The bond hums under my skin like a live wire.
It’s been less than an hour since Lysander touched me, since that surge of magic ripped through my body like a storm, and still, I can’t shake it. Every breath feels charged. Every heartbeat echoes with the phantom pressure of his grip. I press my palm flat against the cool stone wall of the corridor, trying to ground myself, but even the marble seems to vibrate with the same rhythm as his pulse.
I shouldn’t have come.
The thought claws at me as I slip deeper into the shadows of the Shadow Keep, away from the glittering chaos of the gala. Ten years of planning. Ten years of blood, silence, and stolen magic. And now, one touch—one—has unraveled me.
But I had to come. The seer’s words still burn behind my eyes: *“He holds the truth. Only you can reach it.”* Lysander has the final report from the night my coven burned. The one that names the real killer. The one that could clear my name—or condemn me forever.
I came to destroy him.
Not to feel this.
Not to want him.
A door creaks open down the hall. I press back into the alcove, hand sliding to the dagger at my thigh. But it’s not a guard. It’s a servant—human, by the scent of her sweat and the tremor in her hands—carrying a silver tray with two goblets. Bloodwine, no doubt. Meant for the royal chambers.
My pulse kicks.
I step forward, smoothing my expression into something cool, detached. “You’re headed to the King’s wing?”
She startles, nearly dropping the tray. “Y-yes, m’lady. The Council summoned him. He’s to be tested.”
My stomach drops. “Tested?”
“The bond ritual,” she whispers, glancing around. “They’re confirming it. In the Chamber of Veins.”
I know the place. A circular room beneath the Keep, lined with black quartz and carved with ancient runes. Blood magic is strongest there. If they force a test—if they make us mix blood—the truth will spill out before I’m ready.
“And me?” I ask, voice steady. “Am I to be tested too?”
She nods. “Both of you. It’s law. No fated pair may serve on the Tribunal unless the bond is confirmed by the High Court’s decree.”
Of course it is.
I force a smile. “Thank you. I’ll meet him there.”
She scurries off, and I close my eyes, breathing through the rising panic. I need a sigil. A ward. Something to mask the Hollow blood in my veins, if only for a few minutes. But the magic here is thick, oppressive—wolf and Fae and something older, darker. Any spell I cast will be noticed.
And Lysander will feel it.
I have no choice.
I walk toward the Chamber of Veins, my heels silent on the stone. The air grows heavier with each step, thick with the scent of iron and damp earth. The walls pulse faintly, veins of crimson light threading through the black stone. This place was built for truth. For blood.
And I am walking into it with a lie.
The door is open. I step inside.
Lysander is already there.
He stands at the center of the room, back straight, hands clasped behind him. No coat now—just a fitted black shirt that strains across his shoulders, the fabric thin enough that I can see the ripple of muscle beneath. His gold eyes lift as I enter, and something dark flickers in their depths.
Hunger.
Recognition.
And anger.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I was detained,” I lie smoothly, gliding forward. “A Fae noble insisted on introducing herself.”
He doesn’t buy it. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare as he inhales. “You smell like fear.”
“Do I?” I lift my chin. “Or do I smell like power?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. “You smell like a witch who’s hiding something.”
Before I can respond, the door swings shut behind me. The Council has arrived.
Five figures enter—three Fae, one vampire, one wolf elder—each draped in robes of their respective courts. The Fae High Court’s envoy, a woman with silver hair and eyes like fractured ice, steps forward.
“The bond has been sensed,” she announces, her voice echoing in the chamber. “But sensed is not confirmed. The Tribunal requires proof.”
“Then prove it,” Lysander says, never taking his eyes off me.
The envoy raises a hand. A basin rises from the floor, carved from obsidian, filled with dark water. “Place your hands above the bowl. Blood to blood. Heart to heart. Let the magic speak.”
I swallow.
This is it.
If the ritual detects the Hollow sigil in my blood—if it recognizes me as Circe, last daughter of the coven he destroyed—then I die here. Not by blade or fire, but by his hands. By his teeth.
But I can’t refuse. Not without confirming his suspicions.
I step forward. Lysander does the same.
We stand side by side, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that the bond between us thrums, a living thing, pulling us together.
“Hands,” the envoy commands.
I extend mine, palms down, hovering over the water. Lysander does the same. His fingers are long, calloused, the knuckles scarred. A killer’s hands.
My hands tremble.
Not from fear.
From need.
The moment our skin is above the bowl, the water begins to glow. A deep, pulsing red, like a heartbeat. Then—
Sparks.
Golden and black, like storm and midnight, rise from our palms and twist together, forming a spiral of light above the basin. The air crackles. The runes on the walls flare to life.
“The bond is true,” the envoy says, awe in her voice. “Fated. Unbroken. Ancient.”
The room erupts in murmurs.
But I don’t hear them.
All I feel is him.
The magic between us isn’t just confirming a bond—it’s feeding it. Strengthening it. Every nerve in my body is alight. My skin burns. My breath comes fast. My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my gown, aching with a pressure I can’t name.
And then—
Lysander’s little finger brushes mine.
A jolt. Electric. Violent. It shoots up my arm, straight to my core. My knees weaken. I bite back a gasp.
He feels it too. I see it in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken, the way his free hand clenches into a fist at his side.
“The Tribunal of Nine requires a bonded pair,” the envoy continues. “You will serve together. As partners. As mates.”
“We are not mates,” I snap, tearing my hand away.
“The magic says otherwise,” she replies coolly. “And the law is clear. You will reside in the same wing. Share duties. Share chambers. Until the bond is consummated, you will remain under observation.”
My blood runs cold.
“Consummated?”
“The bond must be sealed,” she says. “Within seven days. Or you will be exiled. Separated. And the Tribunal will collapse into war.”
Lysander finally speaks, his voice low, dangerous. “So we have a deadline.”
I turn to him. “I won’t be your mate.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he says, stepping closer. “The bond doesn’t care what you want. It only knows the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” I challenge.
His gaze drops to my lips. “That you’re mine.”
I slap him.
It’s not a weak, ladylike tap. It’s a full strike, palm against cheek, fueled by rage, by fear, by the unbearable tension coiling in my gut. The sound echoes through the chamber.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
He laughs.
Low. Dark. A sound that curls through my spine like smoke. “You hit like a witch who’s never fought a wolf.”
“And you speak like a king who’s never been challenged,” I fire back.
His smile fades. He grabs my wrist—again—and yanks me forward until we’re chest to chest. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing against my lower lip. “You think I don’t see you?” he growls. “You think I don’t know you’re lying?”
My pulse hammers. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re not Livia Vale,” he says, voice a whisper. “You’re something else. Something more.”
My breath catches.
“But it doesn’t matter,” he continues. “Because whether you’re here to kill me or not—”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“—you’re staying.”
He releases me.
I stumble back, heart racing, skin on fire.
The Council is watching. The envoy inclines her head. “You will be escorted to your quarters. The King’s wing. No exceptions.”
“I don’t need an escort,” I say, lifting my chin.
“You do,” Lysander says. “Because I said so.”
He turns and walks out.
I follow, every step a battle.
The royal wing is a fortress within a fortress—thick stone walls, torchlit corridors, guards at every turn. My new chambers are adjacent to his, separated only by a shared antechamber. The room is opulent—black silk drapes, a four-poster bed with silver hangings, a fireplace crackling with blue flame.
But it’s a prison.
I pace, fingers tracing the edge of the dagger hidden in my sleeve. I need to find that report. I need to expose Malrik before Lysander uncovers me.
A knock.
I freeze.
“Enter,” I say.
The door opens.
Lysander.
He fills the doorway, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a sliver of scarred chest. His eyes are unreadable.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks.
“You’re in my territory now,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t tolerate threats.”
“I’m not a threat.”
“You slapped me in front of the Council.”
“You deserved it.”
He moves fast.
In one stride, he’s in front of me, backing me against the wall. One hand on either side of my head, caging me in. His body is a wall of heat. The bond flares, unbearable.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “I think you’re afraid of this.”
His hand slides down, fingers brushing the pulse at my throat. “You want me. Even now. Even knowing what I am.”
“I hate you,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Then why is your heart racing?”
“Why is yours?” I fire back.
He leans in, his lips a breath from mine. “Because you’re the first thing in ten years that’s made me feel alive.”
My breath catches.
And then—
A scream.
High. Piercing. From the hall.
We both freeze.
Lysander pulls back, nostrils flaring. “Trouble.”
He turns to the door—then stops, looking back at me.
“Stay here,” he orders.
I don’t answer.
He hesitates—then nods, as if reading my defiance. “Fine. But if you get in my way, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and lock you in a cell.”
He leaves.
I wait three seconds.
Then I follow.
The scream came from the eastern corridor. By the time I get there, a crowd has gathered. Lysander stands at the center, crouched beside a body.
A guard.
Dead.
Throat torn out.
And on his chest—
A sigil.
Burned into the flesh.
My blood runs cold.
It’s my sigil.
The Hollow mark.
But I didn’t do this.
I look up.
Lysander is staring at me.
His eyes are no longer gold.
They’re black.
And full of rage.
“You,” he says, voice a growl. “You killed him.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “I didn’t—”
He lunges.
I barely dodge, rolling to the side as his claws swipe through the air where my head was.
“Lysander, listen—”
“You lied,” he snarls. “You’re not just a witch. You’re her. Circe of the Hollow Coven.”
My name.
Spoken like a curse.
The crowd murmurs. Gasps. Whispers.
“You burned my coven,” I say, voice shaking. “You killed my mother. And now you’re framing me?”
“Framing you?” He bares his fangs. “You left your mark on his chest.”
“Someone else did,” I say. “Malrik. He’s trying to turn you against me.”
“Malrik?” Lysander laughs, a harsh, broken sound. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I say, backing away. “But if you kill me, you’ll never know the truth.”
He stops.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
“You will be confined to your chambers,” he says, voice cold. “Guards at the door. No visitors. No magic.”
“You can’t—”
“I can,” he snaps. “And I will. Until I decide what to do with you.”
He turns to the guards. “Take her.”
They move forward.
I don’t fight.
Because I see it in his eyes.
Not just anger.
Not just suspicion.
Hurt.
And something worse.
Hope.
He wants to believe me.
But the bond—and his past—won’t let him.
As the guards lead me away, I look back one last time.
Lysander stands over the body, head bowed.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What if I’m not the only one who’s been lying?
What if he’s been lying to himself?
And what if the truth—
is that we’re both already lost?