I wake tangled in black silk, the scent of winter pine and old blood wrapped around me like a second skin. For a heartbeat, I don’t remember where I am. Don’t remember *how* I got here. Then it hits me—Kaelen’s arms around me, his chest against my back, his breath slow and steady at my neck. His chambers. His bed. The aftermath of the confrontation with Lira, the near-kiss, the scream that shattered the moment.
And the way I let him hold me.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. My body is rigid, every muscle coiled tight, but not from fear. From *awareness*. The bond hums beneath my skin, low and steady, a second heartbeat that syncs with his. I can feel him—his pulse, his breath, the way his fingers curl slightly around my waist, even in sleep. It’s not possession. Not control. It’s… something else. Something I don’t have a name for.
I press my palm flat against my sternum, as if I can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in my veins, written in the blood that runs through me.
My mother’s blood.
The realization from last night claws at me again, sharper in the cold light of dawn. The book—Oaths of the Bloodline: Mechanics and Mortality—had the answer. Not just about the bond, not just about the seven-day curse. But about *her*. About the Oath itself.
The pact can only be broken by two conditions: the death of the vampire heir, or the destruction of the bloodline tie through a witch of fae descent who carries the scent of the original bound.
Me.
I’m the key.
But there’s more.
The Oath of Crimson Fealty is sustained by the life force of the original bound. Her blood fuels the pact. Her magic strengthens it. And if the bond between the heir and the witch is triggered before the Oath is broken, their life forces will merge. The bond will amplify their magic, their senses, their desires. And if the bond is not severed within seven days, it will become permanent—sealed by blood, magic, and mutual need.
And then—the final line, the one that turned my blood to ice:
If the Oath is broken by the witch who carries the blood of the original bound, her own magic will be consumed in the act. The destruction of the pact requires the annihilation of the bloodline’s magic. She will survive—but she will no longer be a witch.
I press my fingers to my eyes. No. No, no, no.
I came here to destroy the Oath. To avenge my mother. To tear down the system that used her, that killed her, that erased her from history.
But I didn’t know I’d have to destroy myself to do it.
If I break the Oath, I lose my magic.
I lose who I am.
I lose the one thing that’s kept me alive, that’s kept me *me*, since she died.
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A jolt of heat slams through me. I feel him stir behind me, his arm tightening slightly, his breath deepening. He’s waking.
I don’t want him to see me like this. Weak. Shaken. *Afraid*.
I slide out of his arms, careful not to wake him. The silk sheets whisper against my skin as I sit up. My clothes from yesterday are gone. In their place, a black tunic and trousers, folded neatly on the chair. My dagger rests on top, the hilt polished, the blade clean.
He had them brought in.
He’s been watching.
I dress quickly, lacing my boots, tucking the dagger into my belt. My magic hums beneath my skin—restless, wary. The bond pulses in response, a low, insistent throb. I can feel him even with my back turned. His presence. His *need*.
I don’t look at him as I move to the door.
“You’re leaving.”
His voice is rough with sleep, but sharp with knowing. I don’t answer. Just place my hand on the door.
“The bond will pull you back,” he says. “You know that.”
“Let it.”
“You’re running.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About the Oath.”
I turn. He’s sitting up now, the sheets pooled around his waist, his chest bare, pale skin marked with old scars. His eyes are black, endless, but there’s something in them—something softer. Warmer. Like the ice has cracked, just slightly.
“You knew,” I say. “You knew my mother’s blood is part of the Oath.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “I suspected.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“You could have tried.”
“And what would you have done? Run? Tried to break the bond anyway?” He stands, pulling on a black robe, tying it at the waist. “You’d be dead by now.”
“Maybe that’s better than losing my magic.”
He freezes. “What?”
“The book says it,” I say, voice breaking. “If I break the Oath, my magic dies with it. The bloodline’s magic has to be destroyed. And I’m the last of hers.”
Silence.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I feel it—the flicker of pain beneath his control, the way his pulse stutters in his throat. The bond hums, feeding on my fear, my grief, my *loss*.
“You didn’t know,” he says.
“No.”
“And now you have to choose.”
“Revenge or survival.”
“Or love.”
I stare at him. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” He steps closer. “You felt it last night. When I held you. When you said I was *yours*. You didn’t pull away.”
“That was—”
“Real.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing the bite on my neck. I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. “You’re not just here to destroy the Oath, Blair. You’re here because you *need* me. Because the bond knows it. Because your body knows it.”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “You’re *afraid* of me. Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I make you want.”
“I’m not weak.”
“No. You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” He slides his hand up to my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “But strength doesn’t mean you don’t *ache* for me.”
My breath hitches. My body arches—just slightly—into his touch.
And then—
A knock.
Hard. Urgent.
The door bursts open before either of us can react.
Riven stands there, golden eyes wide, breath coming fast. “My lord. We have a problem.”
Kaelen doesn’t let go of me. “What is it?”
“The Archives. Someone’s been inside. The Oath ledger—it’s been altered.”
My blood runs cold.
“What do you mean, *altered*?” I ask.
“The entry for Seraphine Vale. It’s changed. There’s a new line—written in blood.”
“What does it say?”
Riven hesitates. Then: “She is mine. And she will die like her mother.”
The room goes still.
The bond flares—hot, violent. A wave of heat crashes through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. I see it—*feel* it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, *amplified*.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at his throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his *need*.
Me, screaming. Me, bleeding. Me, dying—just like my mother.
I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if Kaelen didn’t catch me.
His arm wraps around my waist, yanking me against him. Our chests press together. Our breaths mingle. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine.
“Blair,” he growls. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body *aches*—for him, for release, for *something*.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. *Look at me*.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re *hunger*.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a *promise*.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his robe. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to *hate* him.
I want—
CRACK.
The chamber shakes.
Stone groans. Dust falls. A crack splits the floor, racing toward the hearth.
“The bond—” Riven shouts. “It’s destabilizing the wards!”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.
“Hold on,” he whispers, his voice rough, urgent. “Hold on, witch. I’m not letting you die yet.”
And then the ceiling *collapses*.
Stone rains down. Torches gutter. The hearth explodes in a shower of sparks.
He spins me, shielding me with his body as debris crashes around us. I feel the impact—the crack of stone against his back, the shudder of his body—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let go.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh. Don’t move.”
Dust fills the air. Darkness. The weight of stone above us.
We’re alive.
Trapped.
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? Lira’s? Mine?
“You did this,” I whisper. “You knew the bond would react.”
“I didn’t know it would *collapse the chamber*,” he says. “But yes. I knew it would force a reaction. And I needed to see how strong it is.”
“Why?”
“Because if we can’t control it,” he says, “it’ll destroy us. Or worse—it’ll lead Malrik to you.”
My breath catches.
“You believe me.”
“I feel you,” he says. “In my blood. In my dreams. And if *I* can feel you… so can he.”
Silence. Dust. The weight of stone.
And the bond—still there. Still *pulsing*.
“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 waist. 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 council watches. The chamber lies 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.”