I don’t look away.
Not when the vampire’s fangs tear into the man’s neck. Not when the blood spills, black in the torchlight, over the white marble steps. Not when the crowd parts like water, whispering, bowing, afraid.
I stand at the edge of the Undercourt’s outer ring, my fingers curled around the hilt of the ceremonial dagger hidden beneath my cloak. My breath is steady. My pulse—controlled. My magic, coiled tight beneath my skin, a serpent waiting to strike.
This is where it begins.
Kaelen D’Vaire—Lord of the North Quarter, last heir of House D’Vaire, and the man whose bloodline murdered my mother—stands at the top of the steps, his mouth still at the traitor’s throat. The man convulses once, then goes still. Kaelen lifts his head, fangs glistening, and licks a slow, deliberate trail of blood from his lower lip.
His eyes find mine.
And the world burns.
A jolt slams through me—deep in the marrow, in the blood, in the place where my fae magic hums beneath the surface. It’s not pain. It’s worse. It’s recognition. Like something ancient waking, something buried in my veins, answering to him.
I stagger back a step. My vision blurs. For a heartbeat, I see double—me, standing in the crowd, and me, pressed against cold stone, his hands on my hips, my mouth open under his—
Then it’s gone.
I blink. The vision vanishes. But the echo remains—a phantom heat between my thighs, a pulse in my neck where no bite has been.
And Kaelen is still staring at me.
He drops the body. It thuds to the marble, ignored. He steps down, one slow movement at a time, his boots silent on the stone. His coat is black, tailored, open at the throat. His shirt—once white—is stained crimson down the front. He doesn’t care. Power rolls off him in waves, thick and dark, pressing against my skin like a physical weight.
“You,” he says. His voice is low, rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You reek of stolen magic.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is tight. My hands are trembling, and I clench them into fists, nails biting into my palms. Control. Control. Control.
He stops two feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—old blood, winter pine, something metallic, something hungry. His eyes are black, but not human black. Not pupil and iris. They’re the void between stars, endless and cold. And yet—there’s a flicker. A spark. Like something just lit beneath the ice.
“You’re not one of them,” he murmurs. “Not fully. I can taste it. Fae. Witch. And something… else.”
My breath catches.
He leans in. His lips brush my ear. “You’re lying. And you’re mine now.”
I whirl, dagger in hand—
And the world shatters.
A blast of magic tears through the courtyard. The ground splits. Stone screams. The air rips open with a sound like tearing silk, and a wave of energy throws me backward. I hit the ground hard, rolling, my head cracking against marble. Pain explodes behind my eyes.
But I’m not the target.
The blast was aimed at the tribunal chamber—the heart of the Undercourt. A sabotage spell. One I didn’t cast. One I didn’t even feel coming.
And then I feel it.
A thread. Thin, red, pulsing. Not from the blast. From me. From him. A line of magic, invisible to everyone else, snapping taut between us like a live wire.
The bond.
It wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Not like this. Not now.
But the backlash—the surge of raw, uncontrolled magic—has fused us. Temporarily. A life-force tether. A shared pulse. A shared breath.
I gasp. My heart isn’t mine anymore. It’s his. Beating in time with his. My lungs burn with the cold of his breath. My skin tingles with the memory of his touch—touch that never happened.
And the visions come again.
His hands on my throat. My back arched. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his mark, his claim, his curse.
Me, screaming. Me, bleeding. Me, dying—just like my mother.
I scream. I don’t mean to. It tears out of me, raw and ragged. I claw at my chest, at the phantom pain, at the magic that isn’t mine but is.
And then he’s there.
Kaelen grabs me by the arms, yanking me up. His grip is iron. His eyes are wild, feral. The bond flares between us—hot, electric, alive.
“What did you do?” he snarls.
“I didn’t—” I gasp. “I didn’t cast it—”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
Another blast. Closer. The chamber cracks. A pillar collapses. Dust and stone rain down. The crowd scatters, screaming.
He pulls me against him—hard. My back hits his chest. One arm locks around my waist. The other covers my head, shielding me as debris crashes around us.
“Hold still,” he growls. “Or you’ll die before I get answers.”
I don’t fight. I can’t. The bond is too strong. Every movement I make, he feels. Every breath, every heartbeat—he knows. And worse—he wants.
I can feel it. Not just the magic. The hunger. The need. The way his body tenses against mine, the way his fangs graze the shell of my ear when he speaks.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers. “You’re not supposed to exist.”
I turn my head. Our faces are inches apart. His breath is cold. His eyes are black fire.
“I came to destroy your bloodline,” I say. My voice is steady. Calm. “And I will. Starting with you.”
He doesn’t flinch. He smiles. A slow, dangerous curve of his lips. Feral. Possessive.
“You reek of stolen magic, witch,” he says. “And you’re mine now. Fight it all you want.”
Another crack. The ground splits beneath us. We stumble. He doesn’t let go. He can’t. The bond won’t allow it. We’re tethered. Trapped. Bound by magic we didn’t choose.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says, low, urgent. “That blast—it wasn’t just sabotage. It was a key. And you—you—just turned it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will.”
The chamber groans. The roof caves in. Stone crashes down. He moves—fast, inhumanly fast—spinning me, shielding me with his body as the world collapses around us.
Then silence.
Dust. Darkness. The weight of stone above us. We’re alive. Trapped. Buried beneath the ruins of the tribunal.
And still, he holds me.
His arm is tight around my waist. His breath is at my neck. The bond hums between us, a live wire, a pulse, a promise.
I try to pull away. He tightens his grip.
“Don’t,” he says. “The bond—it’s unstable. If we separate now, it’ll tear us apart.”
“Then let it.”
He laughs. A dark, broken sound. “You’re brave. Or stupid. Either way, you’re not going anywhere.”
I turn in his arms. We’re face to face in the dark. I can see him—barely. His eyes glow faintly, like embers in ash. His fangs are bared. His lips are stained with blood—his own? The traitor’s? Mine?
“Who are you?” he demands.
“Blair Vale. Arbitrator of the Hybrid Tribunal.”
“Liar.”
“Check the records.”
“I did. You’re not in them.”
“Then I’m better at forging documents than you are at investigation.”
He growls. A deep, vibrating sound in his chest. His hand slides up my arm, to my neck. Not choking. Not yet. But close. A threat. A promise.
“You’re half-witch. Half-fae. And you carry a scent I haven’t smelled in over a century.”
My blood runs cold.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your mother’s blood,” he says. “It’s in the Oath. And now—so are you.”
I freeze.
The Oath of Crimson Fealty. The pact that bound my mother to his father. The curse that killed her.
He knows.
Or he suspects.
And the bond—this cursed, unwanted tether—has just made me vulnerable in ways I never imagined.
“You want me dead,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I want the Oath broken. We need each other. Hate me all you want—just don’t die before I get what I came for.”
He stares at me. For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Not hunger. Not rage.
Recognition.
“You’re not here to kill me,” he says slowly. “You’re here to break it. And you need me to do it.”
“Maybe.”
“Then we’re not enemies.”
“No,” I say. “We’re worse.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re bound.”
He doesn’t answer. The bond flares—hot, sudden. A surge of heat between us. My breath hitches. His hand tightens on my neck. His thumb brushes my pulse.
And for one terrible, beautiful moment, I want him to kiss me.
Then the dust shifts. Light filters through. Voices. Shouting. Rescue.
He pulls back. Slowly. Reluctantly.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s just beginning.”
They pull us from the rubble. The crowd watches. The tribunal stands in ruins. And the bond—still there. A thread of red magic, invisible to all but us, pulsing between our chests.
Kaelen doesn’t let go of my arm until the healers arrive. His fingers leave bruises. His eyes never leave mine.
And when he finally speaks, it’s not to the crowd. Not to the council.
It’s to me.
“You’re mine now, witch,” he says, low, so only I can hear. “And I won’t let you go.”
I lift my chin. Meet his gaze.
“I came to unmake you,” I say. “And I will. One way or another.”
He smiles. Slow. Deadly.
“Try.”