I don’t sleep.
Not after the second collapse. Not after the visions. Not after the way his body shielded mine, the way his breath ghosted over my neck like a caress, the way his fangs grazed my lip—so close, so real, as if he’d already claimed me.
I lie in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, my dagger clutched in one hand, the other pressed flat against my sternum, as if I can hold the bond down by force. But it pulses beneath my palm, steady and cruel, a second heartbeat that isn’t mine. I can feel him—distant now, but present. Not sleeping. Not resting. Watching. Waiting. Like a predator who knows the prey is already caught.
The ritual chamber is gone. Reduced to rubble. The Hybrid Tribunal session was canceled. The council is in chaos. And I—Blair Vale, infiltrator, avenger, destroyer of oaths—am the subject of whispers.
They say I brought the collapse.
They say the bond is a curse.
They say Kaelen D’Vaire has claimed me.
And worst of all—they say I didn’t fight it.
I turn onto my side, curling into myself. My skin still hums from the touch of the sigil, from the surge of magic that tore through us. It wasn’t just the bond. It was something deeper. A resonance. A memory. A promise.
And in that moment, when his lips were a breath from mine, when the world was fire and hunger and him—I wanted it.
I wanted him.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No. You don’t. You can’t. He’s the enemy. His bloodline killed your mother. His sire took her life like it meant nothing. And if you fall for him, you’ll end up just like her—broken, used, dead.
But the bond doesn’t care about logic. It doesn’t care about revenge. It only knows heat. Need. Want.
I throw back the covers and stand. My legs are unsteady, but I force myself to move. To act. Because if I don’t, I’ll drown in this—this cursed magic, this unwanted connection, this hunger that claws at me from the inside.
I dress quickly—black trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots. I tuck my dagger into my belt, run a brush through my hair. No glamour. No tricks. I won’t hide. Not from them. Not from myself.
I leave the room.
The corridors of the Arbitrator’s Quarters are quiet, lit by flickering sconces that cast long shadows on the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of old magic, of blood and iron and something faintly sweet—fae residue, maybe, from the last tribunal. I keep my head down, my steps silent, but I can feel eyes on me. Whispers curl around corners like smoke.
There she is.
The witch the vampire claimed.
Did you see them? She didn’t pull away.
I clench my jaw and keep walking.
The Undercourt Archives are deep beneath the city, a labyrinth of black stone and ancient wards. It’s where every pact, every treaty, every secret is etched in blood and bone. It’s also where the Oath of Crimson Fealty is kept.
And where I might finally find the truth.
I reach the entrance—a heavy iron door guarded by twin werewolves. Ironclaw enforcers. They tense as I approach, hackles rising. I don’t flinch. I’ve faced worse.
“Ms. Vale,” one growls. “You’re not cleared for Archives access.”
“I’m an Arbitrator,” I say, voice steady. “And I’m investigating the collapse.”
“Lord D’Vaire has restricted access.”
“Then he’ll have to deal with my report.” I step forward. “Let me pass.”
They don’t move.
I don’t either.
The bond flares—sudden, hot. A jolt of heat slams through me. I feel him—Kaelen—somewhere above, in his chambers, his mind sharp, alert. He knows I’m here. He’s watching.
But I don’t care.
“Last chance,” I say, hand resting on my dagger. “Let me pass. Or I’ll make you.”
The wolves exchange a glance. Then, slowly, 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.
I run my fingers over the ink. It’s real. Not a forgery. Not a lie. She existed. She suffered. She died.
And no one did anything.
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. They erased her. Erased *me*. As if we never existed.
But we did.
And I’m going to make them remember.
I turn to the next shelf—Hybrid Bloodlines. Witches with fae ancestry. Fae with human taint. Vampires with cursed heirs. I run my fingers along the spines, searching for anything that mentions the Oath. Anything that explains why the bond is still active. Why it’s growing.
And then I find it.
A slim volume, bound in cracked leather, labeled Oaths of the Bloodline: Mechanics and Mortality. I pull it down, flip it open. The pages are brittle, the ink faded, but the words are clear.
The Oath of Crimson Fealty is a binding pact between House D’Vaire and a fae bloodline, sealed in blood and sustained by sacrifice. It grants power to the vampire heir but demands a life in return—every century, a blood relative of the bound fae must die to renew the pact.
My breath catches.
So that’s why my mother died.
Not because she failed. Not because she was weak.
Because the Oath demanded it.
I keep reading.
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.
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.
Seven days.
I look up. The floating flames flicker. The air is still. But I can feel it—the bond, pulsing, alive. It’s been two days since the first collapse. Two days since Kaelen’s fangs grazed my ear, since he whispered *you’re mine now*.
Five days left.
And if I don’t break the Oath before then, I’ll be bound to him—forever.
I close the book slowly. My hands are steady, but inside, I’m shaking.
I came here to destroy the Oath.
But I didn’t know I’d have to destroy myself to do it.
Because if I break the Oath, the bond dies with it.
And if the bond dies… so do I.
The book said the life forces merge. If they’re torn apart, both will be destroyed.
So I have to choose.
Revenge.
Or survival.
I press my palms to my eyes. Think, Blair. Think.
There has to be another way. A loophole. A spell. Something.
I flip through the book again, searching for anything I missed. And then—near the end—I find it.
There is one exception: if the bond is consummated by mutual consent—blood shared, bodies joined, magic entwined—the Oath can be broken without destroying the bond. But the act must be done willingly. If forced, the Oath will consume them both.
My breath stops.
Consummated.
By mutual consent.
Blood. Bodies. Magic.
Sex.
The Oath can only be broken if we make love.
And if we do it willingly.
I let the book fall shut. My heart is pounding. My skin is on fire. The bond hums, as if it *knows* what I’ve learned.
I can’t do it.
I won’t.
I came here to destroy him. Not to give myself to him.
But if I don’t… I die.
And if I do… I become his.
Either way, I lose.
I stand, pacing. My boots echo on the stone. The bond flares with every step, every thought, every flicker of fear. I can feel him—closer now. He’s coming.
I don’t have time.
I grab the book, shove it into my coat. I’ll study it later. I need space. I need air. I need to think.
I turn to leave—
And freeze.
Kaelen stands in the doorway.
Black coat. Pale skin. Eyes like voids. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But I feel him—the bond surging, heat flooding my body, my pulse jumping in my throat.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.
“Neither are you,” I say, voice steady.
“This section is restricted.”
“So am I.” I step forward. “But here I am.”
He doesn’t flinch. “What did you find?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Liar.” He steps closer. The bond flares—hot, electric. “I can feel your magic. It spiked when you read that book. What does it say?”
I hold his gaze. “That the Oath can only be broken by a witch with fae blood.”
“And?”
“And that the bond between us will kill us both if it’s not severed in time.”
He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But I feel it—the flicker of fear beneath his control, the way his pulse stutters in his throat.
“Seven days,” I say. “That’s all we have.”
“I know.”
“Then you know I have to destroy the Oath before then.”
“Or we break it together.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The book mentions a way,” he says, voice low. “If the bond is consummated—by choice, by consent—the Oath can be broken without killing us.”
I stare at him. “You read it too.”
“I have my sources.”
“And you’re suggesting we—”
“I’m saying it’s the only way to survive.”
“I’d rather die than give myself to you.”
He steps closer. The bond roars. Heat crashes over me. My knees weaken. I grab the shelf to steady myself.
“You don’t mean that,” he says. “You felt it too. In the chamber. When our hands touched. When I was inches from your mouth. You *wanted* it.”
“I wanted to destroy you.”
“No.” His hand lifts. Not to touch me. Not yet. But his fingers twitch, as if drawn to my face. “You wanted *me*.”
“I hate you.”
“Then why does your pulse jump when I’m near? Why does your magic flare when I speak? Why does your body *ache* for me?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me.
“We don’t have to be enemies,” he says. “We don’t have to fight. We can break the Oath. Together. As allies. As—”
“Don’t say it,” I snap.
“As what?”
“As *partners*.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “You already think of me that way.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A surge of heat, of scent, of *need*. I see it in his eyes—he feels it too. The pull. The hunger. The way his body leans toward mine, just slightly, before he catches himself.
“Stay away from me,” I say, stepping back.
“I can’t,” he says. “The bond won’t allow it.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
“You’ll die.”
“Better than belonging to you.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. 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.
“There’s another way,” I say suddenly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“If I destroy the Oath before the bond becomes permanent, I can sever it without dying. But I need to know how it’s anchored. Where the blood is kept. What fuels it.”
“And you think I’ll tell you?”
“No,” I say. “But I think I can find it myself.”
He steps aside. “Go ahead. Search. Dig. Unearth every secret.”
“You’re not stopping me?”
“No.” He smiles. “Because I know what you’ll find.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you can’t do this alone.”
“Watch me.”
I turn and walk past him, out of the Archives, into the dim corridor. My heart is pounding. My skin is on fire. The bond hums, alive, relentless.
And as I walk, one thought echoes in my mind—
Five days left.
And I’m running out of time.
I don’t look back.
But I feel his eyes on me.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.