The fire had burned low by the time I finally closed my eyes, the embers glowing like dying stars in the hearth. The safe house was silent—no wind, no distant howls from the highlands, no creak of the Citadel’s ancient stone. Just stillness, thick and heavy, like the world was holding its breath. I sat against the wall, my dagger across my lap, my shoulder aching where the guard’s blade had cut through fabric and skin. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed—slow, steady, like a second heartbeat—its vines now curling down my sternum, across my ribs, as if rooting into me, claiming me not just as a Thorn Witch, but as something more. Something alive.
Kaelen slept on the cot, his breathing slow and even, his face relaxed in sleep. He looked younger like this—vulnerable, almost human. Not the High Warden. Not the enforcer. Not the monster who’d once used my magic to chain hybrids like animals.
Just a man.
My man.
I hadn’t meant to say it.
Not out loud.
Not yet.
But the words had been building inside me for weeks—since the Moon Garden, since the ritual, since he’d knelt before me with a black rose in his hand. They’d coiled in my chest like thorned vines, sharp and insistent, threatening to tear me open if I didn’t let them out.
I love you.
Three words.
That’s all it would take to destroy me.
Because love wasn’t just surrender.
It was annihilation.
And I was already crumbling.
I shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at my wound. The linen bandage was stained with blood, the edges dark and stiff. I’d cleaned it myself, my fingers trembling as I pressed the cloth to my skin. I hadn’t asked for help. Hadn’t wanted to. Because if I let him touch me again—if I let him see me weak, bleeding, needing—I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
But he’d seen anyway.
Of course he had.
He’d woken when I hissed in pain, his pale gold eyes snapping open, his body moving before his mind had even caught up. He’d crossed the room in three strides, his hand lifting to my shoulder before I could stop him.
“You’re bleeding,” he’d said, voice rough with sleep.
“It’s nothing,” I’d snapped, pulling away.
“Liar,” he’d breathed, stepping closer. “You’re trembling. Your magic’s fraying. Your sigil’s spreading. You’re starving for me, Vera. And I can’t—”
“Don’t pretend you care,” I’d said, 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’d flinched. “I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this,” he’d 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 had caught.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he’d 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’d whispered.
“Liar,” he’d 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 had hitched.
My thighs had clenched.
“And I need you,” he’d 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 had hammered.
“You don’t know me,” I’d whispered.
“I know enough,” he’d 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’d said. “And I’m the man who’s supposed to stop you.”
“And will you?”
He hadn’t answered.
Just looked at me—really looked—and for the first time, I’d seen it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He’d gripped my arms, yanking me to my feet.
My breath had exploded from my lungs. His heat had seeped through my skin. His hardness had pressed against my stomach, aching, ready. My magic had surged, thorned vines erupting across my skin, snaking up his arms.
He’d groaned—low, pained, pleased—and the sound had gone straight to my core.
“Tell me,” he’d growled, lips brushing mine. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
“I don’t want you,” I’d whispered.
“Liar.”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Liar.”
And then—
He’d kissed me.
Not violent.
Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth had moved over mine like he was memorizing me, like he’d waited a lifetime for this. His hands had slid from my arms, up my back, tangling in my hair. Mine had found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic.
And for the first time—
I hadn’t fought.
I hadn’t pulled away.
I’d 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 had hitched. His fangs had grazed my lip, not to hurt, but to feel. My magic had flared, merging with his, our bond pulsing, alive. The sigil on my collarbone had burned, spreading—thorned vines curling down my chest, across my ribs.
He’d broken the kiss, but only to drag his mouth down my jaw, to my neck, fangs brushing my pulse. I’d gasped. My head had fallen back. My hands had gripped his hair.
“Say it,” he’d growled against my skin. “Say you’re mine.”
“Never,” I’d breathed.
He’d bitten down—just enough to sting. I’d cried out. My back had arched. My magic had exploded, thorned vines wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He’d laughed—dark, dangerous. “You’re already mine.”
And then—
He’d stopped.
Again.
Pulled back. Hands falling from my body. Breath ragged. Eyes still gold, still feral.
But this time, he hadn’t walked away.
This time, he’d just looked at me—really looked—and said, voice raw, “I won’t be your revenge.”
My breath had caught.
“And you,” he’d said, stepping back, “won’t be mine.”
And then he’d turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I’d 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.
Now, he stirred.
Not fast. Not startled.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he was afraid I’d bolt.
“You’re still here,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“Where else would I go?” I asked, not looking up.
He didn’t answer.
Just pushed himself up on one elbow, his pale gold eyes scanning the room before settling on me. The thorn sigil on his chest pulsed faintly beneath his tunic, its vines twisting toward his heart. He’d taken a blade to the side during the fight in the chamber—just a shallow cut, but enough to slow him. Enough to make me feel it in the bond, a sharp tug in my blood, a whisper in my bones.
And I’d healed him.
Not with magic. Not with ritual.
With my hands.
I’d washed the wound with water from the canteen, my fingers gentle despite the ache in my own shoulder. I’d wrapped it in linen, my touch steady even as my breath caught at the feel of his skin beneath my fingers—warm, scarred, alive. He hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away. Just watched me—really watched me—with those pale gold eyes, unreadable, endless.
And when I’d finished, he’d caught my wrist.
Not to stop me.
Not to claim me.
To feel me.
His thumb had brushed the pulse at my inner wrist, slow, deliberate. A question. A warning. A promise.
And I hadn’t pulled away.
Not this time.
Now, he swung his legs over the side of the cot, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. “You should rest,” he said, standing. “We move at first light.”
“I’m not tired,” I said.
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re trembling. 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.
Just looked at me—really looked—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.
But this time—
I didn’t let him go.
“Kaelen,” I said, my voice breaking.
He stopped.
Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
Just stood there, his hand on the door, his shoulders tense.
“I don’t want to destroy you,” I whispered.
He didn’t move.
“I don’t want to hate you,” I said, standing. “I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to burn the world with you.”
He turned.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he was afraid I’d break.
His pale gold eyes locked onto mine. “Then what do you want?”
My breath caught.
And then—
I said it.
The words I’d spent my life running from. The truth I’d buried beneath vengeance and pain. The vow I’d made in the ashes of my mother’s pyre—I will burn it all down—shattered like glass.
“I love you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t want to. I shouldn’t. I can’t afford to. But I do. I love you, Kaelen. And I’m terrified.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stared at me—really stared—and for the first time, I saw it.
Not hunger.
Not possession.
Tears.
One slipped free, tracing a slow path down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t flinch. Just let it fall.
And then—
He crossed the room in three strides, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. “Say it again,” he whispered, voice raw.
“I love you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I hate it. I fear it. I don’t understand it. But I do. I love you.”
He didn’t kiss me.
Didn’t claim me.
Just pulled me into him, his arms caging me in, his breath hot on my neck. “I’ve waited my whole life for someone to say that to me,” he said, voice rough. “Not because of duty. Not because of fate. Not because of the bond. But because they want to.”
My hands fisted in his shirt.
“I love you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. Not as a means to an end. I love 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 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.
Just looked at me—really looked—and for the first time, I saw it.
Doubt.
Not just in me.
In himself.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not soft.
Not slow.
Hard.
Desperate. Possessive. He grabbed my hips, yanked me against him, and crashed his mouth against mine. 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, wrapping around his arms, his chest, claiming him.
He groaned—low, pained, pleased—and the sound went straight to my core.
I didn’t fight.
Didn’t pull away.
I kissed him back—fierce, hungry, mine.
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.