The North Quarter breathes differently now.
Not with the old rhythm of fear and control, the silent obedience that used to ripple through the stone halls whenever Kaelen passed. No. It’s something else—something raw, unsteady, like the city itself is learning how to beat again. The vampires still move in shadows, their fangs bared in smiles that aren’t smiles. The werewolves still pace the borders, their eyes glowing amber, heat cycles humming beneath their skin. The witches chant in hidden rooms, sigils flaring with blood and breath. And the fae—they watch, always watch, their laughter like glass breaking.
But something’s changed.
And I know what it is.
It’s *her*.
Blair Vale.
She walks through the Undercourt like she owns it—not with arrogance, not with the cold grace of a vampire lord, but with something quieter. Something fiercer. A woman who’s stopped running. A woman who’s stopped hiding. A woman who’s finally chosen.
And he—Kaelen—he follows.
Not behind. Not above.
Beside.
The bond between them hums—low, steady, a thread of red magic only I can see, pulsing with every breath, every heartbeat. It’s different now. Not the violent surge of before, not the desperate clash of wills. It’s calm. Like a river that’s finally found its course.
And it terrifies me.
Because I’ve seen what happens when vampires love. When they *need*. It doesn’t end in ballrooms or whispered promises. It ends in blood. In fire. In bodies piled high in the snow.
And Kaelen?
He’s not just any vampire.
He’s the last heir of the D’Vaire line. The Lord of the North Quarter. A man who’s spent centuries building walls so high even I couldn’t scale them. And now?
Now he’s letting her in.
And she’s letting him.
I press my palm to the hilt of my blade. My golden eyes scan the corridor—empty, for now. But I feel it. The shift. The tension. The way the air thickens when power is about to collide.
They don’t see it.
Not yet.
They’re too busy looking at each other. Too busy pretending the world has stopped just because they’ve finally stopped fighting.
But the world hasn’t stopped.
Malrik is still out there.
Lira is still alive.
And the final vote looms—three days away.
“You’re brooding,” Blair says, stepping beside me as we walk through the east wing. Her voice is low, but there’s a smirk in it. “I can hear your thoughts from here.”
“You can’t.”
“No?” She lifts a brow. “Then what am I thinking now?”
I glance at her. “That I’m an overprotective Beta who needs to mind his own business.”
She almost smiles. “Close.”
Kaelen doesn’t speak. Just watches her, his black eyes burning into hers. His hand finds hers beneath the cloak, fingers threading through hers. The bond screams—a surge of heat, of scent, of need. I look away. Give them a moment.
But I feel it.
The shift.
The way the air changes when two people stop fighting and start choosing each other.
“You don’t trust her,” Kaelen says, voice low.
“I don’t trust *anyone*,” I say. “Especially not the ones who pretend to be allies.”
“Lira’s been quiet,” Blair says. “Too quiet.”
“And you think that means she’s harmless?” I ask. “She’s not. She’s waiting. Biding her time. And when she strikes, it won’t be with fangs. It’ll be with lies.”
“Then we’ll face it,” Kaelen says. “Together.”
“You say that now,” I mutter. “But when the time comes, you’ll choose her over the alliance. You’ll choose *her* over everything.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll lose more than the North Quarter,” I say. “You’ll lose *her*.”
Blair stiffens. “I’m not a prize to be won or lost.”
“No,” I say. “You’re a weapon. And weapons don’t get to choose who they serve.”
“I do,” she snaps. “And I’ve already chosen.”
“Then choose wisely,” I say. “Because the next time you walk into a trap, I might not be fast enough to pull you out.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns away, her green eyes sharp, her magic coiled beneath her skin like a serpent ready to strike.
Kaelen watches her go. Then turns to me. “You don’t have to like her.”
“I don’t have to like *you*,” I say. “But I serve you. I protect this city. And I’ll be damned if I let some scheming vampire whore destroy everything we’ve built.”
He doesn’t react. Just watches me, his black eyes endless, his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. “Lira’s not a threat.”
“She was in your bed,” I say. “She wore your shirt. She told the entire Undercourt you fed her your blood.”
“She lied.”
“And you believed her.”
“I was weak.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
I don’t answer. Just nod. Because that’s all I can do.
Because he’s not my Alpha.
He’s my Lord.
And I serve.
Even when I think he’s wrong.
Even when I know he’s walking into a fire.
Because someone has to stand watch.
And if I don’t—
Then who will?
—
I find her in the west wing.
Lira Nocturne.
She’s not where she’s supposed to be—locked in her chambers, under guard, awaiting trial for treason. No. She’s here, in the old library, surrounded by dust and silence, her fingers tracing the spine of a blood-bound ledger like it’s a lover.
Her hair is black as midnight, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes two pools of liquid silver. She’s beautiful. I’ll give her that. But beauty’s a weapon, and she’s wielded it too long to be trusted.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, stepping into the room.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn. Just keeps her fingers on the book. “And you’re not supposed to be watching me.”
“Someone has to.”
“Kaelen trusts you,” she says, voice soft. “That’s why he keeps you close. Not because you’re strong. Not because you’re loyal. Because you’re *predictable*.”
“And you’re not?”
She turns. Her smile is slow, deadly. “I’m chaos. I’m fire. I’m the storm he used to love.”
“He doesn’t love you.”
“No.” She steps closer, her scent—jasmine and blood—rolling over me like a wave. “But he *wanted* me. Once. Before the witch. Before the bond. Before he started pretending he’s something he’s not.”
“He’s not pretending.”
“Oh, he is.” She laughs, a sound like glass breaking. “He’s pretending he’s not a monster. Pretending he doesn’t crave blood. Pretending he doesn’t *need* to own her.”
“He loves her.”
“Love?” She sneers. “Love is weakness. Love is death. Love is the first cut.”
“Then you don’t know him.”
“And you do?” She steps closer, her body pressing into mine. “You think you know what he is? You think you know what he’s capable of? You think you know what he’ll do when the bond breaks? When the Oath rises? When he realizes she’ll never be enough?”
My fangs extend. “Back. Off.”
She doesn’t. Just smiles. “You’re afraid. I can smell it. Fear. Loyalty. *Hope*.”
“Hope’s not a weakness.”
“No.” She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. “It’s a flaw. And flaws get you killed.”
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard. Desperate. Like she’s trying to steal something from me.
And for a heartbeat—
I let her.
Because I’m not immune.
Because I’m not stone.
Because I’ve seen the way Blair looks at Kaelen. The way she lets him touch her. The way she *chooses* him.
And I wonder—
What would it feel like?
What would it feel like to be chosen?
And then—
I push her away.
Hard.
She stumbles, her back hitting the bookshelf, books tumbling to the floor. Her lip is split, blood glistening on her teeth. But she’s still smiling.
“You want her,” she says, voice rough. “Don’t you? The witch. The half-breed. The one who’s taken everything from you.”
“I don’t want her.”
“No.” She wipes the blood from her lip. “You want to be *seen*. You want to be *needed*. You want to matter.”
“I matter.”
“To who?” She laughs. “To Kaelen? He doesn’t see you. He sees a weapon. A guard dog. A *Beta*.”
“I serve the North Quarter.”
“And what does it give you in return?” She steps closer. “A place at the edge of the fire? A seat at the table where no one speaks to you? A life of obedience and silence?”
“It gives me purpose.”
“And is that enough?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
And she sees it.
“I can give you more,” she whispers. “Power. Freedom. *Choice*.”
“At what cost?”
“Loyalty.” She reaches for my hand. “Just one act. One betrayal. And I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’ll watch them burn.” She leans in, her breath cold on my skin. “And you’ll know—you could have stopped it.”
Stillness.
And then—
I step back.
“Get out,” I say, voice low. “Before I throw you out myself.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “You’ll come around. They always do.”
And then she’s gone.
Vanished into the shadows.
But her words—
They stay.
Like a whisper in the blood.
—
I don’t report it.
Not to Kaelen. Not to Blair. Not to anyone.
Because I don’t know what I’d say.
That I kissed her?
That I *wanted* to?
That for one heartbeat, I let myself believe—
That I could matter?
No.
I keep it buried.
Like I’ve buried everything else.
But I watch.
I watch her.
And when she slips out of the west wing that night, when she moves through the shadows like smoke, when she disappears into the catacombs beneath the Undercourt—
I follow.
Not because I trust her.
Not because I believe her lies.
But because I know—
She’s going to betray them.
And if I don’t stop her—
Then who will?
The catacombs are older than the Undercourt, older than the city itself. Stone walls slick with moisture, torches flickering like dying stars, the air thick with the scent of iron and magic. I move fast—silent, swift, a shadow given form. I don’t need light. I don’t need sound. I just need to *know*.
And I do.
Because she’s not alone.
At the center of the chamber—
A circle.
Etched in blood.
And inside—
Malrik.
Not whole. Not flesh.
A shadow. A wisp. A memory given form.
But real.
And he’s waiting.
Lira steps into the circle. Her voice is low, chanting in a language I don’t know. The blood glows. The air thickens. And then—
He speaks.
“You’ve done well,” he whispers. “The bond is strong. The Oath sleeps. And the witch—she’s beginning to trust.”
“She’s weak,” Lira says. “She thinks love makes her strong. She thinks *he* makes her strong.”
“And you?” Malrik asks. “Do you still want him?”
“I want power,” she says. “I want the North Quarter. And I’ll have it—once they’re dead.”
“And the Beta?” Malrik’s voice shifts. “The one who follows you?”
“He’s nothing,” she says. “A guard dog. A fool.”
“Then kill him.”
“Not yet.” She smiles. “Let him watch. Let him suffer. Let him know—he could have stopped it.”
And then—
She turns.
And sees me.
Her eyes widen. Not in fear.
In triumph.
“Riven,” she says. “I was wondering when you’d come.”
And I know—
I’ve been played.
From the beginning.
She didn’t want me to follow.
She *wanted* me to hear.
Because now—
I’m the traitor.
And she’s the victim.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, stepping forward. “You can still walk away.”
“And go where?” she asks. “Back to the shadows? Back to being nothing?”
“You don’t have to be nothing.”
“I *am* nothing,” she says. “Unless I take what’s mine.”
And then—
She raises her hand.
And the circle ignites.
Flames—black, jagged, *hungry*—crawl up the stone, sealing the chamber. The air thickens. The torches gutter. And Malrik—
He laughs.
“You see now?” he whispers. “You’re not the protector. You’re the pawn. And the game is already over.”
I don’t answer.
Just draw my blade.
And charge.
She’s fast. Faster than I expected. She dodges, her body a blur, her magic flaring—red, hot, *alive*. A wave of energy slams into me, sending me crashing into the wall. Pain explodes through my ribs. Blood fills my mouth.
But I get up.
Because I have to.
Because if I don’t—
They’ll die.
I lunge again. This time, I’m faster. My blade flashes. It catches her arm—just a graze, but it’s enough. Blood spills. She hisses. And then—
She kicks.
Hard.
My leg buckles. I go down. She’s on me in an instant, her hands around my throat, her fangs bared.
“You could have had power,” she snarls. “You could have had *everything*.”
“I don’t want your power,” I gasp. “I want to protect them.”
“Then die with them.”
And she bites.
Not deep.
Not to kill.
Just enough to hurt.
Just enough to *mark*.
And then—
She pulls back.
Smiling.
“They’ll find you like this,” she says. “Bleeding. Broken. Betrayed. And they’ll know—
You failed.
And then—
She’s gone.
Vanished into the shadows.
And Malrik—
He laughs.
“You see now?” he whispers. “You’re not a hero. You’re not a protector. You’re just another fool who thought he could change the game.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my hand to the wound.
Blood seeps through my fingers.
And I know—
I have to warn them.
Even if they don’t believe me.
Even if they think I’m the traitor.
Because someone has to.
And if I don’t—
Then who will?
—
I drag myself through the tunnels.
Every step is agony. Every breath burns. But I don’t stop.
Because I can’t.
Because if I do—
They’ll die.
And when I finally reach the east wing, when I stumble into the hidden chamber, when I collapse at the foot of the bed—
They’re there.
Blair and Kaelen.
Still tangled together on the black silk, her head on his chest, his arm around her, the bond humming—low, steady, satisfied.
And they look up.
And see me.
Bloodied. Broken. Betrayed.
“Riven,” Blair says, sitting up. “What happened?”
I try to speak.
But the words won’t come.
So I just say—
“Lira… Malrik… the ritual site… she knows…”
And then—
Darkness.
And the last thing I hear—
Is Kaelen’s voice.
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
“You’ll pay for this,” he growls. “You’ll *all* pay.”
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
Blair’s Blood Oath
The first time Blair sees Kaelen D’Vaire, he’s feeding.
Not from a willing donor. Not in shadows. But on the marble steps of the Undercourt, fangs buried in the throat of a traitor, blood dripping like wine down his white silk shirt. The air hums with power, danger, and something deeper—something that pulls at her blood, her magic, her very breath. She doesn’t flinch. She plans. Because she’s not here to gawk. She’s here to burn his world down.
Blair Vale is no pawn. She’s a witch with a fae mother’s stolen grace and a human father’s rage. When she was twelve, her mother died screaming under a vampire blood oath—a pact she didn’t consent to, one that bound her life to Kaelen’s sire. Now, Blair has forged a new identity, stolen a seat on the Undercourt’s Arbitration Panel, and slipped into the heart of Edinburgh’s supernatural elite. Her goal? Destroy the Oath of Crimson Fealty. And if Kaelen, the last heir of that cursed line, must fall with it—so be it.
But magic has memory. And when a sabotage spell backfires during a joint tribunal session, Blair and Kaelen are caught in a backlash that fuses their life forces—temporarily. The bond flares with heat, scent, and visions: his cold hands on her throat, her mouth on his pulse, a mark burning between her shoulder blades. For one breathless moment, they’re not enemies. They’re hunger.
And then the chamber collapses.
He saves her. She curses him. And neither can forget the way their bodies fit—or the way his voice dropped to a growl when he whispered, “You’re mine now, witch. Fight it all you want.”
But Blair didn’t come here to be claimed.
She came to unmake.
And the deeper she goes, the more she risks becoming exactly what she swore never to be:
His.