I don’t follow her.
Not yet.
Let her think she’s free. Let her believe she can outmaneuver me, outthink me, outlast me. Let her run through the Archives, searching for answers she doesn’t understand, chasing a death sentence she thinks she can outrun.
She’s strong. Clever. Fiercely controlled.
And utterly, devastatingly wrong.
The bond isn’t a leash. It’s a bridge. And every step she takes, every breath, every pulse of her magic, only strengthens it. She thinks she’s hunting the Oath.
She’s hunting *herself*.
I remain in the doorway of the Archives, motionless, my coat open, my hands loose at my sides. The air is thick with old magic, with blood and dust and the faint, lingering trace of her scent—jasmine and iron, with something deeper beneath, something wild and untamed. Fae nobility. Witch’s fire. And the unmistakable tang of vengeance.
She smells like war.
And I want to taste it.
The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, like a second heartbeat. I can feel her—her frustration, her fear, the sharp edge of her determination. She’s moving fast, boots echoing down the corridor, magic flaring in short, controlled bursts as she scans for wards, for traps, for secrets.
And she’s found one.
The book.
Oaths of the Bloodline: Mechanics and Mortality.
I’ve read it. Studied it. Burned every word into my memory.
And now she knows the truth.
The bond will kill us both if it’s not severed in seven days.
And the only way to survive is to consummate it—by choice, by consent, by blood and magic and flesh.
Sex.
With *her*.
I close my eyes. For a moment, I let the vision take me—her beneath me, her back arched, her mouth open, her nails raking down my spine. My fangs at her throat. Her cry as I enter her—pleasure, not pain. The bond flaring, not with violence, but with *completion*.
It’s not just survival.
It’s *merging*.
And the thought—her, giving herself to me, not because the magic demands it, but because she *wants* it—sends a jolt of heat through me so intense I have to brace a hand against the stone.
I haven’t wanted like this in centuries.
Not since I was young. Not since I believed in love. Not since I watched my sire rip the life from a woman who looked at me with my mother’s eyes and called me *son*.
I open my eyes.
No. I don’t believe in love.
I believe in control. In power. In survival.
And Blair Vale—half-witch, half-fae, all fury—is the only thing standing between me and my father’s curse.
She’s the key.
And whether she likes it or not, she’s mine.
I push off the wall and move.
Not fast. Not silent. I let my boots echo on the stone, let my presence ripple through the corridors like a storm. I want her to feel me coming. I want her to know she can’t hide.
The bond flares as I near her—hot, sudden. A spike of heat, of scent, of *want*. I feel her magic tighten, like a coiled spring. She knows I’m here.
Good.
Let her run.
Let her fight.
Let her *feel* it.
I find her in the Restricted Wing—a narrow, torch-lit hall lined with grimoires bound in skin, scrolls sealed with blood, and bones etched with runes. She’s at a shelf, fingers skimming the spines, her back to me, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. But her shoulders tense. Her breath hitches.
She’s trying to control it.
She can’t.
“Looking for something?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps scanning. Her magic flickers—small, sharp pulses, like a warning.
“You already know I do,” she says finally, voice steady, cold.
“And you think this section holds the answers?”
“It holds *secrets*.”
“So do I.”
She turns then. Slowly. Her eyes meet mine—green, sharp, defiant. But I see it—the flicker of fear beneath the fire, the way her pulse jumps in her throat, the slight part of her lips as she breathes.
She’s affected.
Good.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.
“Neither are you.”
“I’m an Arbitrator.”
“You’re a fraud.”
She doesn’t flinch. “And you’re a murderer.”
“Only when necessary.”
“Your father killed my mother.”
“And you want revenge.”
“I want justice.”
“Same thing.” I step closer. The bond flares—heat, scent, a sudden rush of *need*. “But you won’t find it here. Not in these books. Not in these wards. The Oath isn’t in the Archives.”
“Then where is it?”
“In *me*.”
She freezes.
“What?”
“The Oath of Crimson Fealty is bound to the D’Vaire bloodline. It lives in my veins. In my magic. In the curse that keeps me alive.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then I’ll destroy you.”
“And kill yourself in the process.”
“Better than belonging to you.”
“You already do.”
She steps back. “No.”
“Yes.” I close the distance between us in one stride. My hand shoots out, not to strike, not to harm—but to *claim*. I grab her waist, yank her against me. Her breath catches. Her body arches—just slightly—into mine.
And the bond *explodes*.
Heat. Fire. A scream—mine? Hers? The magic tears through us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—*feel* it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, *amplified*.
Her back bare. My hands on her hips. My fangs at her throat. A mark burning between her shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his *need*.
But then—no. Not him. *Me*. My voice in her ear. My body over hers. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—*real*, not forced.
I growl. She gasps.
Our chests press together. Our breaths mingle. Her heart hammers against mine—fast, wild, *alive*.
“You feel it,” I say, voice rough. “You can’t lie to me. Not through the bond.”
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“No. You’re *afraid* of me. Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I make you want.”
Her hands press against my chest—weak, trembling. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“Kaelen—”
“Say it.” My voice drops, low, dangerous. “Say you want me.”
“I don’t—”
“Say it.”
She shakes her head. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. She’s close. So close to breaking.
And so am I.
I lean in. My lips brush her ear. My fangs graze the shell. “You’re not here to destroy me,” I whisper. “You’re here because you *need* me. Because the bond knows it. Because your body knows it.”
Her pulse jumps. Her back arches. Her hands clutch my coat.
“You’re lying,” she says, but her voice wavers.
“Am I?” I slide my hand up her side, slow, deliberate. My thumb brushes the underside of her breast. She gasps. Her magic surges. The bond flares—hot, electric. “Then why does your body respond? Why does your magic *sing* for me?”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” I press closer. My hips tilt, just slightly, so she can feel me—hard, aching, *ready*. “You want this. You want *me*.”
Her breath hitches. Her eyes close. For one terrible, beautiful moment, I think she’ll say it. I think she’ll *break*.
Then she opens her eyes.
And they’re full of fire.
“You think this is about *you*?” she snaps. “You think I’m some spell-struck fool, panting for the vampire who killed her mother?”
“No,” I say. “I think you’re a woman who’s spent her life running from touch, from desire, from *need*. And now, for the first time, you can’t run.”
“I’m not weak.”
“No. You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. But strength doesn’t mean you don’t *want*.”
She glares at me. “You don’t know me.”
“I know your pulse. I know your breath. I know the way your magic flares when I touch you.” I slide my hand up to her neck, not choking, not yet. But close. A threat. A promise. “I know the way your body *aches* for me.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m honest.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re drawn to me.”
She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because I’m right.
And she knows it.
The bond hums between us, a live wire, a pulse, a *promise*. I can feel her—her fear, her anger, her *arousal*. It’s thick in the air, in her scent, in the way her body presses against mine, just slightly, as if drawn by gravity.
I want to kiss her.
Not to claim. Not to dominate.
But to *know*.
To feel her mouth under mine, her breath in my lungs, her magic in my blood.
I lean in.
My lips hover over hers. A breath apart. Her eyes close. Her lips part. Her hands clutch my coat.
And then—
A scream.
Not hers. Not mine.
From the corridor.
Shouting. Chaos. The sound of running feet.
We both freeze.
The moment shatters.
I don’t let go of her. Can’t. The bond won’t allow it. But I turn my head, listening.
“Trouble,” I say.
She pulls back—hard. Her magic flares, pushing me away. I let her go, but only just. The bond *aches* with the separation, a phantom pain in my chest.
“What kind of trouble?” she asks, voice rough.
“The kind that doesn’t wait.”
I move first, striding down the hall. She follows, silent, wary. We reach the main corridor just as Riven appears, his golden eyes wide, his breath coming fast.
“My lord,” he says. “It’s Lira.”
My blood runs cold.
“What about her?”
“She’s in your chambers. Says she has information. Says it’s urgent.”
Blair tenses beside me. I feel it—the spike of jealousy, sharp and sudden. The bond flares. Heat floods my body.
“She’s lying,” Blair says.
“Probably,” I say. “But I have to see.”
“Why?”
“Because if she knows about the bond, about the Oath, about *you*—she could destroy everything.”
Blair’s eyes narrow. “And you trust her?”
“No.” I start down the hall. “But I know how to handle her.”
She doesn’t follow.
I stop. Turn. “Coming?”
“Why?”
“Because the bond won’t let you stay away. And because if she’s here for you, you need to see her face when she lies.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she moves.
We ascend through the stronghold, past guards who bow and step aside, past wards that hum as we pass. The air grows warmer, richer with scent—perfume, blood, something faintly floral.
Lira’s scent.
And then—her voice.
“Kaelen,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting.”
We reach the chamber door.
It’s open.
And there she is.
Lira Nocturne.
Vampire. Mistress of the Southern Quarter. My former lover.
She stands by the hearth, draped in black silk, her red hair spilling over one shoulder, her lips painted the same deep crimson as the wine in her glass. Her eyes—dark, knowing—lock onto mine.
And then, slowly, they slide to Blair.
A smile curls her lips.
“Oh,” she says. “So *this* is the witch who’s been stealing your attention.”
Blair doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. But I feel it—the sudden spike of tension, the way her magic tightens, the way her body shifts into a defensive stance.
Lira takes a slow sip of wine. “She’s… interesting.”
“What do you want, Lira?” I ask, voice flat.
“Information.” She sets the glass down. “About the bond. About the Oath. About *her*.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know she’s not who she says she is.”
“Neither are you.”
She laughs. A low, throaty sound. “True. But I don’t pretend to be anything else. I’m a liar. A schemer. A survivor.” She steps closer. “And I know Malrik is still alive. And I know he wants her.”
Blair tenses. “You’re working with him.”
“No,” Lira says. “But I know others who do.”
“Why tell us?” I ask.
“Because I want in.” She looks at me. “Break the Oath. Free us both. And I’ll give you the names of those who serve him.”
Silence.
The bond hums. Blair’s pulse jumps. Lira’s smile widens.
“Think about it,” she says. “You’ll need allies. And I know where the bodies are buried.”
She turns to leave—
And stops.
“Oh,” she says, glancing back at Blair. “One more thing.”
She lifts her sleeve.
And there it is.
A bite mark.
Fresh. Red. *Mine*.
“He came to my room every night during the Blood Moon,” she says, voice soft. “Ask him why he stopped.”
Blair doesn’t move.
But I feel it—the *snap*—the moment her trust breaks.
And the bond—still there. Still *pulsing*.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.