Her gasp filled the room, her nails digging into my skin as I drank. Not too much, never too much, but enough. Enough to burn out the poison, to restore the strength already coiled in my veins. Her blood was fire, wild and untamed, and it seared away the venom until only her taste remained.
When I finally pulled back, I sealed the mark with my tongue, kissing the wound reverently. She swayed in my arms, exhausted but alive, her eyes hazy and soft.
“Better?” she whispered.
“Perfect,” I murmured, pressing my forehead to hers. “Because of you.”
We slid down onto the bed, tangled together, her head on my chest as sleep pulled at her. I held her until her breathing evened out, my hand tracing idle circles along her spine.
The demons would come again. The war was far from over. But for tonight, I had her safe in my arms, her blood burning through me, and that was enough.
I closed my eyes, the last thought anchoring me as I drifted into sleep. My woman, my mate was safe and, in my arms, where she belonged.
Chapter 13
Three weeks had passed since the demon attack. Three weeks since Lucien had torn the night apart to reach me, his fury carving through every threat in his path. I could still see the blood on his hands when he pulled me from the wreck of the SUV, still hear the way his voice broke when he whispered that I was all that mattered.
And since then, he hadn’t let me out of his sight. The nightmares were now less, but when I did have one Lucien was always there, holding me close, kissing the fear away.
Every time we left the mansion, there were more guards than before. Not just Troy and Jericho at my side, or Ivan shadowing me during the day, but entire convoys of men. Cars before and behind, weapons close at hand, eyes everywhere. Lucien made it clear that if the demons wanted me, they’d have to go through an army first. And though a part of me chafed at being surrounded, the rest of me had stopped fighting. Because it wasn’t a cage, not anymore. Not when he was beside me.
I’d stopped pretending I could imagine a life without him.
The last three weeks had only hammered that truth deeper. To my surprise, and maybe even his…I’d had my period. I’d expected distance, hesitation, maybe even disgust. Instead, I’d found myself pinned beneath a storm. Lucien hadn’t been put off by the blood; if anything, it had ignited something feral in him. He told me later that he couldn’t stop himself, that my bleedingcalled to every instinct in him, tearing away whatever restraint he thought he had. And I hadn’t fought him. Not once.
For three days, he was relentless, scorching, consuming, unstoppable. And yet, beneath the fire, there was something else. He worshipped me. Every kiss, every thrust, every low vow in my ear burned the truth into me: that he didn’t just want me, he needed me. I’d thought period sex was something people joked about, whispered about, something that was messy and best avoided. But with him, it was the opposite, it was raw, primal, unshakably intimate. Those nights blurred into each other until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
And when it was over, when my body was spent and he finally let me rest, I realized something terrifying and beautiful: those three days had stripped us bare. Whatever distance had been between us, whatever walls I’d tried to hold up, they were gone. And in their place was something stronger. Unbreakable.
I’d stopped pretending I could imagine a life without him.
Lucien was steel and fire, he commanded many men, but with me, he was something else. Gentle, in ways I hadn’t thought he could be. Protective, in ways I hadn’t thought anyone ever would be. When the nightmares came, he held me until they broke. When I tested his patience, when I pushed him with questions or my sharp tongue, he never let me doubt for a moment that I belonged to him, that I was safe. That bond I’d tried to deny had become the thread I clung to, and it was stronger every day.
Today, that bond carried me through the gates of Roman and Layla’s mansion.
The place was alive with quiet reverence, every polished surface catching the glow of candlelight, shadows bending around the edges of the hall as though even the dark itself bowed to whatwas about to happen. Guards lined the walls, not stiff but alert, their presence heavy, forming a living barrier that hummed with unspoken threat. The air was charged, feeling thicker, heavier than anything I’d ever walked into. It wasn’t just a family gathering. It was something ancient, something sacred, and I could feel it in my bones even if I didn’t yet understand it.
Every brother was there, Lucien’s blood…but now, strangely, mine too.
Viking was the first I saw, standing near the long table, broad shoulders relaxed but his grin sharp, mischievous, as though he was already waiting for an excuse to stir trouble or crack a joke. He looked like the kind of man who lived for the fight but loved just as hard, his energy a dangerous sort of warmth.
Volken was his opposite, silent stillness carved into human form. His sharp gaze scanned everything, everyone, like he was cataloguing every twitch, every breath, as though the ceremony could turn into war at any moment, and he’d be ready. He didn’t need to move to command presence. I felt him see me, measure me, and though it should have unsettled me, there was no malice there, just calculation, and something almost protective, buried deep.
Draugr loomed near the patio doors, unyielding, the way a wall or a mountain looms. He didn’t have to speak; his silence was enough to let you know he would kill for them without hesitation. There was something about him, about all of them really that radiated strength, but his was colder, it felt harder. It reminded me of Lucien’s edge when he snapped, though Draugr’s was quieter, contained, as though he carried a storm locked inside.
And then there was Roman.
At the centre of it all, Roman stood with the baby in his arms. Even if I hadn’t known who he was, I would have seen it, the weight of command, the air bending toward him like gravity itself obeyed his will. Layla stood at his side, radiant even in her exhaustion, her smile tender as she glanced up at him, at their son, like there was no world beyond the three of them. Roman’s gaze softened only when it fell on her and the child, and I understood in that moment why Lucien had looked at me the way he did.
This wasn’t just about blood and war. This was about legacy. About family.
And for the first time, standing in their circle, surrounded by that kind of devotion, I felt the walls I’d built around myself start to tremble.
The naming ceremony was unlike anything I’d imagined. The room hushed as Roman lifted his son. His voice was low but strong as he leaned close to the baby, whispering a name into his ear. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time, the air seemed to thicken, like the sound itself carried weight. The baby’s name was Roman’s gift, and his vow.
Then came the ritual. A silver blade, small and sharp, drew a line across Roman’s finger. A single drop of his blood fell onto his son’s lips. The baby stirred, eyes fluttering. Then Roman pricked the child’s tiny finger, taking one drop of blood in return, placing it on his own tongue.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Power rippled through the air, something unseen but undeniable. The bond between father and son sealed in blood, in tradition, in eternity.
