I didn’t sleep.
Not that I could, not with the echo of his voice still ringing in my skull—I won’t be your revenge—and the ghost of his fangs still grazing my pulse. The war room had been silent after he left, the stone walls absorbing every breath, every heartbeat, every unspoken thing that passed between us. I’d stayed there—on the cold floor, my robe half-open, my skin still humming from his touch—long after he’d gone. My fingers kept drifting to the spot where his teeth had broken my skin, not deep enough to mark, not quite, but close. Too close. And worse—part of me wished he’d done it. Wished he’d bitten me. Claimed me. Made it real.
I pressed two fingers to my lips, still swollen from the kiss. Still warm. Still his.
It hadn’t been like the other times. Not a fight. Not a test. Not a battle of wills. It had been… surrender. Mine. His. Ours. And that terrified me more than anything.
Because I wasn’t supposed to want this.
I wasn’t supposed to want him.
I was Vera of the Thorn Bloodline. The last true Thorn Witch. The one who’d sworn to burn the Concord to ash. The one who’d watched her mother burn for daring to break the chains. I wasn’t supposed to fall for the monster who enforced it. I wasn’t supposed to let him touch me. To let him see me. To let him know me.
And yet—
He did.
And worse—he didn’t care.
Not about the lies. Not about the mission. Not about the vow.
He cared about me.
I stood, my legs unsteady, and pulled my robe closed. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly, its vines creeping lower now, curling toward my sternum like roots seeking soil. I traced it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t just a mark anymore. It was a presence. A weight. A hunger.
I hated that I hadn’t pulled away.
I hated that I’d let him touch me.
I hated most of all that I hadn’t wanted to.
A knock at the door.
I didn’t look up. “Come in.”
The door opened. Not Kaelen. Not Lira.
Dain.
The werewolf Beta stepped inside, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me. He looked grim. “He’s in his chambers. Alone. He hasn’t slept. He’s been reviewing the assassin reports. Again.”
“And?”
“He’s not himself,” Dain said, stepping closer. “I’ve known him two hundred years. I’ve seen him fight wars, execute traitors, enforce the Concord without blinking. But I’ve never seen him like this. Not since you.”
My breath caught.
“He’s afraid,” Dain said. “Not of the Regent. Not of the Council. Of you.”
“Me?”
“Of how much he wants you,” he said, voice low. “Of how much he needs you. Of how much he’d ruin himself just to have you.”
My throat tightened.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Dain said. “You can go to him. Not as a weapon. Not as a rebel. But as the woman who wants him.”
“I don’t want him,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re dripping with his hunger, darling. I can smell it on you. Lavender and storm, yes—but underneath? Him. His need. Your want. It’s all over your skin.”
I flinched.
“He’s not what you thought he was,” Dain said. “And neither are you. You’re not just a rebel. Not just a weapon. You’re a woman who’s starting to believe she might not have to burn the world to find her place in it.”
“And if I do?” I asked, voice breaking. “If I stop hating him? If I stop fighting? What then?”
“Then you live,” he said. “And maybe, just maybe, you love.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there, my hands trembling, my skin burning, the bond screaming in my veins.
Elowen thought she could break me.
She thought she could take him.
She thought I was weak.
She was wrong.
I wasn’t weak.
I was angry.
And anger, I knew, was a far more powerful magic than love.
But maybe—
Maybe love was stronger.
I turned to the door.
And I walked.
Not to hide.
Not to run.
But to claim what was mine.
Because if Kaelen D’Rae belonged to anyone—
It was me.
—
The corridors of the Citadel were silent, the silver torches casting long, flickering shadows against the obsidian walls. I moved fast, my boots silent on the stone, my magic coiled tight beneath my skin. The bond pulsed—hot, insistent—like a second heartbeat. I could feel him. Not close. Not near. But present. A thread of fire in my veins, a whisper in my blood.
He was in his chambers. Still. Brooding. Alone.
And I was going to him.
Not to fight. Not to destroy. But to choose.
The door to his chambers was slightly ajar. Light spilled out—faint, golden. I hesitated. My hand hovered over the handle. My breath caught. The sigil on my collarbone burned, its vines curling lower, tightening like a cage.
Then—
A voice.
Soft. Silken. Familiar.
“You don’t have to hide from me, Kaelen.”
Elowen.
My blood turned to ice.
I stepped back. Pressed myself against the wall. Listened.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she murmured. “Since the gala. Since she arrived. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t feel it?”
“Leave,” Kaelen’s voice was low, rough. “Now.”
“Or what?” she purred. “You’ll punish me? Like you did that night under the Blood Moon? When you fed from me? When you claimed me?”
My stomach dropped.
“That was a lie,” he said, cold. “A political move. Nothing more.”
“Liar,” she whispered. “I can still feel your fangs on my neck. I can still taste your blood on my lips. You wanted me. You needed me. And now—” Her voice dropped. “Now you’re letting her ruin you.”
“She’s not ruining me,” he said, voice rising. “She’s—”
“Changing you,” Elowen finished. “And that’s worse. You were strong. Cold. Untouchable. And now—” A pause. “Now you’re weak.”
Silence.
Then—
“You don’t know her,” he said, voice low. “You don’t know what she’s done. What she’s survived.”
“And you do?” she asked, laughing. “You think she’s some noble rebel? She’s a terrorist. She wants to burn the Concord to the ground. And you—you’re letting her.”
“I’m not letting her do anything,” he said. “I’m protecting what’s mine.”
“And what am I?” she asked, voice trembling. “Was I nothing? Was our night together—”
“A mistake,” he said, cold. “And if you don’t leave now, I’ll have you removed.”
“Fine,” she said, her voice sharp. “But remember this, Kaelen. I know your secrets. I know your weaknesses. And if you don’t come back to me—”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Then I’ll make sure she knows the truth.”
Footsteps. The door opened. She stepped out—violet eyes blazing, blood-red lips curled in a snarl. She saw me. Stopped. Smiled.
“Vera,” she said, voice sweet. “How… convenient.”
My magic flared. Thorns of power coiled around my wrists. “Get out of my way.”
“Or what?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’ll use your magic on me? In front of the High Warden? After what he just said?”
My breath caught.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “He called me a mistake. But he still remembers how I taste. How I feel. And when he touches you—” She laughed. “He’s thinking of me.”
Fire surged through my veins.
I grabbed her throat. Thorns erupted from my skin, wrapping around her neck, squeezing. Her eyes widened. She gasped.
“Say that again,” I growled. “I dare you.”
“Vera.”
His voice.
Low. Commanding.
I turned.
Kaelen stood in the doorway, his pale gold eyes blazing, his fangs bared. “Let her go.”
“She was in your room,” I snapped. “Again.”
“And?” he asked, stepping closer. “She’s not worth your rage.”
“She said you fed from her,” I said, my voice breaking. “That you claimed her.”
“It was a lie,” he said. “A political alliance. Nothing more.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” I asked, my magic flaring. “After everything?”
“You don’t have to believe me,” he said, stepping closer. “You just have to trust me.”
My breath hitched.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you lose,” he said, voice dropping. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not to her. Not to anyone.”
Elowen laughed—weak, broken. “You think she’ll ever trust you? You think she’ll ever love you? She came here to kill you, Kaelen. And one day—” She smiled. “She’ll do it.”
“Get out,” he said, not looking at her. “Now.”
She didn’t move.
So I did.
I shoved her. Hard. She stumbled back, hit the wall, slid to the floor. I stepped over her, my boots silent on the stone.
And then I was in his arms.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Desperate.
My hands fisted in his coat. My mouth crashed against his. My magic flared—thorned vines snaking up his arms, wrapping around his wrists, claiming him.
He groaned—low, pained, pleased—and the sound went straight to my core.
“Tell me,” I growled against his lips. “Tell me you didn’t want her.”
“I didn’t,” he said, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”
“Liar.”
“Truth,” he said, his mouth moving down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. “You’re the only one who’s ever made my blood still. The only one who’s ever made me feel alive.”
My breath caught.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re strong. I know you’ve spent your life fighting for people no one else cares about. And I know you’re not a terrorist.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a revolution,” he said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at me—his eyes gold, his fangs bared, his breath hot—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands slid from my waist, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back.
Not because I wanted to use him.
Not because I wanted to destroy him.
But because I couldn’t not.
His breath hitched. His fangs grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He broke the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I gasped. My head fell back. My hands gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I breathed.
He bit down—just enough to sting. I cried out. My back arched. My magic exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he didn’t walk away.
This time, he just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath caught.
“And you,” he said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stayed where I was, my body still trembling, my skin still burning, my heart still pounding.
I hated him.
I wanted to kill him.
And I wanted him to come back.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
And that terrified me more than anything.
—
I didn’t go back to my room.
After he left—after he’d kissed me, after his fangs had grazed my pulse, after he’d whispered I won’t be your revenge like it was a vow, like it was a truth written in blood—I stayed there. In his chambers. On the cold stone floor. Surrounded by the scent of iron and night, by the echo of his voice, by the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly, its vines creeping lower now, curling toward my sternum like roots seeking soil. I traced it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t just a mark anymore. It was a presence. A weight. A hunger.
I hated that I hadn’t pulled away.
I hated that I’d let him touch me.
I hated most of all that I hadn’t wanted to.
A knock at the door.
I didn’t look up. “Come in.”
The door opened. Not Dain. Not Lira.
Kaelen.
He stood in the threshold, tall and still, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars. His ink-black hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it. His pale gold eyes—sharp, unreadable—locked onto mine.
“You’re here,” he said, voice low.
“You left,” I said, not moving.
“I had to.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was approaching a wild animal. Like I might bolt.
Maybe I would.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze dropping to my lips, my neck, the pulse at my throat. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
He reached out, one hand hovering over my cheek, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. “The bond is destabilizing. You need me.”
“I don’t need you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he breathed. “You’re shaking. Your magic’s fraying. Your sigil’s spreading. You’re starving for me, Vera. And I can’t—”
“Don’t pretend you care,” I snapped, lifting my head. “You left me in the war room. You stopped. You said I was using you. That I was trying to destroy you.”
He flinched. “I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this,” he said, one hand lifting, thumb brushing the pulse at my throat. “Of how much I want you. Of how much I need you. Of how much I’d ruin myself just to have you.”
My breath caught.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he asked, voice rough. “The bond. The pull. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body arches when I’m near—like it’s starving for me.”
“I’m not starving for you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You need my touch. My mouth. My fangs on your skin. You need to feel me inside you, claiming you, ruining you.”
My breath hitched.
My thighs clenched.
“And I need you,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. Not as a means to an end. I need you because you’re the only thing that’s ever made my blood still. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m a monster—and made me want to be one.”
My heart hammered.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re strong. I know you’ve spent your life fighting for people no one else cares about. And I know you’re not a terrorist.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a revolution,” he said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at me—his eyes gold, his fangs bared, his breath hot—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He gripped my arms, yanking me to my feet.
My breath exploded from my lungs. His heat seeped through my skin. His hardness pressed against my stomach, aching, ready. My magic surged, thorned vines erupting across my skin, snaking up his arms.
He groaned—low, pained, pleased—and the sound went straight to my core.
“Tell me,” he growled, lips brushing mine. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
“I don’t want you,” I whispered.
“Liar.”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Liar.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands slid from my arms, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back.
Not because I wanted to use him.
Not because I wanted to destroy him.
But because I couldn’t not.
His breath hitched. His fangs grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He broke the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I gasped. My head fell back. My hands gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I breathed.
He bit down—just enough to sting. I cried out. My back arched. My magic exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he didn’t walk away.
This time, he just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath caught.
“And you,” he said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stayed where I was, my body still trembling, my skin still burning, my heart still pounding.
I hated him.
I wanted to kill him.
And I wanted him to come back.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
And that terrified me more than anything.
—
I didn’t go back to my room.
After he left—after he’d kissed me, after his fangs had grazed my pulse, after he’d whispered I won’t be your revenge like it was a vow, like it was a truth written in blood—I stayed there. In his chambers. On the cold stone floor. Surrounded by the scent of iron and night, by the echo of his voice, by the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly, its vines creeping lower now, curling toward my sternum like roots seeking soil. I traced it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t just a mark anymore. It was a presence. A weight. A hunger.
I hated that I hadn’t pulled away.
I hated that I’d let him touch me.
I hated most of all that I hadn’t wanted to.
A knock at the door.
I didn’t look up. “Come in.”
The door opened. Not Dain. Not Lira.
Kaelen.
He stood in the threshold, tall and still, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars. His ink-black hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it. His pale gold eyes—sharp, unreadable—locked onto mine.
“You’re here,” he said, voice low.
“You left,” I said, not moving.
“I had to.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was approaching a wild animal. Like I might bolt.
Maybe I would.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze dropping to my lips, my neck, the pulse at my throat. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
He reached out, one hand hovering over my cheek, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. “The bond is destabilizing. You need me.”
“I don’t need you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he breathed. “You’re shaking. Your magic’s fraying. Your sigil’s spreading. You’re starving for me, Vera. And I can’t—”
“Don’t pretend you care,” I snapped, lifting my head. “You left me in the war room. You stopped. You said I was using you. That I was trying to destroy you.”
He flinched. “I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this,” he said, one hand lifting, thumb brushing the pulse at my throat. “Of how much I want you. Of how much I need you. Of how much I’d ruin myself just to have you.”
My breath caught.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he asked, voice rough. “The bond. The pull. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body arches when I’m near—like it’s starving for me.”
“I’m not starving for you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You need my touch. My mouth. My fangs on your skin. You need to feel me inside you, claiming you, ruining you.”
My breath hitched.
My thighs clenched.
“And I need you,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. Not as a means to an end. I need you because you’re the only thing that’s ever made my blood still. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m a monster—and made me want to be one.”
My heart hammered.
“You don’t know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re brave. I know you’re strong. I know you’ve spent your life fighting for people no one else cares about. And I know you’re not a terrorist.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a revolution,” he said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at me—his eyes gold, his fangs bared, his breath hot—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He gripped my arms, yanking me to my feet.
My breath exploded from my lungs. His heat seeped through my skin. His hardness pressed against my stomach, aching, ready. My magic surged, thorned vines erupting across my skin, snaking up his arms.
He groaned—low, pained, pleased—and the sound went straight to my core.
“Tell me,” he growled, lips brushing mine. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
“I don’t want you,” I whispered.
“Liar.”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Liar.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands slid from my arms, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back.
Not because I wanted to use him.
Not because I wanted to destroy him.
But because I couldn’t not.
His breath hitched. His fangs grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He broke the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I gasped. My head fell back. My hands gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I breathed.
He bit down—just enough to sting. I cried out. My back arched. My magic exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he didn’t walk away.
This time, he just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath caught.
“And you,” he said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stayed where I was, my body still trembling, my skin still burning, my heart still pounding.
I hated him.
I wanted to kill him.
And I wanted him to come back.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
And that terrified me more than anything.