The air in the royal suite still hummed with the aftermath of our confession—the weight of my words, the heat of his kiss, the way my body had melted into his like I’d been starving for it. I choose you. I’d said it. Not out of fear. Not out of obligation. But because the truth had finally clawed its way out of my chest and into the light.
And now, I was being punished for it.
“A purification bath?” I repeated, voice flat, staring at Kaelen as he stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “You’re joking.”
“No, my lady,” he said, his tone respectful but firm. “The Council has ordered it. After last night’s… revelation… they demand proof that the bond is not only accepted, but *sanctified*. The ritual must be performed in the Hall of Still Waters. Tonight. In the presence of the High Elder.”
I turned to Lysander, who stood by the balcony, his coat slung over one arm, his wrist still bandaged from the bleeding mark. He hadn’t spoken since Kaelen delivered the news. Just watched me, gold eyes burning, unreadable.
“You knew about this,” I said.
“I did,” he admitted, voice low.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d fight it.”
“Damn right I would.” I crossed my arms. “You want me to—what? Bathe with you? Naked? In front of *witnesses*?”
“Not witnesses,” Kaelen corrected. “Only the High Elder. And myself, as guard. The ritual requires intimacy, but not spectacle.”
“Intimacy,” I repeated, the word tasting like ash. “You mean *exposure*.”
“It’s not about shame,” Lysander said, stepping closer. “It’s about *truth*. The bond must be cleansed of resistance. Of denial. The water will reflect what we’ve chosen.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then the Council will declare the bond unstable. And you’ll be stripped of status. Possibly executed.”
I glared at him. “You’re using me again.”
“No,” he said, voice rough. “I’m *protecting* you. The bath isn’t just a test. It’s a sealing. If we complete it—if the water accepts us—the bond becomes unbreakable. Even Malrik won’t dare challenge it.”
I pressed a hand to my temple. The mark beneath my sleeve pulsed, warm and alive. The bond was no longer screaming. It was *singing*. A low, golden hum that vibrated in my bones, in my blood, in the space between my thighs.
And worse—so was I.
After last night, after I’d whispered I choose you, after he’d kissed me like he was claiming my soul, my body had awakened in ways I couldn’t ignore. The dreams were gone. The rage was gone. In their place—*hunger*. A deep, aching throb that flared every time he looked at me, every time he spoke, every time his scent—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filled my nose, my lungs, my soul.
And now they wanted me to bathe with him.
Alone.
Naked.
With only the water to hide us.
“Fine,” I said, voice tight. “I’ll do it. But not because I want to. Because I have no choice.”
Lysander stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the slow, steady pulse of his power. “You always have a choice, Stella. But this time, I hope you choose *me*.”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because I already had.
The Hall of Still Waters was a cavern carved from black basalt beneath the throne hall, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with veins of glowing silver crystal that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. At its center, a circular pool of water shimmered, still as glass, reflecting the floating candles above—white flames that burned cold and silent.
High Elder Valen stood at the edge, robed in blood-red silk, his ancient eyes scanning us as we entered. Kaelen followed, silent, watchful, his gray eyes flickering between us, lingering on the bandage around Lysander’s wrist.
“The ritual begins,” Valen intoned, his voice echoing through the chamber. “By the Accord, the bond must be purified. Let the water reveal the truth of their union.”
I didn’t look at Lysander. Didn’t speak. Just stepped to the edge of the pool, my boots clicking against the stone. My gown was simple—black velvet, high collar, long sleeves—but it felt like armor. Like a shield.
And I was going to have to take it off.
“Remove your garments,” Valen said. “Enter the water as you were born. Let it cleanse you of resistance. Let it reflect your truth.”
My breath caught.
I glanced at Lysander.
He was already unbuttoning his coat.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like he wasn’t just undressing—but *unveiling*.
I turned away, fingers trembling as I reached for the buttons of my gown. One by one, I undid them, the fabric slipping from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of it, standing in only my undergarments—black silk, modest, safe.
But not safe enough.
“All of it,” Valen said.
I closed my eyes.
And removed the rest.
The air was cool against my skin, but I was burning. My nipples pebbled. My thighs pressed together, trying to stifle the wetness, the ache. The mark on my wrist flared, crimson and alive, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
And then—
I looked up.
Lysander stood beside the pool, fully naked, his body a masterpiece of power and grace. Broad shoulders. Hard chest. Narrow hips. And between his legs—
My breath snatched in my throat.
He was *huge*. Thick. Long. Already half-hard, his cock curving toward his belly, the tip glistening with pre-come. His fangs were bared, his gold eyes burning, his mark glowing faintly on his wrist.
He didn’t look away.
Didn’t hide.
Just stared at me, possessive, hungry, *inevitable*.
“Enter,” Valen said.
I stepped into the water.
It was warm. Not hot. Not cold. Just… perfect. It rose over my feet, my calves, my thighs, swirling around me like a living thing. I kept my back to him, my arms crossed over my chest, my breath shallow.
And then—
He stepped in.
Behind me.
I felt him before I saw him—the heat of his body, the ripple of the water, the slow, steady pulse of his power. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, his chest against my back.
“Turn,” he murmured.
I didn’t move.
“Turn,” he said again, voice low, velvet. “Let me see you.”
Slowly, I turned.
And the world stopped.
He was beautiful. Not just powerful. Not just dangerous. But *beautiful*. His skin was pale, flawless, his muscles taut beneath it, his chest dusted with dark hair that trailed down to his hips. His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy, the tip brushing his stomach, pre-come dripping into the water.
And his eyes—gold, burning, *feral*—were locked on mine.
“You’re trembling,” he said, voice rough.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re *awake*.”
He reached out, slow, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His fingers brushed my shoulder, then my collarbone, then the curve of my breast. My breath hitched. My nipples tightened. My mark flared.
“So soft,” he murmured. “So perfect.”
His hand slid down my stomach, fingers brushing the edge of my hip, then lower, teasing the inside of my thigh. I gasped, my legs parting instinctively, my wetness pooling between them, swirling into the water.
“You’re drenched,” he said, voice thick with need. “Even the water knows.”
“Stop,” I whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea.
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Not this time.”
He cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Look at me.”
I did.
And the bond *screamed*.
Not in pain. Not in demand.
In *relief*.
“You feel it,” he murmured. “Not magic. Not fate. *Us*.”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because he was right.
The bond wasn’t the only thing making me wet.
It was *him*.
And I didn’t want him to stop.
“The ritual,” I whispered, clinging to the last thread of resistance. “We have to—”
“The ritual is this,” he said, voice low. “This moment. This truth. Let the water see what we’ve chosen.”
He turned me, guiding me to the edge of the pool, his hands on my hips, his cock pressing against my ass. I braced my palms against the stone, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my thighs trembling.
“Lean back,” he said, voice rough.
I did.
And then—
His hands were on me.
Not between my legs.
Not on my breasts.
On my back.
Slow. Gentle. Reverent.
He began to wash me—using a soft cloth, warm water, his touch like a prayer. He started at my shoulders, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips. His fingers were careful, deliberate, worshipful.
And with every stroke, the bond sang.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *lullaby*.
“You have scars,” he murmured, his fingers brushing a thin white line across my lower back. “From the ritual?”
“No,” I whispered. “From the years after. From running. From fighting.”
He kissed the scar. “I’ll make them stop.”
“You can’t.”
“I can,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll protect you. I’ll fight for you. I’ll *kill* for you.”
His hands moved lower, washing the backs of my thighs, the curve of my ass, his touch maddeningly slow, maddeningly gentle. I could feel his cock, hard and heavy, pressing against me, his pre-come dripping into the water, mixing with my wetness.
And then—
He turned me.
Slowly.
Guiding me to face him.
His eyes burned as he looked at me—my breasts, my stomach, the triangle of dark curls between my thighs. His breath was unsteady. His fangs were bared. His cock was dripping.
“So beautiful,” he whispered.
He dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and began to wash me again—this time, front to front. He started at my collarbone, tracing the line down to the swell of my breast, then over the curve, his touch feather-light, maddening.
My breath hitched.
My nipples tightened.
My mark flared.
He moved lower—over my stomach, the dip of my navel, the edge of my hip. Then lower.
And then—
The cloth brushed my clit.
I gasped, my hips jerking, my thighs parting.
“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn’t stop. Just kept washing, slow, gentle, maddening. “Let me clean you. Let me *see* you.”
His fingers replaced the cloth—tracing my folds, parting them, circling my clit with the lightest pressure. I whimpered, my hands gripping his arms, my body arching toward him.
“Lysander,” I gasped.
“Look at me,” he growled.
I did.
And the bond *sang*.
“You’re so wet,” he said, voice thick. “So ready. For me.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you want me.”
“I want you,” I gasped. “I want you inside me. I want you to—”
“To what?” he growled, two fingers sliding inside me, deep, hard.
“To *claim* me,” I cried, my hips grinding against his hand. “To mark me. To—”
“To *love* you?” he finished, his thumb circling my clit.
I froze.
“What?” I whispered.
“You heard me,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not just your king. Not just your mate. I’m your *lover*. And I will love you. Every night. Every day. Until the end of time.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
From *hope*.
He curled his fingers, hitting that spot, and I came—screaming his name, back arching, thighs trembling, wetness flooding his hand, swirling into the water.
He didn’t stop.
Kept thrusting. Kept curling. Kept whispering, “Mine. Mine. *Mine*.”
And when I was spent, trembling, drenched, he pulled his hand away.
Turned me.
And kissed me.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
Hard. Possessive. *Claiming*.
His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting me, owning me, marking me in a way no fang ever could.
And I kissed him back.
Not because the bond forced me.
But because I wanted to.
Because I *needed* to.
Because for the first time in ten years, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I felt like a woman.
And when he finally pulled away, breathless, eyes burning, he whispered, “Say it.”
“Say what?” I gasped.
“Say you’re mine.”
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
So he stepped back.
And the water *glowed*.
Not red.
Not crimson.
Gold.
The bond had been accepted.
The ritual was complete.
And I—
I was his.