The scream tears through the silence like a blade.
Again.
High. Piercing. Not from fear—no, this is different. This is rage. Pain. A howl of betrayal that echoes through the stone corridors, vibrating in my bones, in my blood, in the very pulse of the bond.
And then—
Nothing.
The Chamber of Whispers falls into a silence so thick it feels like drowning. The runes on the floor flicker, dimming. The torches gutter. The truth spell is breaking. Fragmenting. The magic can’t hold when the world outside is unraveling.
Lysander is already moving.
He rolls off the bed, snatches his pants from the floor, yanks them on with a violence that makes the leather creak. His body is a coiled spring, every muscle taut, every breath sharp. Gold eyes blaze in the dark, not with lust now—but with purpose.
“Stay here,” he growls, reaching for his shirt.
“No.” I sit up fast, shoving the tangled silk from my legs. “I’m not staying.”
“You don’t have a choice.” He pulls the shirt over his head, buttons it with brutal efficiency. “This isn’t a request.”
“And I’m not your prisoner.” I scramble off the bed, grabbing my gown from the floor. My fingers fumble with the buttons, but I don’t care. I won’t be left behind. Not again. Not when the scream—it wasn’t just any scream. It was *familiar*. A voice I haven’t heard in ten years.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he snaps, turning to me. “You’re a liability. You’re unstable. You’re—”
“I’m your *mate*,” I say, stepping forward, my voice low, dangerous. “And if you think I’m going to sit here while someone screams in your hall, while Malrik moves against us, while *everything* we’ve fought for burns—then you don’t know me at all.”
His jaw clenches.
For a heartbeat, we stand there—chest to chest, breath mingling, the bond thrumming between us like a live wire. The air crackles. His scent floods me—storm and pine, iron and power—but beneath it, something new. Something raw.
Respect.
He sees it in me. The fire. The fight. The refusal to kneel.
And he *wants* it.
“Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But you stay behind me. You do not act. You do not speak. You *listen*.”
“Or what?” I challenge.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and lock you in a cell myself.”
His voice is rough. Threatening.
But his hand—his hand brushes mine as he turns, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through my core.
And I know.
He’s not just trying to control me.
He’s trying to *protect* me.
—
The scream came from the eastern corridor.
By the time we get there, the hall is already crowded—wolves, Fae, vampires, all murmuring, all watching. Guards form a perimeter around a body on the floor. Not a guard this time.
A woman.
Human.
Her throat is torn out—clean, precise, the work of a wolf, not a frenzied attack. Blood pools beneath her, black in the torchlight. And in her hand—
A locket.
Old. Silver. Engraved with a single word:
Circe.
My breath stops.
Because I know that locket.
I gave it to Mira ten years ago, the night I fled the coven. The night she saved me. The night she told me to run, to hide, to survive.
And now—
She’s dead.
My knees weaken.
Lysander catches me before I fall, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him. His body is a wall of heat, a shield. But it doesn’t stop the pain. Doesn’t stop the rage.
“Mira,” I whisper, voice breaking. “No.”
The crowd murmurs.
“She was helping her,” a Fae noble says, voice sharp. “Plotting against the King.”
“She knew too much,” another whispers. “Malrik silenced her.”
“Or *she* did.”
All eyes turn to me.
Lysander steps in front of me, blocking their view, his voice a low growl. “Back. *Now*.”
The crowd parts.
But the damage is done.
I feel it—the suspicion, the fear, the *blame*. They think I did this. That I killed her to cover my tracks. That I’m not just a witch who lied, but a killer who betrayed her only friend.
And for a heartbeat—just one—I wonder.
Did I?
Did the bond, in its hunger, in its need to be fed, make me do it? Did I walk in my sleep, my magic flaring, my hands stained with blood I don’t remember?
No.
I didn’t.
But someone wants them to believe I did.
“Search her,” Lysander says, voice cold. “Find the sigil.”
One of the guards kneels, turns Mira’s body gently. And there it is—
Burned into her chest.
The Hollow mark.
But it’s wrong.
Twisted. Tainted. Fae rot woven into the lines, the same corruption as the guard’s sigil. Malrik’s hand.
“It’s not hers,” I say, voice shaking. “It’s a frame. Just like before.”
Lysander doesn’t answer.
He crouches beside the body, his fingers hovering over the sigil. His nostrils flare. He’s reading the magic, tasting the lie.
And then—
He stands.
“She was murdered,” he says, voice loud, cutting through the murmurs. “Framed. Just like the guard. Same taint. Same hand.”
“Then who did it?” a vampire lord asks.
“Malrik.” I step forward, my voice raw. “He’s trying to turn you against me. To destroy the bond. To collapse the Tribunal.”
“And why should we believe you?” the Fae noble sneers. “You’re not even who you say you are.”
“No,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’m not Livia Vale. I’m Circe of the Hollow Coven. And my mother was murdered by the same man who killed your envoy’s guard. The same man who killed *your* first mate.”
The crowd gasps.
Lysander turns to me, gold eyes blazing. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” I say. “But now I *know*. Malrik is my uncle. He disowned my mother when she married a witch. But he never stopped watching. Never stopped hating.”
“And Elara?”
“He killed her,” I say. “And he made sure you’d blame me.”
Silence.
Then—
Lysander’s wolf snarls, a sound that rolls through the hall like thunder. His eyes flash black, then gold, his body trembling with the effort to hold the shift. “Malrik,” he growls. “He’s been playing us both.”
“And now he’s killing anyone who helps me,” I say. “Mira knew the truth. She was helping me decode his magic. And now she’s dead.”
“Then we find him,” Lysander says, turning to the guards. “Lock down the Keep. No one enters or leaves. Kael—search the archives. Find anything on Malrik’s bloodline. Anything on the coven massacre.”
“And her?” a guard asks, nodding at Mira’s body.
Lysander looks at me.
And for the first time, I see it.
Not just anger.
Not just suspicion.
Grief.
And something worse.
Hope.
He believes me.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of *me*.
“She was my friend,” I say, voice breaking. “And I won’t let her death mean nothing.”
He nods. “Then help me find the truth.”
—
Back in my chambers, I pace, the bond humming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. Mira’s locket is in my hand, cold and heavy. I press it to my chest, as if I could bring her back, as if I could undo the past.
But I can’t.
All I can do is fight.
A knock.
“Enter.”
Lysander.
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. His coat is gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. His eyes are tired. Haunted.
“You should rest,” he says.
“I don’t need rest,” I say. “I need answers.”
“So do I.” He crosses the room, stopping just short of me. “But you’re not thinking clearly. The bond is pulling at you. Grief is clouding you.”
“And you?” I challenge. “Are you thinking clearly? Or are you just using me to find Malrik?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m using *us*. The bond. The magic. The truth. Because if we don’t find him, the Tribunal falls. And war begins.”
“And if we do?”
“Then justice.” He reaches out, slow, deliberate, and brushes his thumb along my jaw. “And maybe… something more.”
My breath catches.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, stepping back. “You don’t get to touch me like that after everything. After Mira. After the lies. After the bond that wants to consume us both.”
“I don’t *want* to consume you,” he says, stepping forward. “I want to *know* you. To see you. To *feel* you. Not just the fire. Not just the vengeance. But the woman beneath it.”
“You don’t know her.”
“Then show me.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Why do you care?”
He cups my face, his hands warm, rough. “Because when you look at me, I don’t see a monster. I see *him*. The man who’s been broken just like me. The man who’s been lied to. The man who’s been *waiting*.”
My breath hitches.
He heard me.
In the Chamber of Whispers. When the truth spell forced me to speak.
And he *remembered*.
“I came here to kill you,” I say, voice trembling. “And now I don’t know what I want.”
“Then let me help you.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Let me in.”
My heart hammers.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
“So am I.” He kisses my neck, slow, tender. “But I’m done running.”
The bond flares, unbearable.
His pheromones flood the air, thick and intoxicating. My knees weaken. My core clenches. My magic hums, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
And then—
I feel it.
The truth spell isn’t gone.
It’s still in me.
Still pulling.
Still whispering.
And this time—
It’s not just the bond.
It’s *me*.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I hate that I *want* you. That I *need* you. That I can’t stop thinking about your hands on my skin, your mouth on my throat, your teeth at my pulse.”
He stills.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t want to pull away.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I want to *burn* with you. To let you claim me. To be yours.”
He exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not like before.
Not a claiming.
Not a conquest.
But soft. Slow. A question.
And I answer.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, my mouth opening under his, my tongue meeting his in a slow, aching dance. His arms wrap around me, lifting me, pressing me against the wall. His body is a wall of heat, his cock already hard, straining against my thigh.
And then—
I pull away.
“No,” I say, breathless. “I can’t.”
“Why?” he growls, voice rough. “You want me. I can *feel* it.”
“I *hate* you,” I scream, shoving him back. “I hate you for making me want you. I hate you for killing my coven. I hate you for making me *feel* this.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, gold eyes burning, jaw clenched.
And then—
He pins me.
One hand at my throat—not squeezing, just *holding*—the other fisted in my hair, tilting my head. His breath is hot on my skin. His cock presses against my stomach, hard and heavy.
“Then why,” he says, voice breaking, “does your body burn for me?”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
My skin is on fire. My core is aching. My magic is flaring, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
And I *do* want him.
More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
But I can’t.
Not like this.
Not until Malrik is dead.
Not until Mira is avenged.
“I hate you,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.
“Then say it,” he breathes, lips brushing mine. “Say you want me.”
I turn my face away.
But I don’t let go.
And as the bond hums between us, alive and aching, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.