The forest beyond Blackthorne’s eastern ridge was silent—too silent. Not peaceful. Not still. But the kind of quiet that comes before violence, when the wind dies and the animals flee and the air itself seems to hold its breath. I moved through the undergrowth with care, boots silent on the damp earth, my hand resting on the hilt of Cassia’s dagger at my hip. The sky was overcast, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, the only light coming from the distant torches of the keep, flickering like dying stars.
I shouldn’t have left.
Not after everything. Not after I’d burned Riven to ash in front of the entire court. Not after I’d whispered, *“I love you,”* into Kaelen’s blood-streaked face. Not after he’d pulled me close like I belonged there, like I was his.
But I had.
Because the truth Maeve had given me—Malrik was my father, Cassia had been pregnant, Kaelen had carried that secret like a blade—was still burning through me. And I needed to *do* something. Needed to move. To fight. To prove—to myself, to him, to the world—that I wasn’t just a woman who’d fallen in love with her enemy.
I was a storm.
And storms don’t wait.
I’d slipped past the outer guards, avoiding the main path, cutting through the bloodvine thickets where the scent of iron and old magic was strongest. My magic hummed beneath my skin, restless, hungry. The bond with Kaelen pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a low, insistent thrum that had grown stronger since I’d returned. It wasn’t just magic anymore. It was memory. The way he’d held back in the courtyard, even as I offered myself. The way he’d said, *“Not like this. Not when you don’t know if you want me—or if you just want to destroy me.”*
He thought I was still torn.
He was wrong.
I wasn’t torn.
I was *awake*.
And I was done hiding.
I crested a low rise and paused, scanning the tree line. Nothing. No movement. No scent. No sound. But the back of my neck prickled—the hunter’s instinct, the witch’s sixth sense. Someone was watching.
I crouched, slipping into the shadows of a fallen oak, my breath slow, steady. My fingers brushed the sigil on my wrist—a ward Maeve had etched into my skin before I left. It tingled faintly, a warning.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the trees.
From the bond.
“Athena.”
Kaelen’s voice—raw, urgent, laced with pain.
My breath caught.
“Don’t move.”
I froze.
Not because he told me to.
Because I *felt* it.
The shift in the bond. The sudden spike of agony. The way it *ripped* through me, like a blade between my ribs.
He was hurt.
And he was close.
I didn’t hesitate.
I ran.
Blind. Feral. My boots pounding the earth, my heart hammering, my magic surging through my veins like wildfire. The forest blurred around me—twisted roots, thorned vines, the scent of damp earth and old blood. I didn’t care. Didn’t think. Just *moved*, following the bond like a tether, pulling me toward him.
And then—
I saw it.
Smoke.
Thin, black, rising from the hollow where we’d shared our first true kiss. My chest tightened. I pushed harder, bursting through the undergrowth, my breath ragged, my vision narrowing to a single point—
And there he was.
Kaelen.
On his knees.
A dagger buried in his side.
And standing over him—Malrik.
My father.
He wore black velvet, his silver hair braided down his back, his fangs retracted, his red eyes burning with cold amusement. He held a second dagger, its blade dripping with black blood. The fire in the hollow had been extinguished, the stones cracked, the air thick with the scent of ozone and betrayal.
“You’re too late, little storm,” Malrik said, not turning. “The warlord falls. The bond breaks. And you?” He smiled, slow, cruel. “You’ll be mine.”
My breath came fast. My hands clenched. The fire in my chest roared—not magic. Not bond.
*Rage*.
“You don’t get to touch him,” I said, voice low, dangerous.
He turned then, his eyes locking onto mine. And for the first time, I saw it—the flicker of recognition. Not of affection. Not of pride.
Of *fear*.
“You’re stronger than I thought,” he said. “But you’re still just a child. Playing with fire. Playing with *him*.”
“I’m not playing,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m ending this.”
He laughed—low, throaty. “You think you can kill me? Your own father?”
“You’re not my father,” I said. “You’re a monster. A liar. A killer. And I’ll burn you to ash before I let you take him.”
“Then try.”
He moved—fast, brutal, a blur of shadow and steel. But I was faster.
I dropped, rolling beneath his strike, coming up with Cassia’s dagger in hand. My magic erupted—not a spark. Not a flicker. A *wave*. A roaring, golden-white inferno that tore through the air, slamming into Malrik like a battering ram. He screamed—high, guttural—as the flames consumed him, his skin blackening, his clothes burning, his body collapsing into ash before he even hit the ground.
The hollow was silent.
No wind. No birds. No breath.
Just stillness.
And then—
Kaelen groaned.
I turned.
He was still on his knees, one hand pressed to the dagger in his side, his coat torn, his face pale. Blood—thick, black—seeped through his fingers, pooling on the cracked stone. His red eyes were half-lidded, his breath shallow.
“Athena,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Shut up,” I said, dropping beside him. My hands were already moving, pressing against the wound, trying to slow the bleed. “You’re not dying. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Malrik—”
“Is ash,” I said. “I burned him. He’s gone.”
He didn’t answer. Just winced as I shifted my grip, my fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger. It was deep—through muscle, maybe bone. And it was poisoned. I could smell it—the faint, cloying sweetness of fae essence, mixed with something darker, something *cursed*.
“You need to pull it out,” he said, voice strained. “The blade is laced with shadow venom. It’ll spread if you don’t—”
“Then it’ll spread,” I said. “Because I’m not leaving you here to bleed out.”
“Athena—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. “You don’t get to die for me. Not after everything. Not after you carried that secret. Not after you let me hate you. Not after you said, *‘I’ll never stop loving you.’*” My voice broke on the last word. “You don’t get to leave me.”
He stilled.
Then—
He reached up, his hand finding my face, his thumb brushing the tear that had slipped down my cheek. His touch was cool, steady. His magic hummed beneath his skin, faint but present—a second pulse, intertwined with the bond.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice raw. “But you have to pull the blade. Or I will.”
I didn’t want to.
Didn’t want to cause him more pain.
But I knew he was right.
So I did it.
One breath.
Two.
And then—
I yanked.
The dagger came free with a sickening *rip*, black blood gushing from the wound. Kaelen gasped, his body arching, his fangs baring. I dropped the blade, pressing both hands to the gash, trying to stem the flow. But it was too much. Too fast.
“Magic,” he said, voice ragged. “You have to heal me. With your fire.”
“I don’t know how,” I said, voice breaking. “I’ve never—”
“You *do*,” he said. “You just have to *feel* it. Not as fire. Not as magic. As *love*.”
I stilled.
Looked at him.
His red eyes burned into mine, not with hunger. Not with possession.
With *trust*.
And then—
I did something I’d never done before.
I stopped fighting.
I closed my eyes.
And I *felt*.
Not the rage. Not the vengeance. Not the fire.
But the bond.
The way it pulsed between us, not as magic, but as *need*. The way his breath had hitched when I’d kissed him in the garden. The way his hand had tightened on mine when I’d said, *“I love you.”* The way he’d held back, even as I offered myself, because he wanted *me*—not the bond, not the fever, not the magic.
And then—
I pressed my hands to his wound.
And I *burned*.
Not with fire.
With *light*.
Golden. Warm. Alive.
It poured from my palms, seeping into his skin, knitting muscle, sealing flesh, purging the poison. I could feel it—the way his body responded, the way his breath deepened, the way his heart—slow, ancient, alive—pulsed beneath my touch.
And then—
He reached up.
Not to stop me.
Not to pull away.
To take my hand.
His fingers were cool, steady. His touch sent a jolt through me—not desire. Not fear. *Recognition.*
“You’re magnificent,” he said, voice low. “You know that, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
Just kept healing.
Until the wound was closed.
Until the blood was gone.
Until he was whole.
And then—
I collapsed.
Not from exhaustion.
From *relief*.
He caught me—fast, strong, pulling me into his lap, his arms locking around me, his face buried in my hair. I didn’t fight. Just leaned into him, my breath mingling with his, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice rough. “I could’ve healed on my own.”
“You were dying,” I said. “And I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for his face, my fingers brushing the scar above his brow. His breath caught. His eyes closed. The bond flared—hot, deep, a pulse between us, not of magic, but of *need*.
“Because I love you,” I whispered. “And I won’t lose you. Not to him. Not to Malrik. Not to *anyone*.”
His eyes snapped open.
And then—
He pulled me closer.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With *possession*.
His arm locked around my waist, yanking me against him, until there was no space between us. My breath caught. My hands fisted in his coat. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
“You don’t have to fight for me,” he said, voice low, rough. “I can protect you.”
“I know,” I said. “But I don’t want protection. I want *partnership*. I want to fight *with* you. Not behind you. Not beside you. *With* you.”
He stilled.
Then—
He smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer.
A *smile*.
Slow. Real. Devouring.
“Then fight with me,” he said. “Burn with me. Rule with me. *Live* with me.”
“Yes,” I said. “But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“No more secrets,” I said. “No more lies. No more carrying the weight alone. You tell me everything. Even the things that hurt. Even the things that scare you. Even the things you think will make me hate you.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I said. “But only if you do the same.”
“Always,” she said.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not fire. Not teeth. Not desperation.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
His lips sealed over mine, not claiming, not conquering, but *answering*. And I answered back. My hands fisted in his coat, pulling him closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
But this time—this time it wasn’t the fever. Not the bond. Not the magic.
It was *me*.
I broke the kiss, just enough to breathe, to look at him, to see the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes.
“No fangs,” I whispered.
He smiled—just slightly, just enough. “No blood. No magic. Just… this.”
And then he kissed me again.
Not slow this time. Not careful.
Fire.
Teeth and tongue and desperation. He groaned, his arms locking around me, pulling me closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
His hands slid down my back, under the curve of my ass, lifting me slightly, pressing me against the hard length of him. I gasped, my hips grinding down, seeking friction. He growled, his mouth trailing down my jaw, to the pulse point at my throat. I arched, offering myself.
“Kaelen—”
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his fangs grazing my skin. “Or I won’t.”
I didn’t answer.
I arched my neck, offering myself.
And gods help me, he wanted to take her.
He wanted to bite. To mark. To claim her in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed forest held.
But then—
He saw it.
In the reflection of a shard of broken glass caught in the moss—her face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Trust.
Not of the bond.
Not of fate.
Of *me*.
And that—
That was the line.
I pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. My hand still in her hair. My body still pressed to hers. My breath ragged.
“No,” I said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this,” I said. “Not with the bond screaming in your blood. Not with your mind torn between vengeance and desire. Not when you don’t know if you want me—or if you just want to destroy me.”
Her eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I take you now, it won’t be you choosing me. It’ll be the magic. And I want you. Not a spell. Not a bond. You.”
She stared at me. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You’re a coward,” she spat. “You don’t get to touch me and then walk away like some noble martyr. You don’t get to—”
“I don’t want to walk away,” I said, cutting her off. “I want to stay. I want to fight for you. I want to earn you. But not like this. Not when the bond is forcing us.”
She shoved me—hard. I let her. Stepped back, giving her space. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned.
“You hate me,” she said.
“You don’t,” I said. “You hate that you want me.”
She didn’t answer. Just turned, snatching up the satchel, her movements sharp, furious.
And then—
She froze.
Her breath stopped.
Her eyes locked onto something at my neck.
I followed her gaze.
The locket.
I’d forgotten it. In the heat, the hunger, the need—I’d forgotten it was there. The silver chain, thin and old, the locket itself small, antique. Cassia’s face inside. Her dark hair, high cheekbones, haunting smile.
I’d worn it every night since she died. Hidden beneath my shirt. A secret. A penance. A promise.
And now it was exposed.
She reached out—slow, trembling—and snapped it open.
And there she was.
Cassia.
Smiling. Alive. Gone.
Athena’s breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her fingers tightened around the locket. Her eyes filled with tears—but not of grief.
Of rage.
“You kept this,” she whispered. “All this time. You kept her close.”
“Because she asked me to.”
“And you never showed it to me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”
“You didn’t think you’d want to see my sister’s face?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it around my neck.”
She stared at me. The bond flared—pain, heat, truth.
And then—
She slapped me.
Not hard. Not cruel. But sharp. A crack in the silence. My head snapped to the side. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Did you love her?” she asked, voice breaking. “Did you love her?”
“No,” I said, turning back to her. “I protected her. I promised her I’d keep you safe. And I will. Even if you hate me. Even if you never believe me. Even if you never stop fighting me.”
She didn’t answer.
She just stared at the locket. At her sister’s face. At the promise I’d made.
And then—
She stood.
Not running. Not screaming. Just standing. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes dark, unreadable.
“I need air,” she said.
And she walked out of the hollow.
I didn’t stop her.
I couldn’t.
Because for the first time in four hundred years—
I was afraid.
Afraid she might believe me.
Afraid she might not.
Afraid that if she did, I’d lose her anyway.
The forest was silent.
The fire between us?
It wasn’t just beginning.
It was consuming us.
And I didn’t know if we’d survive it.
But this time—
I wouldn’t let go.
Not of her.
Not of us.
Not of the truth.
And as the sun rose over Blackthorne Keep, painting the sky in gold and crimson, I made a silent vow.
I would fight for her.
Not just with fangs and blood and fire.
But with every broken piece of my soul.
Because Athena wasn’t just my fated mate.
She was my redemption.
And I would not lose her.
Even if it killed me.
Even if she never loved me back.
Even if she never stopped hating me.
I would fight for her.
Because she was worth it.
And as I stood there, the garden quiet, the roses glistening, the bond humming beneath my skin, I realized—
For the first time in four hundred years—
I wasn’t afraid of love.
I was afraid of losing it.
And that—
That was the difference.
Fanged Contract: Athena’s Vow
The first time Athena sees Kaelen Duskbane, he’s standing over a blood-smeared altar, his fangs bared in a ritual she wasn’t meant to witness. She hides in the shadows of Blackthorne Keep, heart pounding, not just from fear—but from the *pull*, the raw, electric snap of a fated bond that shouldn’t exist. She came to **burn him**, not *bond* with him.
But the ancient magic doesn’t care about revenge. It *claims*.
Now, to stop a war between vampire houses and fae courts, the Supernatural Council forces them into a **one-year political marriage**—a fanged contract sealed with blood and a public kiss that leaves her trembling, her body betraying her with heat and need. Kaelen, cold and merciless, sees her as a pawn. But the way his fingers linger on her wrist, the way his gaze burns when she wears red silk, tells a different story.
Athena is no fool. She knows the game. She’ll play the devoted wife while she digs for proof of his guilt. But every touch, every shared breath, every night spent in the same bed without crossing the line—erodes her resolve. And when the seductive vampire mistress **Lirien** appears, flaunting Kaelen’s bite mark and whispering that he once begged her to stay, Athena’s jealousy ignites like wildfire.
By Chapter 9, a mission gone wrong strands them in a cursed forest, where bond fever forces them to the edge of surrender—until Athena sees a locket with her sister’s face around his neck. **Is he the killer… or was he protecting her?**
The truth will destroy everything. And desire may be the only thing that can save them.