I don’t sleep.
Not since the collapse. Not since *her*.
Even now, deep in the heart of my private chambers beneath the North Quarter stronghold, the silence is a lie. My body rests, but my mind claws through the dark, chasing echoes—her voice, her scent, the way her pulse jumped under my thumb when I held her in the rubble.
And the bond.
It hums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, low and insistent. A thread of raw, unrefined magic, red as fresh blood, stretching from my chest to hers. I can feel her—faintly, like a whisper against my spine. Not her thoughts. Not her words. But her *presence*. The rhythm of her breath. The flicker of her magic as it coils and uncoils in her sleep.
She’s dreaming.
I know because I feel it—the sudden spike of heat, the quickening of her pulse, the way her fae magic flares like a struck match. Something terrifies her. Something familiar.
And for the first time in over a century, I *care*.
I push up from the chaise, bare feet silent on the cold stone. The room is dark, lit only by the faint blue glow of the ward crystals embedded in the walls. My reflection passes through the black glass of the window—pale skin, black coat left open, hair disheveled from restless hands. My eyes are still too dark. Too hungry.
I shouldn’t be able to feel her. Not like this. The bond was supposed to be temporary—a backlash surge, nothing more. It should have faded by now, burned out like a dying star.
But it hasn’t.
It’s *growing*.
And that means one of two things: either the sabotage spell was no accident… or she’s lying about who she is.
I stride to the desk, flipping open the ledger. The Undercourt’s Arbitration Panel records. Names, species, bloodlines, affiliations. I’ve already scanned them twice. Blair Vale isn’t listed. No witch-fae hybrid with that name. No record of her appointment. No signature in the council’s registry.
But she’s real.
And she’s here.
I tap the page, my fangs pressing into my lower lip. She smells like stolen magic—like glamour woven too tight, like blood spilled in secret. Fae nobility. Witchcraft steeped in vengeance. And something else. Something that tugs at the Oath buried in my veins.
My father’s Oath.
The Oath of Crimson Fealty.
It’s a curse. A chain. A pact sealed in blood between House D’Vaire and a fae noblewoman—one who died screaming when the magic demanded its price. My sire claimed her. Bound her. Used her. And when the Oath demanded a life, he gave hers.
I was there.
I was *young*.
And I did nothing.
Now, a century later, a woman walks into my world with the same scent, the same magic, the same fire in her eyes—and the bond *answers*.
Too much. Too convenient.
She’s not just here to break the Oath.
She’s here for *me*.
And I need to know why.
I close the ledger. The moment I do, the bond *pulses*.
A jolt of heat slams through me—sudden, violent. My vision blurs. For a heartbeat, I’m not in my chambers.
I’m in a ritual chamber.
Dark stone. Candles. The air thick with incense and power. A woman is on her knees, back bare, skin glistening with sweat. A sigil burns between her shoulder blades—deep red, glowing with magic. And I’m behind her. My hands on her hips. My fangs at her throat.
But it’s not *me*.
It’s *him*.
Malrik.
My sire.
The vision shatters. I stagger back, breath ragged. My hands clench the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The bond thrums, alive, *angry*. It’s not just connecting us. It’s *showing* us. Sharing memories. *His* memories.
And she’s seeing them too.
I can feel her recoil—through the bond, like a flinch in my own body. Her breath catches. Her magic spikes. She’s awake now. Shaken. Afraid.
Good.
Fear keeps you sharp. Fear keeps you honest.
I grab my coat, shrug it on. The buttons don’t close over my chest—no point. The wound from the collapse has already healed. Vampires don’t scar. We carry pain in other ways.
I leave the chambers, moving through the silent halls. My guards bow as I pass. I don’t acknowledge them. My focus is ahead. The Undercourt Archives. If she’s not in the records, then she’s hiding in the gaps. And the Archives—where every blood pact, every treaty, every secret is etched in blood and bone—will tell me what she won’t.
The entrance is guarded by twin werewolves—Ironclaw enforcers. They tense as I approach, hackles rising. They don’t like me. I don’t care.
“Lord D’Vaire,” one growls. “Council’s closed for the night.”
“I’m not here for the council,” I say, voice low. “I’m here for the Oath.”
The other wolf bares his teeth. “No one enters without approval.”
I step forward. The air around me drops ten degrees. My eyes go black. Power rolls off me, thick and suffocating. “You will let me pass. Or you will learn why vampires rule the night.”
They step aside.
I enter.
The Archives are a cavern beneath the city, lit by floating orbs of blue flame. Shelves stretch into the dark, carved from black stone, filled with scrolls, grimoires, and bones etched with runes. The air smells of old blood and dust. At the center stands the Oath Table—a slab of obsidian where pacts are sealed, broken, and remembered.
I go straight to the Crimson Fealty section.
My fingers trace the spine of the ledger. Blood-red leather. Bound with iron. I open it. The pages are made of cured skin, inked in blood. Names. Dates. Terms. And there—Seraphine Vale. Fae noble. Bound to Malrik D’Vaire. Pact sealed under duress. Terminated—by death.
My mother’s name.
No.
Not mine.
His.
I flip forward. There’s no mention of a daughter. No record of inheritance. No trace of Blair.
But the bond *knows*.
I close the book. My jaw clenches. She’s not just forged her identity.
She’s erased her history.
And that means she’s dangerous.
I turn—
And stop.
She’s here.
Blair.
Standing at the far end of the hall, lit by a single flame. Her hair is loose, dark as midnight. Her cloak is pulled tight around her, but I can still see the curve of her hips, the line of her throat. She hasn’t seen me yet. Her fingers hover over a different ledger—one on hybrid bloodlines.
She’s searching for something.
For *me*.
I move silently. The bond flares as I near her—heat, scent, a sudden rush of *want*. I feel her magic tighten, like a coiled spring. She knows I’m here.
“Looking for something?” I ask.
She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t turn. But her shoulders tense. “Just doing my job, Lord D’Vaire.”
“Your job doesn’t exist.” I step closer. The flame flickers. Shadows dance across her face. “You’re not on the panel. You’re not in the records. You’re a ghost. A lie.”
She turns then. Her eyes meet mine—green, sharp, defiant. “And you’re trespassing. This section’s restricted.”
“So are you.”
She lifts her chin. “I have clearance.”
“Prove it.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You already know I don’t.”
The bond surges.
Another vision—faster this time. A flash: her back bare, the sigil burning, my hands on her skin. Not Malrik. *Me*. My voice in her ear. My fangs at her pulse. *Mine*.
I growl. She gasps.
We both stagger back, breaking eye contact. The vision shatters. But the heat remains. Thick. Unbearable. Her breath is fast. Her pupils are wide. She’s trembling.
And so am I.
“What *are* you?” I demand, voice rough.
“The woman who’s going to destroy your bloodline,” she says. But her voice wavers. She’s as shaken as I am.
“You’re not just here for revenge,” I say. “You’re here because of the Oath. Because of *her*.”
Her mother.
Her name—Seraphine Vale—hangs between us, unspoken but felt.
She doesn’t deny it.
Instead, she steps forward. Closer. The bond hums, alive, electric. “You felt it too, didn’t you? The vision. That wasn’t memory. That was *magic*.”
“It was the bond,” I say. “It’s showing us things. Connecting us.”
“Or *him*,” she whispers. “Malrik. He’s not gone, is he?”
My blood runs cold.
She knows.
How?
“He’s dead,” I say. “Buried with the Oath.”
“Liar,” she says softly. “I’ve seen him. In dreams. In visions. He’s *in* the Oath. And he wants me.”
I stare at her. The bond pulses—slow, steady. She’s telling the truth.
Malrik is still alive. Trapped. Hungry.
And she’s the key to freeing him.
Or destroying him.
“You’re not safe here,” I say. “If he knows who you are—”
“Then I’ll kill him before he kills me,” she snaps. “Just like I’ll kill you if you get in my way.”
I step closer. Our bodies are inches apart. The heat between us is unbearable. The bond flares—visions threatening to rise again. I reach out. Not to touch her. Not yet. But my fingers twitch, as if drawn to the bare skin at the base of her neck.
“You think you can destroy the Oath alone?” I ask. “You think you can walk into that chamber and break a century-old pact with nothing but rage and a stolen name?”
“I don’t need you,” she says. But her breath hitches. Her magic flickers.
“Yes, you do.”
“Why?”
“Because the Oath requires a D’Vaire heir to break it. And a witch with fae blood to unseal it.” I lean in. My voice drops. “You need *me*, Blair. And I need *you*.”
Her eyes widen. She didn’t know that.
Good.
Now she knows she’s not in control.
Now she knows I hold power too.
She takes a step back. “Stay away from me.”
“I can’t,” I say. “The bond won’t allow it.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
“You’ll die.”
She glares at me. “I’d rather die than belong to you.”
“You already do.”
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A surge of heat, of scent, of *need*. I see it in her eyes—she feels it too. The pull. The hunger. The way her body leans toward mine, just slightly, before she catches herself.
I should walk away.
I should let her go.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in my life, I’m not alone.
And I don’t want to be.
“Riven,” I say, without turning.
My lieutenant steps from the shadows. He’s been watching. He always does.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Escort Ms. Vale back to her quarters. Make sure she doesn’t… disappear.”
Blair’s eyes flash. “I don’t need an escort.”
“No,” I say. “But you need a reminder. You’re not invisible. You’re not untouchable. And you’re not leaving my sight until I know the truth.”
She opens her mouth to argue—
And the bond *spikes*.
A wave of heat crashes over us. I see it in her face—pain, pleasure, confusion. Her knees buckle. I catch her before she falls, one arm around her waist, the other gripping her shoulder.
Our faces are inches apart.
Her breath is hot on my lips.
Her magic hums against my skin.
And for one breathless moment, I want to kiss her.
Not to claim. Not to dominate.
But to *know*.
“You’re not who you say you are,” I whisper. “And I’m going to find out why.”
She glares up at me. “Try. But don’t pretend this is about truth. You want control. You want power. You want *me*.”
“Maybe I do,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it a lie.”
Riven steps forward. “My lord. The council convenes at dawn. They’ll want answers about the collapse.”
I don’t move. “Let them wait.”
“And the bond?” Riven asks, low. “It’s spreading. Others are starting to feel it.”
I look down at Blair. Her pulse flutters under my hand. Her scent—jasmine and iron—fills my lungs.
“Let them feel it,” I say. “Let them know she’s mine.”
She jerks in my grip. “I’m not yours.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But you will be.”
The bond pulses—once, twice—then settles into a slow, steady rhythm.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.