The journal burned in my hands like a live coal.
I sat on the edge of the bed in my chamber, the green silk of my gown clinging to my skin, my breath still unsteady from the Council meeting. Outside, the Obsidian Court hummed with whispers—vampires murmuring in the halls, their voices like dry leaves skittering across stone. They were talking about me. About the bond. About the *seven days*.
Seven days until the bond had to be consummated.
Seven days until I either gave myself to Kaelen Duskbane—or died.
And all I could think about was the journal. My mother’s words, written in her looping script, echoing in my skull: “He will protect her. I trust him with my daughter’s life.”
She had trusted him.
And I had spent sixteen years hating him.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to push back the storm of guilt, grief, and confusion. I had come here to destroy him. To expose him. To make him pay for what he’d done.
But he hadn’t done it.
Veylan had.
And Kaelen—cold, ruthless, terrifying Kaelen—had spent the last sixteen years *protecting* me.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
I didn’t know what to do with *him*.
And I sure as hell didn’t know what to do with the way my body had reacted when he leaned in and whispered, *“I’ll hunt you. Not as your husband. As your predator.”*
I shivered.
It wasn’t fear.
It was something darker. Hotter. A pulse between my thighs, a tightening in my chest, a whisper in my blood that said: *Yes. Hunt me.*
No.
I clenched my fists. I wouldn’t let the bond control me. I wouldn’t let *him* control me. I was Elara Shadowline. I was not some pawn in their political games. I was not a prize to be claimed or a body to be used.
I was a weapon.
And I still had a mission.
Just because Kaelen hadn’t killed my mother didn’t mean he was innocent. He had let me believe it. Let me hate him. Let me walk into this court blind, unprepared, vulnerable.
And now he expected me to trust him?
After everything?
Not a chance.
I stood, pacing the length of the room. My boots clicked against the stone, too loud in the silence. I needed answers. Real ones. Not journal entries. Not whispered confessions in dusty vaults.
I needed proof.
And I knew where to find it.
The Obsidian Archives weren’t just a repository of old books and bloodstained scrolls. They were a labyrinth of sealed chambers, each one locked by blood magic, each one holding secrets powerful enough to topple empires. The Shadowline vault had been empty—except for the journal. But there were other vaults. Other records.
And one in particular.
The Blood Pact Registry.
Veylan’s faction. The group that had framed Kaelen. The ones who had killed my mother for her power.
If I could get inside, I might find something—names, dates, ritual records—anything that could confirm what Kaelen had said. Anything that could help me dismantle Veylan’s power from within.
And if I could do that before the seven days were up… maybe I wouldn’t have to consummate the bond at all.
Maybe I could break it.
Or better yet—turn it into a weapon.
I moved to the wardrobe, fingers brushing the gowns Kaelen had provided. Silks, velvets, dresses designed to make me look like a consort, a trophy, a *wife*.
I didn’t want to look like his wife.
I wanted to look like a threat.
I pulled out a dark gray dress—simple, high-necked, no embellishments. The kind of thing a scholar or archivist would wear. I braided my hair back tightly, secured it with a silver clasp, then slipped the hidden blade from my travel dress into the inner seam of my sleeve.
Just in case.
I opened the door to the sitting room.
Kaelen wasn’t there.
The fire had burned low again, shadows stretching across the floor like grasping hands. A single note lay on the table, written in that sharp, angular script.
“Council reconvenes at dusk. Stay in the suite. —K”
I crumpled it and tossed it into the flames.
He thought he could order me around. Thought he could lock me in this gilded cage and expect me to obey.
He didn’t know me at all.
I left the suite, moving swiftly through the halls, my boots silent on the stone. The court was quieter now, most of the vampires in their chambers, conserving energy for the night’s activities. I kept to the shadows, avoiding the main corridors, sticking to the servant tunnels and side passages I’d memorized from the blueprints.
The Archives were on the lower level, beneath the main hall, accessible through a narrow stairwell guarded by two stone sentinels—ancient golems carved from obsidian, their eyes glowing faintly with dormant magic. I’d studied them. They responded to blood signatures, not sight. As long as I didn’t trigger the alarm, I could pass.
I reached the entrance, heart steady, breath controlled.
The left sentinel turned its head, a low hum vibrating in its chest.
I held out my hand, pricking my finger with the hidden blade, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the activation plate.
The sentinel’s eyes flared red.
Then dimmed.
The door clicked open.
I stepped inside.
The Archives stretched before me—endless rows of shelves carved into the rock, lit by floating orbs of cold blue light. Scrolls floated in glass cases, suspended in enchanted air. Tomes bound in leather and bone lined the walls, their spines etched with names of bloodlines long extinct.
And at the back—
The Blood Pact Registry.
A massive vault, twice the height of a man, its surface covered in shifting sigils that pulsed like a heartbeat. A keyhole shaped like a fang was set into the center. Blood-locked. Of course.
I approached, scanning the door for clues. No name. No inscription. Just the sigils, rotating slowly, like a living lock.
I pricked my finger again and pressed it to the keyhole.
Nothing.
The sigils didn’t change. The door didn’t open.
I tried again.
Same result.
Then a whisper, faint, like wind through stone.
“Only Shadowline may enter.”
My breath caught.
It had recognized me.
Just like the Shadowline vault.
But still, the door remained shut.
Why?
I stepped back, studying the sigils. They were shifting—rotating in a pattern, almost like a code. I pulled a small notebook from my pocket—blank pages, enchanted with a truth-ink spell. If I drew the sigils in order, the ink would glow if they were part of a key sequence.
I began to trace them.
One. Two. Three.
The ink flared.
Four. Five.
Nothing.
Six. Seven. Eight.
Flare.
It was a sequence. A blood-and-sigil cipher. Only a Shadowline could see it. Only a Shadowline could unlock it.
I pressed my bleeding finger to the keyhole again, tracing the correct sigils in order.
The vault groaned.
The sigils flared crimson.
And the door began to open.
Inside—darkness. Cold air. And rows of black ledger books, each one bound in human skin, labeled with names in silver script.
Veylan’s inner circle.
I stepped inside, heart pounding, and reached for the first book.
It was a record of blood pacts—names, dates, the nature of the bond. Donors. Lovers. *Enemies.*
I flipped through, scanning for my mother’s name.
There.
Isolde Shadowline. Status: Terminated. Blood harvested. Power transferred to Veylan Duskreaper.
My breath stopped.
Terminated.
Not killed. Not murdered.
Terminated.
Like she was a contract. A resource.
I turned the page.
A ritual diagram. Complex. Ancient. A spell to steal a bloodline’s magic through sacrifice—death by vampire bite, but only if the victim was a pureblood heir. The magic would transfer to the killer, amplifying their power tenfold.
That was why they’d framed Kaelen.
Because if he was seen as the killer, the Council would exile him, strip him of his title, and Veylan could step in as regent—claiming the power for himself.
And it had worked.
Until I came back.
I closed the book, hands trembling. This was it. Proof. Real, undeniable proof that Veylan had orchestrated everything.
But I needed more.
I reached for another ledger—this one labeled Surveillance & Infiltration.
Names. Locations. Spies.
And then—
Kaelen Duskbane. Status: Under observation. Known associates: Cassian Vale, High Priestess Nyx. Weakness: Emotional attachment to Elara Shadowline (presumed dead). Action: Exploit upon her return.
I froze.
They knew.
Veylan knew I was alive. Knew I was coming.
And he was waiting for me.
I snapped the book shut, stuffing it into the inner pocket of my dress. I had to get out. Now.
But as I turned, a flicker of movement caught my eye.
On the far wall—a mirror.
Not a normal mirror. A scrying glass. Used for surveillance. And in its surface, I saw not my reflection—but a woman.
Beautiful. Cold. Dressed in emerald silk.
Seraphine.
She stood in what looked like a private chamber, her back to the glass, speaking to someone off-screen.
“—and the bond is unstable,” she was saying, voice low, smug. “She doesn’t trust him. Doesn’t want him. If we push hard enough, she’ll run. And when she does…” She smiled. “The bond will destroy her.”
My blood turned to ice.
She was working with Veylan.
Of course she was.
She wasn’t just a jealous ex-lover. She was a pawn. A weapon.
And she was going to use my fear against me.
I stepped back, heart hammering.
I had to get out. Had to warn Kaelen.
But as I turned to leave, the vault door began to close.
No.
I lunged, but the sigils had already reset. The lock was sealed.
I was trapped.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Coming down the aisle.
I pressed myself against the back wall, pulling the blade from my sleeve, my breath shallow.
The footsteps stopped.
“Elara.”
That voice.
Low. Commanding. Like ice dragged over stone.
Kaelen.
“I know you’re in there,” he said. “The vault recognized your blood. But it won’t open for you again unless I’m with you. It’s keyed to both of us now. A failsafe.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he continued. “You were told to stay in the suite.”
“And you were told not to follow me,” I shot back.
A pause.
Then a soft laugh. “You’re testing me.”
“You’re stalking me.”
“Protecting you.”
“Same thing, in your world.”
Another pause. Then the sound of a hand pressing against the door.
“Let me in,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because Veylan’s people are watching. Because Seraphine just left a message for him—told him you were here, alone, searching the archives. Because if you don’t come out now, they’ll send someone to *drag* you out.”
My breath caught.
He knew.
“How?”
“I have my own spies,” he said. “Now let me in. Or I’ll burn this vault to the ground to get to you.”
I hesitated.
Then pressed my hand to the keyhole.
The door clicked open.
He stepped inside, tall, dark, his golden eyes blazing in the dim light. He scanned the room, saw the open ledger, the scrying glass.
“You found it,” he said quietly.
“I found *you*,” I said. “You knew this would happen. You knew they’d come after me.”
“I suspected.”
“And you let me walk into it anyway.”
“I let you *learn*,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t trust me. You won’t believe me unless you see the truth for yourself. So I let you search. Let you find. Let you *understand*.”
I stared at him. “That’s not protection. That’s manipulation.”
“It’s both,” he said. “And right now, it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
He reached for my hand.
I pulled back. “Don’t.”
But he caught my wrist, gentle but firm. “The bond is flaring. I can feel it. You’re scared. Angry. Your blood is singing. And if we don’t stabilize it soon…”
“I’ll die,” I finished.
“Or worse,” he said. “You’ll break. And I won’t let that happen.”
His thumb brushed my pulse point.
Heat flared between us—sharp, electric, *unwanted*.
I gasped.
He didn’t let go.
“You want to hate me,” he murmured. “But your body knows the truth. You’re mine, Elara. Whether you admit it or not.”
“I am *not* yours,” I snapped, yanking my hand free.
But my voice wavered.
And my skin still burned where he’d touched me.
He stepped back, watching me. “You have the ledger. You know the truth. Now you have a choice.”
“What choice?”
“You can keep fighting me. Keep running. And I’ll keep chasing you. Or…” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can stop pretending. Stop resisting. And let me protect you the way I was meant to.”
“By sleeping with you?” I asked, bitter. “Is that your solution to everything?”
“No,” he said. “By *trusting* me. But if that’s too much to ask, then yes—by letting me into your bed. Because that’s the only way the bond stabilizes. The only way you survive.”
I turned away, pressing my hands to the cold stone wall. “I don’t want to survive like this.”
“Then what do you want?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
I wanted vengeance. I wanted justice. I wanted my mother back.
But more than that—
I wanted to stop feeling this.
This pull. This heat. This *need*.
And I didn’t know how.
He didn’t push. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, a silent, dark presence at my back.
Finally, I turned. “I’ll make you a deal.”
His eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“I won’t run. I won’t fight the bond. But I won’t consummate it—not yet. Not until I’m sure. Not until I know you’re telling the truth about *everything*.”
He studied me. “And if the Council demands it?”
“Then you tell them the bond is progressing. That we’re… preparing.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “Preparing, hm?”
“Don’t make it sound filthy,” I snapped.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “It could be slow. Gentle. *Pleasurable.*”
My breath hitched.
“I don’t want pleasure from you,” I lied.
“No?” He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my jaw. “Then why is your pulse racing? Why is your skin warm? Why does your body—” His gaze dropped to my lips. “—tremble when I’m near?”
I stepped back. “Get out.”
He didn’t move. “Seven days, Elara. That’s all you have. And I promise you—by the end of it, you’ll be begging me to take you.”
“Never.”
He smiled. “We’ll see.”
Then he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the vault, my heart pounding, my body aching, my mind screaming one thing—
He’s right.