The Obsidian Spire rose like a blade from the heart of Seattle, its jagged black towers piercing the storm-washed sky. Inside, the Council chamber hummed with tension, thick as old blood and older lies. Thirteen thrones encircled the dais—Fae carved from living ice, vampires on bone thrones veined with crimson gemstone, werewolves on pelts of silver-fanged beasts, witches on root-carved stools, and the Human Liaison perched awkwardly on a chair too small for him.
All eyes were on us.
On her.
River stood just behind my shoulder, spine straight, hands clasped at her back. She looked like a warrior dressed for war—dark trousers, high-collared tunic, boots laced tight. No gown. No finery. No submission. Her hair was braided back, severe, practical. But I could feel her. Every inch of her. The heat of her body. The quiet tremor in her breath. The bond between us pulsed, low and insistent, like a second heartbeat.
She was afraid.
Not of the Council. Not of the thrones or the power or the ancient magic humming in the air.
She was afraid of me.
And that? That was new.
Since the Blood Moon, since I’d carried her through the halls, denied my nature, refused to take what I’d been craving since the moment she’d touched me—she’d looked at me differently. Not with hate. Not with fury. But with something deeper. Something dangerous.
Confusion.
Doubt.
And beneath it—need.
She didn’t want to want me.
But she did.
And I could smell it on her—sharp, sweet, undeniable. Her scent had changed. Less wolf. Less witch. More mine.
“You’re tense,” I murmured, so low only she could hear.
“I’m not,” she lied.
The Silence Sigil on her hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. I didn’t turn. Didn’t smile. But I felt the shift in her—tremor, breath hitching, pulse jumping. She pressed a hand to the mark, jaw clenched.
“Liar,” I said, voice like velvet over stone. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent is spiking. And your body is leaning toward me.”
It wasn’t. She *wasn’t*.
But when she tried to step back, the bond tugged, sharp and sudden, like a leash snapping tight. A jolt of heat shot through her—low, deep, *intimate*—and she stumbled forward half a step before catching herself.
Laughter rippled through the Fae seats.
Her face burned. Humiliation coiled in her gut. I could feel it. Taste it. *Want* it.
But I didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
“The Council convenes,” boomed the High Elder, a vampire with skin like cracked marble and eyes like frozen blood. “To address the breach of the Duskbane Oath, the attempted assassination of House Duskbane, and the emergence of a fated bond between the accused and the sovereign.”
Accused.
Not guest. Not ally. *Accused.*
“I didn’t come to assassinate,” River said, lifting her chin. “I came to stop a crime.”
“The Oath is not a crime,” snapped the Fae Queen, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “It is balance. It is order.”
“It’s slavery,” River shot back. “My bloodline has served for a century under a curse forged in my mother’s blood. That’s not order. That’s tyranny.”
“And you,” said the Werewolf Alpha of the Ashen Pack, a grizzled man with one eye and a scar across his throat, “you broke ritual law by attacking during the Renewal. You are lucky you’re not in chains.”
“She’s lucky she’s *alive*,” hissed Lord Virell, an Elder vampire with serpentine grace and venom in his voice. “Kaelen, you should have executed her on sight.”
I didn’t react. Just stood, still as stone, hands clasped behind my back. But I felt the shift in River—cold, controlled fury. She wanted to fight. To strike. To draw blood.
And I wanted to let her.
But not here.
Not now.
“She is mine,” I said, voice quiet, final. “And I decide her fate.”
“By right of bond,” said the High Elder. “But bonds do not excuse treason.”
“No,” River said. “But they explain why I’m still breathing.”
More laughter. More glares.
Then the Elder raised a hand. Silence fell.
“The bond is undeniable,” he said. “We have felt it. We have seen it. And it presents a problem.”
My stomach dropped.
“If left unchecked,” he continued, “the bond-fever will set in. Twenty-four hours apart, and both will suffer. Forty-eight, and madness. Seventy-two, and death. You are fated, yes. But you are also enemies. And if you tear each other apart, the Blood Courts and the Fae Quarter will burn in the fallout.”
He turned his gaze on us. “Therefore, the Council decrees a Touch Pact.”
I blinked. “A what?”
“Daily skin-to-skin contact,” said the Elder. “One touch, lasting no less than ten seconds. Failure to comply will result in pain—increasing with each missed day. Three failures, and the bond will be forcibly severed. And you know what that does to fated mates.”
I did.
Severing a bond wasn’t clean. It was like tearing out a limb while still alive. It left you hollow. Broken. Mad.
And if the stories were true, it could kill.
“You’re forcing us to *touch*?” River said, voice tight. “Every day?”
“To maintain stability,” said the Elder. “To prevent war.”
“This is absurd,” she snapped. “I won’t—”
“You will,” I interrupted, finally turning my head to look at her. My eyes were crimson fire, my voice low, dangerous. “Or would you rather I take you in chains?”
Her breath caught.
The sigil on her hip flared—not from lying, but from the surge of heat that rushed through her at the threat. At the *promise* in my voice. Her core clenched. Her skin prickled.
I saw it. Of course I did.
A slow, knowing smile curled my lips. “You’ll comply, River. Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The Council voted.
Unanimous.
The Touch Pact was law.
They dismissed us with a wave.
I didn’t wait. I turned and walked, long strides eating the marble floor. She followed, boots clicking behind me, her mind racing. This changed everything. The bond was already a weapon. Now it was a leash. A daily ritual of forced intimacy, designed to break her slowly, to make her *need* me.
And I was going to enjoy every second of it.
We didn’t speak as we walked through the twisting halls of the Spire. Black stone, lit by floating orbs of crimson light. Guards bowed as we passed. Servants stepped aside. No one met her eyes.
When we reached the private elevator—a cage of black iron that descended into the earth—I stepped inside and turned to her.
“Get in.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
She hesitated. The bond pulsed, warm and insistent. Her skin still hummed from the Council’s scrutiny, from the threat of the Touch Pact. She didn’t want to be alone with me. Didn’t want to feel that heat, that pull, with no one watching.
But she stepped in.
The door closed. The cage dropped.
And then we were alone.
I didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the descending numbers above the door.
But I could feel her. Every inch of her. The heat of her body. The rhythm of her breath. The quiet power that radiated from her like a storm held in check.
And the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder here, in the silence. Thrumming, pulsing, *pulling*.
“You’re staring,” I said, not looking at her.
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
The sigil burned. She hissed, pressing a hand to her hip.
I turned then, slow, deliberate. Stepped closer. Too close. My chest nearly brushed hers. She could smell me—dark amber, iron, something wild and ancient. Her pulse jumped. Her breath hitched.
“You don’t like being told what to do,” I said.
“No.”
“You don’t like being touched.”
“Not by you.”
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “But you will be. Every day. My hand on your skin. Your pulse under my fingers. Your breath in my ear.”
Her stomach clenched. Heat flared between her thighs.
“You’re trying to scare me,” she said, voice shaking.
“No,” I said. “I’m promising you.”
The elevator stopped. The door opened.
We were back in Blackthorn Keep. The west wing. Her room.
I stepped out, then turned, holding the door. “After you.”
She didn’t move.
“River.”
“What?”
“The Pact starts now.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Ten seconds,” I said, stepping toward her. “Skin to skin. Or would you rather wait until tomorrow and feel the pain?”
She glared at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
She stepped out of the elevator, turned to face me. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
I held out my hand, palm up. “Touch me.”
She hesitated.
Then, slowly, she reached out.
Her fingers brushed my skin.
And the world *exploded*.
Heat. Light. A surge of energy so intense it stole her breath. Her knees buckled. She grabbed my arm to steady herself, and the contact only made it worse—better?—a wave of sensation crashing through her, from her fingertips up her arm, down her spine, pooling between her legs.
My breath hitched.
My eyes flared crimson.
“Ten seconds,” I said, voice rough. “Don’t rush.”
She tried to pull away, but my free hand shot out, catching her wrist, holding her in place. My grip was firm, unrelenting. My skin was cool, but the touch burned.
One second.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her skin tingled. Her breath came fast.
Two.
My thumb moved, just slightly, stroking the inside of her wrist. A jolt of pleasure shot through her. She bit back a moan.
Three.
I stepped closer. Our bodies nearly touched. She could feel the heat of me. The rise and fall of my chest. The low, quiet growl in my throat.
Four.
“You’re trembling,” I murmured.
Five.
“Your scent is driving me mad.”
Six.
Her core clenched. Her hips shifted, just slightly, just enough.
I felt it.
My fangs flashed. “Seven.”
Eight.
“You want this.”
“No—”
“Don’t lie,” I warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
Nine.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her skin was on fire. Her body ached—*ached*—for more.
Ten.
I released her.
She stumbled back, clutching her wrist like she could tear the sensation out. Her heart pounded. Her legs trembled. Her thighs were slick.
I just watched her, eyes dark, lips parted, breath uneven. “Not so bad, was it?”
“You’re a monster,” she whispered.
“And you’re mine,” I said. “One touch a day. But I’ll take more if you beg.”
I turned and walked away.
She stood there, shaking, her skin still humming, her body still thrumming with need.
The bond was no longer just a threat.
It was a weapon.
And I knew exactly how to use it.
Now, as we stood before the Council again, the memory of that first touch still burned between us. The Touch Pact had become a ritual—ten seconds of skin, every day, in private, in silence. But the bond had grown stronger. Wilder. More unpredictable.
And today, it was about to become a scandal.
“We are gathered,” the High Elder intoned, “to discuss the renewal of the Blood Moon Accord and the stability of the Duskbane Oath.”
My jaw tightened.
River shifted beside me. I could feel her tension, her focus. She was planning something. I could smell it—witch’s intent, sharp and cold.
Then—
She moved.
Not much. Just a step forward, adjusting her stance. But the fabric of her tunic caught on the edge of the dais, and with a soft, fatal *rip*—
The left shoulder tore.
The cloth fell away.
And there, on her collarbone, just above her pulse—
A sigil.
Not the Silence Sigil. Not the disruption mark she’d used in the sanctum.
This one was different.
Glowing faintly silver. Twisting like smoke. Shifting with every breath.
A mating mark.
The chamber went silent.
Every eye locked onto it.
“What is that?” the Fae Queen hissed.
“It’s not mine,” I growled, stepping forward, shielding River with my body. “I haven’t claimed her.”
“Yet the bond is active,” said the Elder. “And the mark is fated. Only a true mate can manifest such a sign.”
“It’s a trick,” River said, yanking the torn fabric back into place. “A glamour. A curse.”
“It’s not,” said the Witch on the root stool, eyes wide. “I’ve seen this before. The Mark of the Unclaimed. It appears when the bond is denied. When the mate refuses the bite.”
“Then it’s *your* fault,” Virell sneered, glaring at me. “You’ve let the bond fester. You’ve allowed this… hybrid… to stain your bloodline.”
“She’s my mate,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “And I’ll claim her when I choose.”
“And until then?” the Fae Queen purred. “She walks with your mark on her skin, a beacon to every predator in the city. You’ve made her vulnerable. You’ve made *us* vulnerable.”
I turned to River.
Her face was pale. Her breath shallow. She was trembling—not from fear. From the bond. From the mark. From the truth.
She hadn’t known.
And now, the world did.
I reached out, slowly, and brushed my fingers over the sigil.
Heat flared—white-hot, electric. We both gasped. The mark pulsed, brighter, responding to my touch.
“It’s not a claim,” I said, voice rough. “It’s a warning.”
“To whom?” asked the Elder.
“To anyone who thinks they can take her from me.”
The chamber fell silent.
Then, from the back—
“How poetic.”
Lyra.
She stepped forward, draped in silver silk, her Fae gold eyes blazing. “The king denies his mate, and yet her body bears his mark. How *tragic*.”
“You have no place here,” I said, stepping in front of River.
“I have every place,” she said, smiling. “I am the last woman you fed from. The only one who’s tasted your throat. The only one who’s *screamed* for you.”
“That was over a century ago.”
“And you still dream of me.”
I didn’t deny it.
Because she was right.
And River felt it.
She stepped out from behind me, chin high. “You’re not his mate,” she said. “You’re a ghost. A memory. And I’m his *future*.”
Lyra laughed—low, dark. “You think so? You think a mark on your skin makes you his? You think he’ll ever bite you like he bit me?”
“He won’t,” River said. “Because he’s not a monster.”
“No,” Lyra purred. “He’s worse. He’s a *king*. And kings don’t love. They *own*.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, painful. River gasped, clutching her collarbone.
I turned to her, cupped her face. “Look at me.”
She did.
Her eyes were wide. Fear. Need. *Trust*.
“That mark,” I said, voice low, “isn’t mine. But it’s real. And I’ll claim you with one if you dare deny me.”
She didn’t look away.
And in that moment, I knew—
She believed me.
Not the king.
Not the monster.
But the man.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if she trusted me—
She might just survive this.
And if she survived—
She might just break me.
The Council session ended in chaos. Accusations. Threats. Demands for proof, for blood, for truth.
But I didn’t care.
Because as I led River back through the halls of the Spire, her shoulder bare, the mark glowing like a brand—
All I could think was:
She’s mine.
And one day, she’ll say it back.
And when she does—
I’ll make sure the whole world hears it.