The air beneath Edinburgh tasted like iron and old wine.
I stood at the edge of the ancestral hall, my boots silent on the black marble, my breath steady. The Obsidian Court stretched before me—vaulted ceilings carved from volcanic rock, veins of glowing obsidian pulsing like slow heartbeats in the walls. Chandeliers of fused bone hung above, casting long shadows that slithered across the floor. Around me, vampires in tailored suits and blood-dipped silks murmured in low, melodic tones. They didn’t know who I was. Not yet.
They thought I was Lady Elara Vayne, a minor noble from the Highlands, here to observe the memorial for the fallen lords. A neutral party. Harmless.
They were wrong.
My real name was Elara Shadowline. Last heir of the Shadowline bloodline. Daughter of Isolde Shadowline, the woman Kaelen Duskbane had murdered sixteen years ago.
And I had come home to burn this court to the ground.
I adjusted the lace cuff of my sleeve, fingers brushing the hidden blade sewn into the fabric. My pulse was calm. My face, smooth. I’d spent years preparing for this—learning vampire law, mastering blood magic, honing my body into a weapon. I knew the risks. One misstep, and I’d be dead before I could scream.
But I didn’t plan to scream.
I planned to kill.
The memorial began with the lighting of the Blood Candles—twelve flames drawn from the vitae of each fallen lord. The High Priestess, a gaunt woman with eyes like cracked porcelain, raised her arms. “We gather in shadow, in silence, in remembrance. Let the blood speak. Let the dead bear witness.”
A hush fell.
Then the ancestral stone was unveiled—a massive slab of black crystal at the center of the hall, etched with the names of every noble bloodline. It pulsed faintly, resonating with the magic of the court. This was the heart of the Obsidian Covenant. The source of their power. The place where oaths were sealed and fates rewritten.
And the place where my mother had died.
I stepped forward with the others, lining up to place a drop of blood on the stone—a ritual of respect, they called it. A symbolic gesture. I’d read about it in the archives. Never once did it mention what happened if a Shadowline bled upon it.
My turn came.
I pricked my finger with the ceremonial dagger—cold silver, not silver-coated, thank the gods—and let a single bead of blood fall.
It struck the stone.
And the world exploded.
The crystal flared crimson, veins of light racing outward like cracks in glass. A deep, resonant hum filled the chamber, vibrating in my teeth, my bones, my blood. The candles snuffed out. The air turned thick, electric. I stumbled back, heart hammering—but the stone wasn’t done.
It rose.
The entire slab lifted from the floor, hovering, rotating until my name—Elara Shadowline—glowed at its peak. The language was ancient, pre-Covenant, written in a dialect only purebloods should understand. But I knew it. Mother had taught me. And now, the stone was screaming it into the air.
“Fanged Contract activated. Blood recognized. Bond sealed.”
Gasps tore through the hall. Vampires recoiled, some hissing, others falling to their knees. The High Priestess dropped her staff, eyes wide with horror.
“It can’t be,” she whispered. “The Shadowline line is extinct.”
“Not extinct,” a voice cut through the chaos. Cold. Commanding. Like ice dragged over stone.
I knew that voice.
I’d dreamed of it. Hated it. Wanted to silence it with my bare hands.
Kaelen Duskbane stepped from the shadows.
He was taller than I remembered. Broader. Dressed in black velvet and silver chainmail, his dark hair pulled back, his face all sharp angles and lethal grace. His eyes—once black in my memory—were now a molten gold, glowing with restrained power. He moved like a predator, silent, deliberate, every step echoing in the sudden silence.
And he was staring at me.
Not with recognition. Not with guilt.
With hunger.
He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could smell him—cedar and frost and something darker, something ancient. My body reacted before my mind could stop it. A shiver crawled up my spine. My breath hitched. My core tightened.
No.
I clenched my fists. This was not fear. This was not desire. This was the bond. The cursed, blood-soaked magic of the Fanged Contract twisting my instincts, my will.
“You are Elara Shadowline,” he said, voice low. “Heir of the Bloodline. Wife by right of the Contract.”
“I am no one’s wife,” I spat.
He didn’t blink. “The stone does not lie. The bond is sealed. You are mine.”
Laughter burst from the crowd—nervous, disbelieving. Someone shouted, “This is a trick!” Another called, “She’s not pureblood—she can’t be!”
Kaelen turned, golden eyes sweeping the room. “Silence.”
The word wasn’t loud. But it carried weight. Power. Every vampire in the hall stilled.
“The Fanged Contract is older than the Council,” he said. “Older than the Obsidian Court. It is not broken by doubt. It is not undone by lies. It is sealed in blood and witnessed by fate.”
He turned back to me. “You will stand beside me. As my wife. For one year. Or until one of us kills the other.”
The words hit like a blade to the gut.
One year. I had planned to be gone in a week. To uncover the truth, expose Kaelen, and vanish into the night.
Now I was bound to him. By law. By magic. By blood.
I could feel it—the bond—like a thread wrapped around my heart, pulsing in time with his. Warm. Insistent. Alive.
And it terrified me.
“I refuse,” I said, lifting my chin. “I am not a vampire. I am witch-blooded. This bond has no power over me.”
Kaelen stepped closer. So close I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the pulse beating in his throat. “You are more than witch-blood,” he murmured. “You are Shadowline. And the stone knows your truth.”
His hand lifted, slow, deliberate. I tensed, ready to strike—but he didn’t touch my face. He caught my wrist, turned it over, bared the still-bleeding prick from the dagger.
“The bond must be sealed,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “By blood. By bite.”
Before I could pull away, he brought my wrist to his mouth.
His fangs—long, sharp, deadly—sank into my skin.
I gasped.
Not from pain.
From pleasure.
Fire shot through my veins, white-hot and wild. My knees buckled. My breath came in short, desperate pulls. Every nerve in my body screamed, alive, awake. His mouth was warm, his tongue flicking over the wound, sealing it with a drop of his own blood.
And then—
A vision.
Not mine.
A child running through a garden. Laughter. A woman’s voice—“Elara, come in!”
Then darkness. A figure kneeling. Blood on the stones. A man’s voice, broken—“I couldn’t save her.”
I wrenched my arm back, stumbling away, heart pounding.
What the hell was that?
Kaelen’s lips were stained with my blood. His eyes burned gold. “The bond is sealed,” he said. “You are mine.”
The High Priestess stepped forward, trembling. “By the laws of the Obsidian Covenant, the Fanged Contract is recognized. Lady Elara Shadowline is hereby declared consort to Lord Kaelen Duskbane. May the court bear witness.”
No one cheered. No one clapped. The vampires stared, some in awe, others in fury. I caught the eye of a woman in emerald silk—beautiful, cold, a silver ring on her finger that looked far too familiar. She smiled at me. A predator’s smile.
But I didn’t care about her.
I cared about the man standing before me. The man I had sworn to destroy.
And now, I was bound to him.
His gaze held mine. “You will come with me,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
I lifted my chin. “I’d rather die.”
“Then you’ll burn with me,” he said, and offered his arm.
I didn’t take it.
But I followed.
Through the halls of the court, past whispering vampires and flickering torchlight, I walked behind him like a prisoner. My mind raced. The bond—what did it mean? Could it be broken? Was the vision real? Had Kaelen truly tried to save my mother?
No.
I couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust him. This was a trick. A manipulation. The Fanged Contract was designed to bind political rivals, to prevent war between bloodlines. He didn’t want me. He needed me.
And I would use that.
We reached his private chambers—massive, opulent, all dark wood and silver tapestries. A fire burned low in the hearth. The air smelled of him—cedar, frost, power.
He turned to me, closing the door with a soft click.
“You’re safe here,” he said.
“I’m not safe anywhere near you,” I snapped.
He didn’t flinch. “You think I killed your mother.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I know you did,” I said. “I saw you. Kneeling in her blood.”
His expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Grief?
“I was trying to save her,” he said quietly. “But I was too late.”
I laughed—bitter, sharp. “Save her? You drained her dry.”
“No.” His voice was steel. “Veylan did. He framed me. And now, he’s using you to destroy what’s left of this court.”
My breath caught.
Veylan. Elder of the Blood Pact. A name whispered in fear.
But I didn’t believe it. Not yet.
“Prove it,” I said.
He stepped closer. “I will. But first, you need to survive the week. The Council will demand we consummate the bond within seven days. If we don’t, they’ll exile you. Or worse.”
My stomach twisted.
Consummate.
The word hung between us, thick with implication.
I looked up at him—this man who had haunted my nightmares, who now stood before me, claiming to be my husband, my protector.
And I made a vow.
You are mine now, he had whispered.
And in my mind, I answered:
And I will kill you.