The first thing I do when Cassian leaves me alone in his chambers—again—is search.
Not for weapons. Not for escape routes. Those are obvious. I’ve already mapped the door’s locking sigil, traced the weak points in the stone walls, memorized the patrol patterns of the guards outside. I know I could take two of them before they raised the alarm. Maybe three, if I used blood magic and didn’t care about collateral damage.
But I can’t run. Not yet. The bond would drag me back—or worse, kill me in the attempt. And Cassian was right about one thing: if I die, the curse on my bloodline dies with me. My mother’s soul stays trapped. Her suffering never ends.
No. I can’t run.
But I can *fight*.
And the first weapon in that fight isn’t a blade or a curse.
It’s knowledge.
So I search for the *Grimoire of Severed Blood*—the forbidden text said to hold the key to breaking any blood curse, even one as ancient and powerful as the Thorn binding. It’s rumored to be hidden in the Shadowveil Archives, deep beneath the palace, in a vault sealed by three vampire kings and a Fae oath. No one’s seen it in over two centuries. Some say it was destroyed. Others say Cassian keeps it locked away, using its power to maintain his control over the Court.
I don’t know if it’s real.
But I have to try.
---
Cassian’s chambers are a labyrinth of dark luxury—black silk drapes, silver mirrors that reflect nothing, a bed large enough to drown in. The furniture is minimal, cold, like everything in this place. But power hums beneath the surface. Runes are etched into the floor, the doorframe, the headboard. Protective wards. Surveillance spells. Binding sigils. This isn’t just a bedroom. It’s a fortress. A prison. A throne room in disguise.
I start with the desk.
It’s carved from obsidian, smooth and cold to the touch. Three drawers. Locked, of course. But not with ordinary locks. With blood seals—tiny sigils carved into the wood, glowing faintly when I press my fingers against them. Vampire magic. Personal. Designed to respond only to Cassian’s blood.
But I’m not just a witch.
I’m half-vampire.
And my blood—my mother’s blood—was once bound to his.
I press my thumb to the first sigil, focusing on the memory of the bond’s activation—the way our blood mingled on the runestone, the way the magic *recognized* us. I let the heat rise in my veins, let the bond hum beneath my skin. Then I push.
The sigil flickers.
Darkens.
And the drawer clicks open.
I exhale, pulling my hand back. My thumb is bleeding. The sigil has cut me, shallow but precise. I wipe it on my sleeve and reach inside.
Nothing but ledgers. Council records. Trade agreements. Boring. Political. Useless.
Second drawer.
Same process. Same cut. Same result.
More documents. Correspondence with other courts. Requests for blood donations. A list of donors—names, blood types, expiration dates. Clinical. Cold. The kind of thing a ruler keeps, not a monster.
But then, at the bottom—a folded piece of parchment, sealed with black wax.
I break the seal.
It’s a sketch. Crude, but unmistakable.
A woman.
Dark hair. High cheekbones. My eyes.
My mother.
And beneath it, a single line of script, in a hand I don’t recognize: *She was never supposed to remember.*
My breath catches.
Is this Cassian’s writing? Did he draw this? Did he write this?
And if he didn’t—*who did*?
I fold the parchment carefully, tuck it into my bodice. I don’t know what it means. Not yet. But it’s a thread. And I’ll pull it until the whole tapestry unravels.
Third drawer.
This one resists.
I press my thumb to the sigil. The bond flares, hot and sharp. The cut is deeper this time. Blood wells, dark and warm. I push harder, focusing on the connection between us, on the way the magic *knows* me, even if Cassian doesn’t want it to.
The sigil flickers.
Glows.
And the drawer opens.
Inside—no papers. No records.
Just a small, black book.
No title. No markings. Just smooth leather, worn at the edges. I pick it up. It’s warm. Alive. The moment I touch it, the bond *thrums*, like a string plucked in the dark.
I open it.
The pages are filled with handwriting—neat, precise, in a language I don’t recognize at first. Then I see it. Old Thornean. A dialect of vampire script used only for blood magic. I only know it because my mother taught me, in whispers, late at night, when she thought I was asleep.
My hands tremble as I flip through the pages.
Spells. Rituals. Curses.
And one, circled in red ink: *The Severing. To break a bond forged in blood, one must spill blood older than the curse. One must speak the true name. One must sacrifice what they love most.*
My breath stops.
This is it.
The *Grimoire of Severed Blood*.
But not the original.
A copy.
And it’s in Cassian’s desk.
Why would he keep this? If he wanted to maintain the curse, he’d destroy it. If he didn’t know about it, it wouldn’t be here.
Unless…
Unless he *wants* it broken.
Unless he’s looking for a way out too.
I close the book, my mind racing. This changes everything. If Cassian has been searching for a way to break the bond… then maybe he’s not the monster I thought he was. Maybe he was cursed too. Maybe he didn’t enslave my mother by choice.
But then why did he mark Lysandra? Why does he carry her scent on his skin?
And why does the bond make me *ache* for him every time he’s near?
I tuck the book into my sleeve, just as the door clicks open.
I freeze.
But it’s not Cassian.
It’s Kaelen Vex—his lieutenant. A werewolf, broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, with a scar running from temple to jaw. He’s dressed in black leather, a dagger at his hip, a bow slung across his back. He stops when he sees me, his nostrils flaring.
“You’re up,” he says, voice low.
“I could say the same for you,” I reply, closing the drawer, stepping away from the desk. “Does Cassian send you to watch me?”
“He doesn’t need to.” Kaelen steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “I watch because I want to.”
“Why?”
He studies me, his gaze sharp. “You’re not like the others.”
“Others?”
“The women who’ve been with him. The ones who wanted his power. His title. His *mark*.”
“And you think I’m different?”
“I know you are.” He steps closer. “You don’t want him. You want to *kill* him.”
My breath hitches.
How does he—
“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “In warriors before battle. In prisoners before execution. You’re here for revenge.”
I don’t deny it.
“And yet,” he continues, “you’re still alive. Cassian could have had you executed the moment the bond formed. But he didn’t. He protected you. Why?”
“Maybe he likes having a pet.”
“Maybe,” Kaelen says. “Or maybe he sees something in you that no one else does.”
“And what’s that?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his golden eyes unreadable.
Then, quietly: “Be careful, Basil. This court eats people like you alive. And Cassian… he’s not as cold as he pretends to be. But that doesn’t make him safe.”
He turns to leave.
“Kaelen,” I say.
He stops.
“Thank you.”
He nods, once, and is gone.
I wait a full minute before moving. Then I pull the book from my sleeve, flip to the page on the Severing, and begin to memorize.
---
The Shadowveil Archives are beneath the palace, down a spiral staircase carved from black stone. The air grows colder with every step, the scent of old paper and dried blood thick in my nose. The walls are lined with shelves, stretching into darkness, filled with grimoires, scrolls, and bones sealed in glass. Some books are chained. Others float in midair, protected by wards.
I move silently, my boots barely making a sound. I’ve been here before—in my dreams. In the visions the bond forces on me. A library with no doors. A vault with three locks. A book bound in human skin.
And now I’m here.
Really here.
I find the vault at the end of the eastern wing. Three doors. Each sealed with a different magic: vampire blood, werewolf claw, Fae oath.
I press my palm to the first—the vampire seal. It glows, recognizes my blood, and clicks open.
Second—the werewolf sigil. I don’t have claws. But I have a dagger. I slice my palm, press it to the rune. It burns, but the door opens.
Third—the Fae oath. This one’s tricky. It requires a spoken vow, a promise that binds the soul. I close my eyes, think of my mother, of her journal, of her final words: *Run. Do not let him touch you.*
“I vow,” I whisper, “to break the curse. To free my bloodline. To make him *pay*.”
The door opens.
Inside—the *Grimoire of Severed Blood*.
Just like in the visions.
Bound in pale leather. Silver chains. A lock shaped like a thorn.
I reach for it.
And the lights go out.
Darkness.
Then—footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
I freeze.
“I knew you’d come,” says a voice I know too well.
Cassian.
I turn, my heart hammering.
He stands in the doorway, backlit by the faint glow of the outer chamber. Tall. Imposing. His coat gone, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the scars on his forearms—old wounds, some from claws, some from blades, some from magic.
“You’ve been searching my desk,” he says, stepping inside. “Reading my books. Stealing my secrets.”
“I’m not stealing,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’m taking what’s mine.”
“And what, exactly, is yours?”
“The truth.”
He moves closer. “You want the truth? Then ask me.”
“Why did you curse my mother?”
He stops. His expression doesn’t change. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The tightening of his jaw.
“I don’t remember,” he says. “But I *feel* it. In the bond. In the visions. I loved her. And someone made me betray her.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No,” he says. “I expect you to *remember*.”
He steps forward, closes the distance between us. The bond flares—hot, urgent. My breath hitches. My skin burns.
“You came here to kill me,” he says, voice low. “But every time you touch me, every time you’re near me, you’re feeding the bond. Strengthening it. Making it *real*.”
“Then I’ll stay away.”
“You can’t.” He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger at my jaw. “The bond won’t let you. And neither will I.”
My pulse hammers.
“You think I don’t know what you are?” he murmurs, stepping even closer. “I’ve known since the first drop of your blood touched mine.”
“And what am I?”
“Mine,” he says. “Just like she was. Just like you’ve always been.”
The bond *screams*.
A vision tears through me—me, in a white gown, standing before an altar. Cassian, younger, softer, placing a ring on my finger. His voice, breaking: *“I would rather die than live without you.”*
I gasp, stumbling back.
“No,” I whisper. “That didn’t happen.”
“It did,” he says. “And it will happen again.”
He turns, walks to the vault, takes the *Grimoire of Severed Blood*, and locks it back inside.
“You want to break the bond?” he says, facing me. “Then do it. But know this—every spell has a price. And the one you’re looking for? It requires you to sacrifice what you love most.”
My breath catches.
“So ask yourself, Basil,” he says, stepping toward the door. “What do you love more? Your revenge? Or *me*?”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the dark.
I press my hands to my face, my breath shuddering.
I came here to steal a grimoire.
Instead, I stole a truth I wasn’t ready for.
You think I don’t know what you are? he’d said.
I’ve known since the first drop of your blood touched mine.
And the worst part?
I believe him.
I press my palm to the sigil at my throat, feeling the pulse of the bond beneath my skin.
I came here to destroy him.
But what if the only thing I end up destroying… is myself?