The mark on my spine still burns.
Not from pain. Not from fever.
From knowledge.
Since the ritual ended, since Kaelen traced that hidden sigil with trembling fingers and whispered, *“The curse isn’t fading. It’s waking,”* I’ve felt it—something coiled beneath my skin, something ancient and hungry, stirring like a serpent uncurling after decades of dormancy. It pulses in time with the bond, syncing with Kaelen’s heartbeat, his breath, his very presence. I don’t understand it. I don’t want to understand it. But I can’t deny it. It’s real. It’s in me. And it wasn’t there before.
Was it?
I press a hand to the small of my back as I pace our chambers—his chambers, still, even if the law says otherwise. The fire in the hearth crackles, casting long shadows across the obsidian walls. The crimson crystals in the ceiling pulse faintly, their rhythm slower now, more deliberate. The fortress is quiet. Too quiet. Like the storm outside has passed and left behind only the echo of thunder.
Kaelen hasn’t returned.
He left after the ritual, his expression unreadable, his steps silent. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just walked out, leaving me standing on the altar, half-dressed, breathless, my body still humming from the magic, from the way his fingers had gripped my hip, from the way his breath had fanned my neck when I leaned over him.
And from the way I didn’t pull away.
I told myself it was the bond. That the magic forced us, compelled us, made me tremble beneath his touch. But the truth claws through me now, sharp and undeniable: it wasn’t just the bond.
It was me.
I wanted to touch him.
I wanted to feel him.
And the worst part? I still do.
A knock at the door.
I freeze. My breath catches. The bond flares—just a whisper, but enough to make my pulse spike.
“Enter,” I say, voice steady despite the storm inside me.
The door opens.
But it’s not Kaelen.
It’s her.
Lyria.
Fae noble. Kaelen’s former lover. The woman whose name slithers through the court like poison, whispered in alcoves and corridors, her reputation built on seduction, manipulation, and the blood of men who thought they could control her.
And she’s wearing his shirt.
Not just any shirt. Not some borrowed garment. This is his—black silk, edged with crimson embroidery, the cuffs still bearing the faint scent of dark amber and iron. It hangs loosely on her, the collar slipping off one pale shoulder, the hem falling just above her thighs. Her hair is damp, as if she’s just stepped from a bath. Her skin glistens. Her lips are parted, her eyes half-lidded, her expression one of languid satisfaction.
And she’s smiling.
“Brielle,” she purrs, stepping inside. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
My blood runs cold.
“This is my chamber,” I say, voice low, controlled.
“Is it?” She glides forward, barefoot, her movements sinuous, deliberate. “I just came from the private baths. Kaelen joined me. We… talked.”
My stomach twists.
“About what?”
“Oh, many things.” She tilts her head, her silver hair catching the firelight. “The bond. The curse. The way you tremble when he touches you.”
My hands curl into fists. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her—jasmine and blood, the scent of glamour and deceit. “Or am I the only one telling you the truth?”
“Get out.”
“Or what?” She laughs, soft, mocking. “You’ll tell him? Oh, darling, he already knows. He doesn’t care. He never did.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“Don’t I?” She lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair from her face—and the movement pulls the shirt wider, exposing the curve of her breast, the faint red mark on her collarbone.
A bite mark.
Fresh.
My breath catches.
“He marked me three nights ago,” she murmurs. “Right here. While you were sleeping in his bed, dreaming of him.”
“Liar,” I hiss.
“Check the security wards,” she says, smiling. “They record everything. Ask Riven. Ask the servants. Or better yet—ask him.”
My pulse hammers. The bond flares—violent, electric—and I feel him. Not here. Not in the room. But close. So close I can feel the pull in my veins, the way my blood sings for his.
And then—
The door opens.
Kaelen steps inside.
He freezes.
His eyes lock onto Lyria. Then onto me. Then back to Lyria.
And for a heartbeat, I see it—something flicker in his expression. Not guilt. Not shame.
Something darker.
Recognition.
“Lyria,” he says, voice low, controlled. “What are you doing here?”
“We were just talking,” she says, stepping toward him. “About you. About us.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“She doesn’t believe me,” she continues, her hand sliding up his chest. “She thinks you don’t touch me. That you don’t want me.”
My breath stops.
“Is that true, Kaelen?” she whispers, pressing closer. “Do you want me?”
And then—
He looks at me.
Not at her.
At me.
His eyes burn crimson, intense, unreadable. But there’s something in them—something raw, something possessive—that makes my knees weak.
And then—
He steps back.
“Leave,” he says to Lyria. “Now.”
Her smile falters. “Kaelen—”
“Now.”
She hesitates. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she leans up and presses her lips to his cheek. “You’ll regret this,” she murmurs. “You always do.”
And then she’s gone.
The door closes.
Silence.
My breath comes in shallow gasps. My hands tremble. My chest aches. The bond hums—low, insistent—but it feels different now. Not just magic. Not just connection.
Rejection.
“You let her wear your shirt,” I whisper.
“I didn’t.”
“She said you were in the baths. That you marked her.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because she’s a pawn,” he says, stepping toward me. “And someone is using her to manipulate us.”
“And you didn’t stop her?”
“I did.”
“Too late.” My voice breaks. “You looked at her. You recognized her.”
“I recognized a threat,” he says, voice rough. “Not a lover.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know she’d come here. I didn’t know she’d wear that shirt. I didn’t know she’d—”
“Liar.” I step back, my chest tight. “You knew. You always know. You’re a bloodmage. You feel everything. You could have stopped her before she even—”
“And what if I wanted to see how far she’d go?” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “What if I wanted to see how you would react?”
My breath catches.
“You’re testing me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He steps closer, his hand closing around my wrist. “Because someone is trying to break us. And if I don’t know your weaknesses, I can’t protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Yes, you do.” His other hand finds my waist, pulling me against him. “You’re mine, Brielle. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
“Then why her?” I demand, my voice breaking. “Why let her wear your shirt? Why let her have that mark?”
“Because it’s not mine,” he says. “It’s a glamour. A fake. She’s trying to make you doubt me. Make you doubt us.”
“And it’s working,” I whisper.
He goes still.
“Then prove it,” I say, stepping back. “Show me the truth. Not with words. Not with magic. With action.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
And in that silence, something inside me shatters.
Because I realize—
I don’t just want revenge.
I don’t just want the truth.
I want him.
And if he won’t give me that—if he won’t choose me, truly, completely—then I don’t want any of it.
“Fine,” I say, voice cold. “Keep your secrets. Keep your games. But don’t expect me to play along.”
And then I turn.
I walk to the door.
“Brielle,” he says.
I don’t stop.
“Don’t,” he says. “Not like this.”
But I do.
I open the door.
And I leave.
The fortress is a maze of shadow and stone, corridors twisting like veins beneath the surface. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. I just need to move. Need to breathe. Need to escape the weight of his presence, the pull of the bond, the way my body still aches for him despite everything.
But the bond won’t let me.
With every step, it flares—sharp, painful, like a leash snapping taut. My breath hitches. My vision blurs. My knees weaken. I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder, feeling the sigil pulse, feeling the thread in my veins stretch, strain, burn.
I can’t go far.
I can’t leave him.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to.
I stop in a narrow corridor, bracing myself against the wall, my chest heaving. The fever is back—low at first, just a throb behind my temples, a tightness in my chest. But it’s growing. I can feel it. The bond is fraying, unraveling at the edges, and with it, my body rebels. My skin prickles. My breath comes faster. My pulse stutters.
And then—
I hear it.
A whisper.
Not from the corridor.
From inside me.
“The Oath is not broken.”
My breath stops.
It’s the same phrase carved into the stone the night my mother died. The same words that have haunted me for twenty years.
But this time—
It’s not just a memory.
It’s a voice.
And it’s coming from the mark on my spine.
I press a hand to the small of my back, feeling the sigil pulse—hot, alive, awake. And then, like a floodgate opening, images flood my mind—
A woman with my eyes, my hair, kneeling over an altar.
Blood dripping from her hand, carving a sigil into stone.
A child—me—swaddled in black silk, tears in her mother’s eyes.
“I seal it in you,” she whispers. “For your protection. For your power.”
And then—
A shadow. A voice. A name.
“Veyth.”
I gasp, stumbling back, my vision swimming. The fever spikes—sharp, violent—and I collapse against the wall, sliding to the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
It wasn’t Kaelen.
It was never Kaelen.
My mother didn’t die by his hand.
She was murdered by Veyth.
And she sealed the curse—in me.
Not to destroy me.
To protect me.
And now—
It’s waking.
Because the bond—
Because he—
Has awakened it.
And then—
I feel him.
Not just in my blood.
In my mind.
Kaelen.
Close.
So close.
I look up.
He’s standing at the end of the corridor, silhouetted by torchlight, his coat billowing like a shroud, his eyes burning crimson.
“Brielle,” he says, voice rough.
I don’t answer.
“I didn’t know,” he says, stepping forward. “About the mark. About your mother. I swear it.”
“Then how?” I whisper. “How did you know the curse was waking?”
“Because I felt it,” he says, kneeling beside me. “In the bond. In your blood. In me.”
“And the shirt? The mark on her neck?”
“Glamour,” he says. “A trap. She’s working with someone. I don’t know who. But I’ll find out.”
“And if you’re lying?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, holding me against his chest, his heartbeat steady, powerful, inhuman.
And for the first time—
I let him.
I press my forehead to his chest, my fingers curling into his coat, my body trembling.
“I don’t know what to believe,” I whisper.
“Then believe this,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of my neck. “I didn’t kill your mother. I didn’t cast the curse. And I will burn the world before I let anyone hurt you.”
Tears spill over. I don’t wipe them away.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why do you care?”
He exhales, long and slow. Then, without breaking contact, he shifts—just slightly—until his forehead rests against mine. His breath mingles with mine. His heart beats against my palm.
“Because,” he says, voice rough, “your blood sings to me. And I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.”
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since I walked into this cursed court, I let myself hope.
Not for revenge.
Not for justice.
But for something else.
Something I never thought I’d have.
And in the silence, wrapped in his heat, the bond hums—stronger now, deeper, real.
Not just magic.
Not just fate.
But something that feels, for the first time, like the beginning of the truth.
And maybe—just maybe—
The beginning of us.