy it. Don’t destroy *us*. Just… let it be.”
She buried her face in my chest, her fingers gripping my coat, her body trembling. “I don’t want to hate you anymore.”
“Then don’t,” I said, holding her tighter. “Hate me all you want. But don’t leave me.”
She didn’t answer.
Just held on.
And the bond—silent for a century—sang.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *lullaby*.
We stood like that for a long time—her in my arms, me holding her like she was the only thing keeping me from drowning. The wound on my wrist still bled, but the pain was distant, muffled by the warmth of her body, the scent of her hair—storm and blood and something sweet. The bond pulsed between us, slow and steady, like a second heartbeat.
And then—
“Your Majesty.”
Kaelen’s voice broke the silence.
I didn’t let go of her. “What is it?”
He stepped into the suite, tall and broad, his gray eyes scanning us, lingering on the blood on my wrist. “Malrik’s forces have breached the eastern wall. He’s demanding an audience. Says he has proof that Lady Vey is a hybrid—that she’s a threat to the Accord.”
Stella stiffened in my arms.
“He’s bluffing,” I said.
“Maybe,” Kaelen said. “But he’s got half the Council backing him. If they vote to test her blood—”
“They won’t,” I said. “Not without my consent.”
“And if they override you?”
I looked down at Stella. “Then we’ll burn the Council to the ground.”
She looked up at me, eyes wide. “You’d do that? For me?”
“I’ve already done worse,” I said. “And I’ll do more. Because you’re not just my fated mate.” I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You’re my *queen*.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t pull away.
Just nodded, her breath still unsteady.
“Then we face him together,” she said.
“Together,” I agreed.
Kaelen hesitated. “Sir… your wrist.”
I looked down. The bleeding had slowed, but the mark still pulsed, dark and angry. “It’ll heal.”
“Or it’ll kill you,” he said quietly. “If the bond isn’t accepted.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because Stella was already looking at me, her eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen before.
Fear.
Not for herself.
For *me*.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.
“I’ll live,” I said.
“No,” she said, stepping back. “You won’t.”
She reached for my wrist, her fingers brushing the wound. A jolt of heat shot through me—white-hot, electric, *violent*. My breath hitched. My fangs throbbed. My cock hardened in an instant.
But worse—
The bond *screamed*.
Not in pain.
In *relief*.
“You feel it,” I said, voice rough. “Not magic. Not fate. *Us*.”
She didn’t let go. Just held my wrist, her thumb brushing the blood, her eyes locked on mine. “If I accept the bond… if I stop fighting it… will it stop hurting you?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I die.”
She closed her eyes.
And when she opened them, they were filled with tears.
“Then I choose you,” she whispered. “Not because I have to. Not because I’m afraid. But because… I can’t imagine a world without you in it.”
The bond *sang*.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *vow*.
I pulled her into my arms, crushing her against me, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft.
It was *claiming*.
Hard. Possessive. *Mine*.
Her hands gripped my coat, not to push me away—but to *pull me closer*. Her lips parted, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me, owning me, marking me in a way no fang ever could.
And when I finally pulled away, breathless, eyes burning, I whispered the words I never thought I’d say:
“You don’t have to destroy the bond, Stella.”
“Then what?” she gasped.
“You can *rewrite* it.”
She stared at me. “What?”
“The Blood Codex doesn’t just hold the spell,” I said. “It can be changed. Rewritten. If we both consent—if we both *choose* it—then the bond won’t be a curse.” I cupped her face, thumb brushing her lower lip. “It’ll be a *promise*.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me.
And for the first time, I didn’t see a weapon.
I didn’t see a prisoner.
I didn’t see a pawn.
I saw my *queen*.
And I knew—
She was already mine.
And I was already hers.
“Then let’s rewrite it,” she said, voice steady. “Together.”
I smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not a threat.
A *promise*.
“Together,” I agreed.
And as we walked to the Council Chamber, her hand in mine, the bond singing between us, I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
Malrik would fight.
Nyxara would scheme.
The Council would resist.
But none of it mattered.
Because she had chosen me.
And I would burn the world for her.