The silence after the assassin’s body hit the floor was worse than the scream.
Not the silence of the corridor—though that was heavy, thick with the scent of blood and death—but the silence inside me. The absence of rage. The absence of defiance. The absence of the fire that had burned in my chest since I’d walked into this cursed court.
It wasn’t gone.
It was just… redirected.
Because now, it wasn’t just aimed at Lysander.
It was aimed at the world.
At Malrik, who sent assassins to kill me in the shadows. At Nyxara, who wore his mark like a trophy and lied with her eyes. At the Council, who demanded proof of my loyalty while plotting my execution. At the bond, which no longer screamed but *sang*, a golden hum beneath my skin that felt like surrender.
And at him.
Lysander.
Who had taken a blade for me.
Who had bled for me.
Who had whispered, “I’d rather die than lose you,” like it was nothing. Like his life meant less than mine.
I pressed my palm to the stone wall as we walked back to the suite, grounding myself. My boots made no sound. My breath was steady. My hands were still slick with his blood, the scent of iron and storm clinging to my skin. He walked beside me, his coat torn at the side, the bandage already darkening with fresh seepage. He didn’t limp. Didn’t wince. Just moved like the wound was nothing—like pain was just another language he’d learned to ignore.
But I saw it.
The tightness in his jaw. The slight hitch in his breath. The way his fingers curled into fists when the pain flared.
And I hated it.
Not because he was hurt.
But because he didn’t let me help.
Because he didn’t let me *protect* him.
Because he kept playing the hero while I was left to watch, to bleed, to break.
The suite was quiet when we entered—fire low, candles flickering, moonlight slicing through the balcony doors like a blade. Kaelen had already doubled the guards. The air hummed with tension, with the unspoken truth: this wasn’t over. Malrik had sent one assassin. He’d send more. And next time, Lysander might not be fast enough.
“You should rest,” I said, voice flat.
He didn’t answer. Just walked to the balcony, pulled open the doors, and let the night wind rush in. His back was to me, his silhouette sharp against the city below, the crimson lanterns pulsing like a heartbeat. Blood soaked through the bandage at his side, dark and slow, dripping onto the marble.
“Lysander.”
Still nothing.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s healing.”
“Not fast enough.” I crossed the room, grabbed the vial of healing salve from the drawer, and stepped behind him. “Take off your shirt.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“And I said *take it off*.”
He turned slowly, gold eyes burning. “You don’t get to order me around, Stella.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “But I get to stop you from dying because you’re too proud to admit you’re hurt.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, his gaze heavy, unreadable.
So I reached for him.
My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working fast, peeling the fabric back from his shoulders. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t help. Just stood there, rigid, as I pulled the shirt down his arms, as the torn edge of the wound came into view—deep, jagged, still oozing.
My breath caught.
Not from the blood.
Not from the wound.
From the scars.
Crisscrossing his back—old, silvery, brutal. Some from blades. Some from claws. Some from whips. A map of centuries of war, of survival, of pain he’d never spoken of.
And in the center—
A brand.
Thorne crest, seared into his skin.
“What happened?” I whispered, my fingers hovering over it.
“My father,” he said, voice low. “A lesson in obedience.”
My stomach twisted.
“And the others?”
“War. Betrayal. Punishment.” He turned, facing me. “You don’t need to see this.”
“Yes,” I said, voice breaking. “I do.”
I uncorked the vial, poured the salve over the wound. It sizzled, the scent of burnt herbs and iron filling the air. He hissed, muscles tensing, but didn’t pull away.
And then—
I saw it.
The mark on his wrist—the same crimson sigil that burned on mine—was still bleeding.
Thin trails of dark blood seeped from the edges, staining his pale skin, dripping onto the floor.
“It’s not healing,” I said, voice tight.
“It will.”
“No,” I snapped. “It won’t. Not until I stop fighting the bond. Not until I *accept* it.” I looked up at him. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”
“I *am* trapped,” I said, voice rising. “By you. By the bond. By this court. By the fact that if I leave, you *die*.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“And if I stay?” I demanded. “What then? I become your queen? Your pet? Your *whore*?”
His eyes flashed. “You’re not a whore.”
“Then what am I?” I shouted. “Your prisoner? Your weapon? Your fated mate?” I stepped closer, my chest heaving. “You want me to believe you love me. You want me to believe this bond is fate. But all I see is *control*. You manipulate the Council. You exile Nyxara when it suits you. You take blades for me like it’s some grand performance. But you don’t let me in. You don’t let me *fight*. You don’t let me *protect* you.”
“I’m protecting *you*,” he growled.
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re protecting your *pride*. You’re the king. The monster. The untouchable. But I’ve seen you bleed. I’ve seen you break. And I’m *tired* of watching you suffer while pretending you don’t need me.”
He grabbed my wrist, not hard, but firm. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me,” I said, yanking my arm free. “Tell me why you’re really doing this. Tell me why you marked me. Tell me why you let me think you were a monster when all you’ve done is *save* me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stared at me, gold eyes burning, his chest rising and falling.
And that—
That was the final straw.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t plan.
I just *moved*.
My fist flew.
It connected with his jaw—hard, sharp, *violent*.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fall. Just turned back to me, his lip split, a trickle of blood running down his chin.
“Again,” he said, voice low.
I did.
Another punch—this time to his ribs, near the wound. He grunted, but didn’t block it.
“Again,” he said.
I swung again.
And again.
And again.
Until my knuckles were raw, until my breath came in ragged gasps, until I was screaming, not from pain, but from the sheer, unbearable *weight* of everything I’d been holding inside.
And then—
He caught my wrist.
Spun me.
Pinned me against the wall.
His body pressed against mine—hard, hot, *dominant*. One hand cuffed both of mine above my head. The other gripped my thigh, lifting it, spreading me, pressing his cock—thick, hard, *ready*—against my core.
My breath snatched in my throat.
My pulse spiked.
My mark flared.
“You want to fight?” he growled, his mouth at my ear. “Then fight.”
And I did.
I kicked. I twisted. I slammed my head back, cracking it against his jaw. He grunted, but didn’t let go. Just pressed harder, his cock grinding against me, his teeth grazing my neck.
“You don’t own me,” I gasped.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “But the bond does.”
“Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t *want* to.” He bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me cry out. “Because every time you fight me, every time you rage, every time you *hate* me—I feel alive. For the first time in centuries, I feel *real*.”
“You’re impossible,” I whispered, my hips lifting, seeking friction.
“And you’re mine.” He ground against me, slow, torturous. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t.”
He released my wrist—just one—letting my hand fall. But it didn’t push him away.
It gripped his coat.
Pulled him closer.
“You want me,” he said, voice dropping. “You’ve wanted me since the moment you walked into my court.”
“I hate you.”
“Then why are you wet?” He slid his hand between us, fingers brushing the edge of my panties. I was soaked. Drenched. My thighs trembled.
“Stop,” I whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “Not this time.”
His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, circling my clit. I gasped, hips arching, body clenching around nothing.
“Say you want me,” he growled.
“I— I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I gasped. “I want you to—”
“To what?” he demanded, two fingers sliding inside me, deep, hard.
“To *claim* me,” I cried, grinding against his hand. “To mark me. To—”
“To *love* you?” he finished, 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.
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 I did the only thing I could.
I slapped him.
Not hard.
Not angry.
Just enough to make him stop.
To make him look at me.
And when he did—
I whispered the words I never thought I’d say:
“You’re not allowed to die for me.”
He stilled. “What?”
“If you die,” I said, voice breaking, “I’ll kill you.”
He stared at me.
And then—
He laughed.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
Relieved.
“You’re impossible,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“And you’re mine,” I whispered.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t smirk.
Just pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t about possession.
It was about *promise*.
And when he finally let me go, when he stepped back, when he looked at me with gold eyes burning, he said the words that changed everything:
“Then fight with me. Not against me. *With* me.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for the dagger at my thigh.
And handed it to him.
“Then teach me,” I said. “Teach me how to fight *with* you. Not just for you. Not just because of you. But *with* you.”
He took the dagger.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court—
I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a partner.
And I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
And neither was he.