The forest outside Blackthorne Keep was never silent.
Not truly. Even in the dead of night, when the wind stilled and the moon hung low over the jagged peaks, the ancient trees whispered—branches creaking like old bones, roots shifting beneath the soil, shadows breathing in the undergrowth. But tonight, it felt different. Not alive. Not watchful.
Empty.
Like the world had exhaled and forgotten to inhale.
I stood at the edge of the clearing, the hem of Kaelen’s war cloak brushing the frost-laced grass, my boots silent on the stone path. The locket was still in my hand—cold, heavy, a weight I couldn’t put down. Cassia’s face stared up at me, smiling, serene, gone. And beneath her image, the silver chain, thin and old, bore the faintest trace of blood—mine, from where I’d gripped it too hard, my nails breaking skin.
I hadn’t meant to leave.
Not like that. Not with a slap and a scream and the taste of betrayal thick on my tongue. But the truth had hit like a blade—Kaelen had worn her locket. Every night. In secret. While I called him a murderer. While I plotted his death. While I burned his enemies to ash.
And he’d never shown it to me.
Why?
Because he thought I wouldn’t want to see it?
Or because he didn’t want me to know how much he’d loved her?
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the locket to my chest. The bond pulsed between us—Kaelen and me—faint now, distant, like a dying star. Not broken. Not severed. But strained. Like a thread pulled too tight, threatening to snap.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the trees.
Not from the wind.
From *inside*.
“He still dreams of me.”
Lirien.
Her voice, soft, seductive, slithering through my mind like smoke. I’d thought she was gone. Burned in the Council Chamber. Reduced to ash. But she wasn’t. Not fully. Her shadow had been destroyed, yes. But her words? Her lies? They’d taken root. And now they bloomed in the dark corners of my thoughts, twisting, feeding on doubt.
“He wears her locket. He carried her secret. He let you hate him. But did he ever love *you*?”
“Shut up,” I hissed, pressing my palms to my temples. “You’re not real.”
“But the doubt is,” she purred. “And it’s growing. Just like it did in his dreams. Just like it will when he takes her place in your bed.”
I staggered back.
“No.”
“He’ll bite you,” she whispered. “He’ll mark you. But he’ll still see *her* when he closes his eyes.”
“Stop it.”
“You’re not the first woman he’s claimed. You won’t be the last. And when the bond fades, when the fire dies, he’ll remember—”
“I said *stop*!”
I screamed, and fire erupted.
Not controlled. Not focused. But wild, desperate—a burst of golden-white flame that tore from my palms, slamming into the nearest tree. The bark blackened, split, burst into embers that scattered on the wind. The heat rolled over me, searing, cleansing. For a heartbeat, the voice was gone. The doubt silenced. The fear burned away.
And then—
It returned.
Not as a whisper.
As a memory.
Kaelen’s voice, raw, breaking: *“I would’ve died for her. I will for you.”*
Not *because* I was her sister.
But *for* me.
My breath came fast. My hands trembled. The fire died, leaving only smoke and ash. I sank to my knees, the locket still clutched in my fist, my chest aching, not from magic, but from something deeper.
Grief.
Not just for Cassia.
For *us*.
For the years I’d wasted. For the hatred I’d clung to. For the way I’d let vengeance blind me to the truth standing right in front of me.
And then—
I heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Silent on the stone.
I didn’t look up.
Didn’t need to.
I felt him before I saw him—the shift in the air, the warmth in the bond, the way the shadows deepened around me. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell him—dark earth, frost, bloodied roses—but not close enough to touch.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice low.
I glanced down.
The skin of my palm was split, a thin line of blood welling from where the locket’s edge had cut me. I hadn’t even felt it.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“It’s not nothing,” he said, stepping closer. “Nothing about this is nothing.”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground, at the scattered embers, at the scorched earth. My fire. My rage. My fear.
“You left,” he said.
“You noticed.”
“I felt it,” he said. “When you walked out. The bond—”
“Don’t,” I said, lifting my head. “Don’t talk to me about the bond. Not now. Not when you’ve been carrying *this*—” I held up the locket, “—like some sacred relic, while I called you a monster.”
He didn’t flinch. Just looked at me—really looked at me—with those red eyes that saw too much, that knew too much.
“I kept it because she asked me to,” he said. “Not as a reminder of love. But of duty. Of promise.”
“And you couldn’t show it to me?”
“Would you have wanted to see it?” he asked, voice quiet. “Would you have believed me if I’d said, *‘Here. This is your sister. I wear her face next to my heart every night’*? Or would you have seen it as proof I’d loved her? That I’d mourned her more than you?”
I opened my mouth.
And closed it.
Because he was right.
I *would* have seen it that way.
I *had* seen it that way.
And that—that was the real betrayal.
Not that he’d kept the locket.
But that I’d assumed the worst.
That I’d let my pain blind me to his.
“You think I didn’t grieve her?” he asked, voice breaking. “You think I didn’t carry her loss like a blade in my chest? She was my friend. My ally. The only one who saw me not as a warlord, but as a man. And when she died, I buried that part of me. I locked it away. Because if I let myself feel it—if I let myself *remember*—I would’ve broken. And then who would protect you?”
Tears spilled over.
Not fast. Not loud. Just a single, silent track down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.
“And the locket?” I whispered.
“A penance,” he said. “A reminder that I failed her. That I couldn’t save her. That I had to let you hate me to keep you alive. Every night, I wore it. Not to honor her. But to punish myself. For not being strong enough. For not being *enough*.”
My breath caught.
“You’re *enough*,” I said, voice breaking. “You’ve always been enough.”
He stilled.
Then—
He stepped forward, closing the distance between us. His hand found my waist, cool and steady, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above the hem of his shirt. The bond flared—hot, deep, a pulse between us, not of magic, but of *need*.
“Say it again,” he said, voice low.
“You’re enough,” I said. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the magic. But because you’re *you*. Because you carried her secret. Because you let me hate you. Because you stood in front of me and said, *‘I will die for you.’*”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me to him, his arms locking around my waist, his body pressing to mine, 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, I wanted him to take me.
I wanted him to bite. To mark. To claim me in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed world held.
But then—
He saw it.
In the reflection of the obsidian table—my face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Trust.
Not of the bond.
Not of fate.
Of *him*.
And that—
That was the line.
He pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. His hand still in my hair. His body still pressed to mine. His breath ragged.
“No,” he said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
I blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this,” he 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.”
My eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” he 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.”
I stared at him. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You’re a coward,” I 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,” he said, cutting me 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.”
I shoved him—hard. He let me. Stepped back, giving me space. My chest heaved. My eyes burned.
“You hate me,” I said.
“You don’t,” he said. “You hate that you want me.”
I didn’t answer. Just turned, snatching up the satchel, my movements sharp, furious.
And then—
I froze.
My breath stopped.
My eyes locked onto something at his neck.
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.
He’d worn it every night since she died. Hidden beneath his shirt. A secret. A penance. A promise.
And now it was exposed.
I reached out—slow, trembling—and snapped it open.
And there she was.
Cassia.
Smiling. Alive. Gone.
My breath came in short, desperate gasps. My fingers tightened around the locket. My eyes filled with tears—but not of grief.
Of rage.
“You kept this,” I 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.”
I stared at him. The bond flared—pain, heat, truth.
And then—
I slapped him.
Not hard. Not cruel. But sharp. A crack in the silence. His head snapped to the side. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Did you love her?” I asked, voice breaking. “Did you love her?”
“No,” he said, turning back to me. “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.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stared at the locket. At her face. At the promise he’d made.
And then—
I stood.
Not running. Not screaming. Just standing. Slow. Deliberate. My eyes dark, unreadable.
“I need air,” I said.
And I walked out of the war room.
He didn’t stop me.
He couldn’t.
Because for the first time in four hundred years—
He was afraid.
Afraid I might believe him.
Afraid I might not.
Afraid that if I did, he’d lose me anyway.
The keep was quiet.
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 him.
Not of us.
Not of the truth.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in blood and gold, I made a silent vow.
I would fight for him.
Not just with fangs and blood and fire.
But with every broken piece of my soul.
Because Kaelen wasn’t just my fated mate.
He was my redemption.
And I would not lose him.
Even if it killed me.
Even if he never loved me back.
Even if he never stopped hating me.
I would fight for him.
Because he was worth it.
And as I stood there, the courtyard silent, the ashes of Riven scattered by the wind, 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.