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I jumped again the next night. Landed better.

Progress.

The Tower has adjusted to me too. Slowly. Carefully. With the kind of reverence that still makes me want to throw something. Aaron brings me intelligence files without standing six feet away any more. Gideon has started addressing me as ‘my lady’ only when he wants to irritate me. Iskander bowed once after I defeated one of the younger sireds in the training hall, and I nearly cried, which I immediately disguised by threatening to punch him in the throat.

Malachi remains in exile. Somewhere cold, unpleasant and likely filled with opportunities for self-reflection. I don’t feel bad about it. I’m very happy to leave the timing of his return in my mate’s hands, especially since those hands are occasionally capable of mercy when I glare hard enough.

Draven remains in the Sunless Crypt contemplating his life choices.

I did worry that losing two of the Twelve might make Valentin vulnerable.

That earned me a demonstration.

A supernatural summit in neutral territory beneath the ruins of an old monastery in the Swiss Alps, attended by two of the Five Blood: Ciaran O’Rourke, who terrifies me because he looks like poetry got drunk and started a war, and Lucien De Santis, who terrifies me because he barely needs to blink to make a room remember death.

There were disputes to settle. Territory lines. Volkov’s surviving allies. Dorian’s usual theatrics sent by proxy because he claimed New York’s ‘newly mated glow’ might make him nauseous. Rafe didn’t attend, which made Valentin far too quiet through the bond.

Then some old vampire lord, enormous, arrogant and apparently tired of existing with all his teeth, suggested that New York’s Don had weakened himself by bonding a mortal-born mate.

Valentin stepped into the stone ring before I could finish rolling my eyes.

I’d seen him fight before, seen him kill demons and a Myrkshade, tear through mercenaries and slaughter Marek in Netheris.

But watching him in that ring when he had a mate to impress and a point to prove? Totally different.

With no curse dragging at him or poison in his veins, he moved like violence had learned elegance from him personally.

Slack-jawed, I realised I was witnessing the true Valentin Moretti, enhanced and fully bonded, fully restored, his silver-dark mark blazing at his throat while power rolled off him in controlled waves.

He tore chunks out of that vampire.

Literally.

The only reason I did not piss myself was that he spoke into my mind the entire time, his voice low and almost amused.

Do not look away, little hunter.

‘Wasn’t planning to.’

He is too slow on the left.

‘Good to know.’

I am enjoying this.

‘I can feel that, you terrifying show-off.’

Yes. That was the point. I will also make this fast. And when I am done, I will fuck you till the sun comes up. Then goes down and comes back up.

Oh. Fucking. Gods.

His glee came through the bond like dark, vintage champagne. Not cruelty exactly. Pride. Power. A male creature displaying his strength to his mate with all the subtlety of a cathedral bell dropped down a staircase.

The victory sex afterwards was couldn’t-walk-for-a-week epic.

I am immortal now, so I healed in hours. Emotionally, I needed days.

Valentin remains unbearably pleased about that.