The first morning after the decree is not soft light or quiet breaths.
It’s fire.
Not the kind that burns cities. Not the kind that consumes flesh.
The kind that remembers.
I wake tangled in black silk and colder skin, my body pressed to Cassian’s, his arm a heavy weight across my waist, his fangs still grazing my neck. The bite mark pulses—warm, alive, his—and the sigils across my skin flicker gold beneath the thin fabric of the nightgown I don’t remember putting on. The fire in the hearth is dead, the silver chandeliers dark, but the air still hums with the aftermath of magic, thick with the scent of iron, arousal, and old blood.
I don’t move.
Can’t.
Because this—this tangled, breathless, claimed state—is new.
Not just the bond.
Not just the decree.
But the stillness.
The lack of calculation.
The absence of the lie.
I spent years hiding. Years pretending. Years sharpening my words like knives, my silence like poison. I came to the Shadow Court with a mission etched in vengeance, a heart sealed in ice, a body untouched by desire. I didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to need. Didn’t want to love.
And now—
I’m in his bed.
Marked.
Claimed.
His.
And I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. His arm tightens around me, pulling me deeper into the curve of his body. His fangs press into my pulse, not biting, just feeling. “And thinking too loudly.”
“You can hear that?” I ask, turning my head just enough to meet his eyes.
“I can feel it.” He brushes his nose along my jaw, inhaling. “Your magic hums when you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.” His hand slides up my bare back, tracing the sigils burning across my spine. “You’re trembling.”
I am.
Not from fear.
From the weight of it all.
The decree.
The bond.
The way he looked at me last night—like I was the only truth in a world built on lies.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“Be yours.” My voice breaks. “Not just in magic. Not just in blood. But in truth. In daylight. In front of them all.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just rolls me onto my back, his body pressing me into the mattress, his weight familiar, right. His black eyes burn at the edges, crimson bleeding into the darkness. His face is sharp, unreadable, but his thumb brushes my cheekbone—soft, so soft it aches.
“You don’t have to be mine in front of them,” he says. “You just have to be mine here.” He presses a hand to my chest, where the sigils pulse beneath his touch. “In here. In your breath. In your blood. That’s enough.”
“It’s not.” I cup his face, my thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “They’ll test us. They’ll whisper. They’ll say the bond was forced. That I’m not heir. That you’re weak for loving me.”
“Let them.” He leans down, his lips brushing mine. “I don’t care what they say. I care that you’re here. That you’re alive. That you’re mine.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
Our mouths crash together—fingers tangling in hair, bodies pressing close, hearts beating in time. No hunger. No fury. Just truth. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, claiming, and I moan, arching into him, my core aching, my magic surging. The sigils on my skin flare gold, the bond humming, the air thick with power.
And then—
He breaks away.
“I don’t want to rush this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine. “I want to feel you. Every inch. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
My chest tightens.
Because I know what he means.
This isn’t just about sex.
It’s about remembering.
Every moment we’ve stolen. Every lie we’ve burned. Every truth we’ve fought for.
So I don’t speak.
Just reach for the hem of my nightgown.
One by one, I lift it—slow, deliberate—my fingers brushing the soft fabric, the cool air kissing my skin. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t help. Just watches me, his eyes burning, his breath ragged. The gown slips over my head, pooling beside us. I’m bare now. Every scar. Every sigil. Every mark he’s left on me.
And I let him see.
“You’re not just a king,” I whisper.
“No.” His hands slide up my bare back, tracing the sigils burning across my spine. “I’m yours.”
I tilt my head, baring my throat.
“Claim me again.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
His fangs sink in—deep, slow, reverent. Pain flashes—sharp, bright—then melts into pleasure, hot and thick, pooling low in my belly. My magic surges, sigils blazing across my skin, golden light flooding the chamber. I cry out, my fingers digging into his back, my body arching into his. He drinks—deep, slow, reverent—and then pulls back, licking the wound closed, his lips pressing to the mark.
“Mine,” he murmurs.
“Yours,” I breathe.
And then—
He flips me.
Not onto my back.
Onto my stomach.
My chest presses to the cool silk, my hips lifted, my back arched. He doesn’t enter me. Not yet. Just runs his hands down my spine, over my hips, between my thighs—slow, deliberate—parting me, circling my clit, teasing. I gasp, my back arching, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He watches me—really watches—as his fingers slide inside me—two, then three—curling, stroking, pressing against that sweet, aching spot deep inside.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “So ready.”
“For you,” I gasp. “Only for you.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just curls his fingers deeper, his thumb circling my clit, his eyes never leaving mine. I cry out, my hips bucking, my body trembling, my magic surging. The sigils on my skin blaze gold, the bond screaming with power. And then—
I come.
Hard. Deep. Unstoppable.
My back arches off the bed, my fingers digging into the sheets, my cry echoing through the chamber. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Just rides me through it, his fingers still moving, his eyes still locked on mine, his fangs extended, his breath ragged.
And then—
He withdraws.
Slow. Teasing. Cruel.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do.
His black eyes burn at the edges, his lips stained with my arousal, his fingers glistening. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I shiver, my core aching, my body still trembling.
“You taste like fire,” he murmurs. “Like magic. Like mine.”
And then—
He lowers himself.
His hands grip my hips, spreading me wider, and then—
His mouth is on me.
Hot. Wet. Devouring.
His tongue flicks my clit, circles it, sucks it into his mouth, and I cry out, my fingers tangling in the sheets, my hips bucking. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just feasts on me—licking, sucking, biting—his fangs grazing my sensitive flesh, sending shocks of pleasure through my body. The sigils on my skin flare gold, the bond humming, the air thick with magic.
“Cassian—” I gasp.
“Say it,” he growls against my flesh. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I cry. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m—”
And then—
I come again.
Harder. Deeper. Unrelenting.
My body convulses, my back arching, my cry echoing through the chamber. He drinks me in, his tongue still moving, his fangs still grazing, until I’m trembling, until I’m breaking, until I collapse against the bed, breathless, spent, his.
And then—
He rises.
Slow. Deliberate. Certain.
His fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down, freeing his cock—thick, hard, veined, the tip glistening with pre-cum. I don’t look away. Just watch as he steps between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, lifting me.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do.
His black eyes burn at the edges, fangs still extended, lips stained with my arousal. He’s not just a king.
He’s mine.
And I—
I am his.
“You want this,” he says, voice rough. “Say it.”
“I want you.” My voice breaks. “I claim you. I love you.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just thrusts.
Hard. Deep. Final.
I cry out, my nails digging into the sheets, my head falling back against the pillows. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just moves—faster, harder, deeper—his hips slamming into mine, his cock stretching me, filling me, claiming me. The sigils on my skin blaze gold, the bond screaming with power, golden fire erupting from us, the chamber shattering, reality reforming around us.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his fangs grazing my neck. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I sob. “Always. Always—”
And then—
I come.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until I’m nothing but sensation. Until I’m nothing but his.
And then—
He follows.
With a growl, his body tenses, his cock pulses inside me, and he comes—hot, thick, endless—filling me, marking me, binding us. The bond screams—not in pain, but in completion. Golden fire erupts from us, the runes on the floor shattering, the chandeliers trembling, the fire roaring to life.
And then—
Stillness.
We break apart, gasping, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths ragged, our bodies trembling. He doesn’t pull out. Just holds me—tight, fierce, needing—his body still buried deep inside mine, his fangs still grazing my neck, his heart still racing.
“You’re not leaving my side again,” he murmurs.
“I wasn’t planning to,” I whisper.
He doesn’t smile.
Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, the bond humming between us—low, deep, alive.
And then—
He carries me to the bath.
Gently. Slowly. Reverently.
The marble tub is already filled—steam rising, rose petals floating on the surface, the scent of lavender and old magic thick in the air. He steps in first, then pulls me into his arms, lowering us both into the water. I don’t speak. Just press my back to his chest, letting his arms wrap around me, his fangs brush my shoulder, his heartbeat echo in my bones.
“You’re better,” I whisper.
“I’m not.” He cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “I’m yours.”
My breath catches.
“You did this,” he murmurs. “Not the ritual. Not the magic. You. You saved me. Again.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“I’d die for you.”
“Then don’t.” I press my forehead to his. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me closer, holding me tight, his body warm against mine, the bond humming—low, deep, alive.
And then—
We stay.
Not for hours.
But for moments.
For breaths.
For the quiet certainty that this—this tangled, claimed, chosen thing—is real.
The first morning after the decree is not soft light.
It’s not quiet breaths.
It’s not even peace.
It’s truth.
And for the first time in my life—
I’m not afraid to live it.