Chapter 43
The Dragon's Bride
The wind roars in my ears as Drako—no, Keiren—carries me high above the mountains. Clouds tear apart around us, moonlight spilling across his scales. The world below shrinks to silver rivulets and black veins of forest. My heart pounds in rhythm with his wings.
We soar past jagged peaks and shadowed valleys until we reach a secluded glade bathed in pale gold. The air is warm, thick with pine and late-blooming wildflowers. Ahead, a familiar glow rises—the stone basin where I first saw the fractured constellation, the mirror of the sky.
Keiren descends, his wingbeats rhythmic and thunder-strong, shaking the earth as he lands. His claws loosen and release me onto the cold marble.
The altar waits before us, its surface cracked where a single star once belonged. I raise my hand and press the gem of my ring into the hollow.
It clicks into place, dislodging itself from the band, and light erupts all around us.
A thousand beams spear upward, joining sky to earth. The constellations ignite, ribbons of light wrapping the dragon in gold fire.
Drako growls—a sound of pain and release—as his body begins to change. Scales shimmer, shrinking and twisting. His wings collapse inward; his ribs and spine crack into place. When the light fades, a man kneels where the beast stood.
Keiren.
Human.
And very, very naked.
I swallow hard, refusing to look away. He’s going to be my husband in every way. The thought of sharing anything intimate with him—this creature, this man—terrifies me, yet I can’t stop staring. Every line of him is sculpted, scarred, alive. The stars burn above us, but it’s his gaze that steals my breath.
Without a word, he turns, reaches behind the nearest pillar, and pulls out a pair of black trousers. The movement is so casual, so maddeningly calm, that I can only blink.
Of course he had clothes waiting. He said he knew I’d succeed.
He draws them on, then faces me again, moonlight tracing every muscle—strong, mortal, heartbreakingly human.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The air hums with the same low pulse that binds the stars. Then he steps closer, extending his hand.
“Selene,” he murmurs.
Reluctantly, I lift mine. His fingers are warm as he takes my hand and presses a single claw—still faintly scaled—into my palm.
“This may hurt,” he says.
I nod, and the claw glides across my skin, cutting clean across my palm. A spark flares and warmth blooms as he closes his hand over mine. Three drops of my blood fall to the marble and merge with his. His gold flame twists with my red one until they burn as one. He presses our palms together, sealing the bond.
“Selene Anne Fairchild, will you take me, Keiren Drakovayne, as your husband—for better or worse—mine to protect and love until death parts us or the curse is broken?” His voice is soft, but his eyes burn molten-bright.
My throat tightens. I remember those same words spoken once before, by many in Solmere in a hall full of witnesses, a ceremony in name only. But this time—here, beneath an open sky—it feels real.
I steady my breath. “Will you keep your promise to spare Vivian, Mariel, and Seraphina?”
“Yes.”
“And do you promise to harm no one?”
“I can’t promise that,” he admits, the tension thick between us. Yet he doesn’t let go. “But I can promise that no harm will come to you—or anyone you love—so long as you are mine.”
“And when the curse is broken, you’ll let me go?”
His gaze flickers, hesitation flashing like lightning. Then he nods.
We both know that if I fail, I’ll share Talia’s fate.
