The city is quiet—too quiet.
Like the breath before a scream. Eldergrove hums with restrained tension, the kind that settles in your bones when war is coming but no one dares speak its name. The lights are on, the wards hold, the blood bars pulse with neon, but beneath it all—something’s *off*. The air tastes stale. The magic feels thin. Even the fae lanterns drift lower than usual, their glow dim, as if the city itself is holding its breath.
And me?
I’m falling apart.
It started an hour ago—a dull throb behind my eyes, a coldness in my limbs. Then the sigil on my chest began to pulse, not with the warm rhythm of the bond, but with a jagged, erratic beat, like a dying heart. My breath came short. My vision blurred at the edges. I tried to walk, but my legs wouldn’t hold me. I made it to the edge of the sitting room in Kaelen’s suite before I collapsed.
Now, I’m lying on the couch, wrapped in a heavy velvet throw, my body trembling, my teeth chattering despite the fire roaring in the hearth. Kaelen kneels beside me, his hand on my forehead, his face tight with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“Your temperature’s dropping,” he says, voice low, controlled. “Your pulse is weak. The curse—it’s accelerating.”
“I know,” I whisper. My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from underwater. “It’s feeding on me. Faster. Stronger.”
“Why now?” He presses a glass of water to my lips. I sip, but it tastes like ash. “We told the truth. The bond’s stable. You’re not resisting.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I say, closing my eyes. “Maybe the curse doesn’t care about truth. Maybe it just wants me *dead*.”
He doesn’t answer. But I feel the bond flare—sharp, hot—his pain bleeding into me. He’s scared. Not for the city. Not for the Council.
For *me*.
I reach up, my fingers brushing his jaw. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like I’m already gone.”
His hand closes over mine. “You’re not.”
“I will be. In days. Maybe hours.” I try to smile, but my face won’t obey. “I came here to break the curse. But I think… I think I just made it worse.”
“No.” He leans down, his forehead pressing to mine. “You made it *real*. And that’s the first step.”
I want to believe him. Gods, I *want* to. But my body knows the truth. The sigil burns colder now, the lines fading from white to gray, then to black. It’s not feeding on the bond anymore.
It’s feeding on my *life*.
“Kaelen,” I whisper. “If I don’t make it—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks. “Don’t even say it.”
“I need to.” I squeeze his hand. “If I die, don’t let them bury me in the Vale plot. I don’t belong there. I belong—”
“You belong *here*,” he growls. “With me. In my bed. In my arms. In my *blood*.”
I laugh—weak, broken. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m not.” He pulls back, his eyes blazing. “You think I’d let you go without a fight? You think I’d let the curse take you after everything we’ve survived?”
“What can you do?” I ask. “You’re not a witch. You can’t break blood magic.”
“No,” he says. “But I can give you what you need.”
Before I can ask what he means, he moves—fast, inhumanly fast. One moment he’s kneeling beside me. The next, he’s straddling me, his hands pinning my wrists to the couch, his body pressing me down. His fangs are out, elongated, sharp, glinting in the firelight.
“Kaelen—”
“Don’t fight me.” His voice is rough, strained. “This is the only way.”
“What are you—?”
He bites.
Not on the neck. Not on the wrist. On the *sigil*.
His fangs pierce the blackened mark on my chest, tearing through fabric and skin, and I scream—raw, guttural, *alive*. Fire floods my veins, not the searing pain of the curse, but something deeper, richer—*his* blood, his magic, his *life* pouring into me. I feel it—thick, warm, ancient—racing through my body, igniting every dead cell, every fading breath.
“Kaelen—stop—” I gasp, but my body arches into him, *needing*, *wanting*.
He doesn’t stop. He drinks from me—just a sip, just enough to deepen the bond—then presses his mouth to the wound, sealing it with his own blood.
The world *explodes*.
Not in pain.
In *light*.
White-hot, blinding, *pure*. I feel my heart stutter, then *thump*, then *pound*, stronger than it has in years. My limbs warm. My breath evens. The sigil—once black, dying—flares back to life, not white, not red, but *gold*, pulsing like a newborn sun.
And then—darkness.
I don’t remember passing out. Don’t remember him carrying me. Don’t remember anything except the taste of his blood on my tongue, the heat of his mouth on my skin, the way my body *burned* with life.
I wake to soft sheets, dim light, the scent of sandalwood and smoke.
And pain.
Not the curse. Not the bond.
Something else.
I’m naked beneath the covers. My skin is sensitive, oversensitized, like I’ve been stripped raw. My neck aches. My thighs tremble. And on my shoulder—
Fire.
I push up on my elbows, my breath coming fast, and twist to look.
There.
>On my right shoulder blade—a mark. Not the cursed sigil. Not the bond’s rune. A *vampire mark*. Two crescent fang punctures, healed but still glowing faintly, surrounded by swirling black ink that pulses in time with my heartbeat. A *claim*. A *brand*.“No,” I whisper.
Not possible.
Vampire marks are earned—through ritual, through consent, through *love*. They’re not given in desperation. Not without permission.
And I didn’t give it.
I didn’t *know*.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed—Kaelen’s bed, I realize with a jolt. The room is cold, sparse, lit only by the embers in the hearth. My clothes are gone. My dagger is missing. The connecting door to my room is closed, locked.
I stumble to the wardrobe, yanking it open. My tunic, my trousers, my boots—they’re all there. I dress quickly, my hands shaking, my breath ragged. The mark burns with every movement, a constant reminder of what he did.
What he *took*.
I find my dagger on the desk, tucked beneath a stack of parchment. I grab it, pressing the cold metal to my palm, grounding myself.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Coming down the hall.
I turn, dagger in hand, my back to the wall.
The door opens.
Kaelen steps inside.
He’s still in his coat, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But when he sees me—standing there, dagger in hand, face pale with fury—his expression doesn’t change.
He looks… guilty. But not surprised.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“You marked me,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “You *branded* me.”
“I saved you.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“You were dying.”
“That doesn’t give you the right!” I step forward, the dagger trembling in my hand. “I didn’t *consent*.”
“You would have said no.”
“That’s not your decision to make!”
He flinches. “I couldn’t lose you.”
“And what about *me*?” I snap. “What about what *I* wanted? What about my *body*? My *choice*?”
He doesn’t answer.
And that’s when I see it—the truth.
Not in his words. Not in his eyes.
In the bond.
It flares—not with pain, not with desire—but with *shame*. Raw, unfiltered. He knows he crossed a line. Knows he took something I didn’t offer. Knows he *used* me.
Just like they all did.
The mentor who sold me out. The coven who cast me out. The men who thought my body was theirs for the taking.
And now him.
The man I *love*.
My breath hitches. My vision blurs. The dagger slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
“You used me,” I whisper, tears burning in my eyes. “Just like they all do.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He doesn’t argue.
He just stands there, his shoulders slumped, his hands at his sides, his voice barely audible.
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
And something in me *breaks*.
Not the curse.
Not the bond.
Me.
I cross the room in three strides and slap him—hard, sharp, *final*. My palm stings. His head snaps to the side. A red mark blooms on his cheek.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just turns back to me, his eyes wet, his voice raw.
“I deserve that,” he says.
“You deserve *worse*,” I hiss. “You said you loved me. You said you’d never hurt me. But you took my choice. You took my *body*. You marked me like I’m your *property*.”
“I was trying to save you.”
“Then you should’ve *asked*.”
“And if you’d said no?”
“Then I’d be dead,” I say. “And that would’ve been *my* choice.”
He stares at me. The bond hums—quiet, pained. His guilt is a living thing between us.
“I thought,” he says slowly, “that if I gave you my blood, if I marked you, the curse would break. That the bond would become a *cure*. And it did—your pulse is strong, your magic is stable, the sigil is gold. You’re *alive*.”
“At what cost?” I whisper. “You think a mark fixes everything? You think love means you get to decide for me?”
“No.” He steps closer. “I think love means I’ll spend the rest of my life earning your forgiveness.”
I laugh—harsh, broken. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to *love* me and then treat me like a weapon to be wielded.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” I back away. “And I don’t know if I can come back from this.”
He doesn’t follow. Just watches me, his face a mask of pain.
I turn and walk to the door.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Away from you.”
“The bond—”
“Will burn me,” I say, opening the door. “And I don’t care.”
I step into the hall.
And the world *screams*.
Pain rips through my chest—white-hot, searing—like my heart is being torn from my ribs. I cry out, collapsing to my knees, clutching the sigil. The gold is fading, the lines cracking, turning back to black.
“Amber!” Kaelen is at my side in an instant, his arms around me, his voice in my ear. “Come back. Please. You can’t survive without me. Not now. Not after the mark.”
“Let me go,” I choke.
“I can’t.”
“You already did.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me as the bond punishes me, as my body weakens, as the curse reclaims me.
And in the silence, I hear it—a whisper, faint, cold.
Not from him.
Not from the bond.
From somewhere deeper.
A voice, slithering through the dark:
You think betrayal hurts?
Wait until you see what comes next.