The night after the Council scandal, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the mark—though it still pulsed faintly on my collarbone, a ghost of heat every time I moved, a silent accusation every time I looked in the mirror. Not because of the Touch Pact, though the ten seconds of skin-to-skin contact had become a ritual that left me trembling, my core slick, my breath unsteady. Not even because of Lyra’s words—her honeyed venom, her knowing smile, the way she’d looked at Kaelen like she still owned him.
No.
I couldn’t sleep because of *him*.
Kaelen.
Because for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I wasn’t sure if he was the monster I’d believed him to be.
He hadn’t claimed me.
He hadn’t bitten me.
He’d *protected* me—shielded me with his body, growled at the Council, warned them all that I was his.
And when his fingers had brushed the mark—
God, when his fingers had brushed the mark—
I’d felt it. Not just the heat, not just the bond flaring white-hot between us. I’d felt *him*. His hunger. His restraint. His quiet, terrifying *care*.
I pressed a hand to the sigil on my hip, willing it not to burn. I wasn’t lying. Not exactly. But I wasn’t telling the truth either.
Because the truth was—I didn’t want him to let go.
I didn’t want him to leave.
I wanted to feel his arms around me again. Wanted to press my face to his chest and breathe him in. Wanted to arch into him and beg—not from Heat, not from instinct—but from something deeper. Something real.
And that was the real betrayal.
Not the Oath.
Not the blood.
But the fact that, despite everything—despite the lies, the death, the centuries of hate—I was starting to trust him.
I stood from the bed, paced the room. The storm had passed. The Keep was still damaged, but the repairs had begun. The Oath held. The bond pulsed, steady, strong.
And Kaelen?
He was in his chambers, two floors below, guarded, untouched, unaware of the war raging inside me.
I stopped at the mirror.
My reflection stared back—wild-eyed, dark hair tangled, lips swollen. Not from a kiss. From biting them to keep quiet.
“You came to break his oath,” I whispered to the glass. “You’ll die before you serve you.”
The sigil burned.
Not because I was lying.
Because, deep down, I wasn’t sure I meant it.
And Kaelen knew it.
Outside, the moon rose high over Blackthorn Keep. The Oath was renewed.
And the bond between us?
It was just beginning.
He’d called me his mate.
I called him a monster.
But when I closed my eyes, all I felt was the ghost of his breath on my skin.
And the terrifying truth:
I wanted him to do it again.
Not to test me.
Not to claim me.
But because I needed it.
Because I needed him.
And that?
That was the real betrayal.
Not the Oath.
Not the mission.
But the fact that, despite everything—despite the lies, the blood, the centuries of hate—I was already falling.
And I didn’t want to land.
Because when I did?
There’d be nothing left to save.
But as I lay in my room that night, the echo of his touch still burning on my skin, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be saved.
I just wanted him.
Three days passed.
Three days of silence. Of stolen glances. Of ten-second touches that left me gasping. Of dreams that ended with his name on my lips, my body arching, my core slick with need.
And then—
The summons came.
A single black envelope, delivered by a silent attendant. No seal. No signature. Just my name—*River*—written in sharp, elegant script.
“The king requests your presence,” the attendant said, voice flat. “In the East Study. At midnight.”
My pulse jumped.
“For what?”
“A strategy meeting.”
Strategy.
Of course.
Because that’s all this was. A power play. A test. A trap.
But I knew the truth.
It wasn’t strategy.
It was *seduction*.
And I was going.
Not because I had to.
But because I *wanted* to.
At eleven fifty, I stood before the mirror, heart pounding.
I wore a gown this time—deep crimson, silk that clung to every curve, a slit up the thigh, a neckline that dipped just low enough to tease. My hair was loose, cascading in waves down my back. My lips were stained the same dark red, my eyes lined with kohl.
I looked like a queen.
Or a whore.
Maybe both.
“You’re not doing this for him,” I whispered to the glass. “You’re doing this for the mission.”
The sigil burned.
Not hard. Just a whisper. A warning.
Because we both knew the truth.
I was doing it for *me*.
I stepped into the hall, boots silent on the stone. The Keep was quiet. No guards. No attendants. Just silence and shadow. The air was thick with magic, pulsing like a heartbeat. The bond hummed beneath my skin—low, insistent, *hungry*.
I reached the East Study.
The door was ajar, a soft golden light spilling into the hall. The scent of old paper, ink, and something darker—*him*—drifted into the corridor. Dark amber. Iron. Wild.
I knocked.
“Enter.”
His voice—like smoke and sin—sent a jolt through me. My core clenched. My breath hitched.
I stepped inside.
The room was smaller than I expected—walls lined with books, a long oak table cluttered with scrolls and maps, a single chair pulled close to the fire. And him.
Kaelen.
He stood by the hearth, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand resting on the mantel. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it. His eyes—crimson, knowing—locked onto mine the moment I stepped in.
“You’re late,” he said.
“By two minutes.”
“I counted.”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped further in, letting the door close behind me. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling me toward him, even as my mind screamed to run.
“You wanted to meet,” I said, voice steady. “About strategy.”
“Yes.” He didn’t move. Just watched me. “About the Council. About Lyra. About the Oath.”
“And?”
“And you.”
My breath caught.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, stepping closer. “Even during the Touch Pact. You pull back. You don’t look at me. You don’t *breathe* near me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning. I ignored it.
He inhaled, slow, like he was savoring the air around me. “Liar,” he murmured. “Your scent says otherwise.”
“My scent says I’m disgusted by you.”
“Then why is it spiking?”
I didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, refusing to look away. Refusing to let him see the truth: that my body *was* reacting. That the heat between my thighs had returned the moment he stepped into the room. That my pulse had jumped at the sound of his voice.
He stepped closer. His chest nearly brushed mine. I could feel the heat of him, the quiet power thrumming beneath his stillness. His hand lifted, slow, and brushed a loose strand of hair from my forehead. His fingers grazed my skin—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet.
“You’re hiding something,” he said, voice low, intimate. “I can feel it. In the bond. In your blood.”
“You feel nothing,” I snapped.
“I feel you.”
My breath hitched.
He smiled. “There it is. That little gasp. That tremble. You can’t hide from me, River. Not anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said, forcing my voice cold. “I’m here. For the meeting.”
“Then let’s begin.”
He turned, walked to the table, and pulled out a scroll. I followed, forcing my legs not to tremble. He unrolled it—maps of the Blood District, the Fae Quarter, the Keep. Lines drawn in red ink. Notes in his sharp script.
“Lyra’s return changes everything,” he said. “She’s not just a ghost. She’s a weapon. And she’s working with someone.”
“Virell?”
“Possibly. Or someone else. But she’s not acting alone.”
I leaned in, studying the map. My shoulder brushed his arm. A jolt of heat shot through me. My breath hitched.
He didn’t move. Just kept talking. “If they’re planning to expose the bond, to use it against us—”
“Then we give them something to expose.”
He turned his head, slowly. “What?”
“We make it real,” I said, heart pounding. “We pretend to be lovers. We let them see us touch. Kiss. *Claim*.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re suggesting we fake a mating bond?”
“Not fake,” I said, stepping closer. “Just… accelerated.”
“You want me to bite you.”
“No.” I lifted my chin. “I want you to *pretend* to.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “And if I don’t want to pretend?”
“Then we’re both dead.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “If I don’t pretend, I take what I’ve been denying myself since the moment you touched me.”
My breath caught.
He reached out, slow, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “I’ve tasted your blood. I’ve held you through the storm. I’ve denied my nature for you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’m *done* waiting.”
My core clenched. My thighs pressed together. My body *ached*.
“You don’t get to decide,” I whispered.
“I do,” he said. “Because I’m not just your enemy. I’m not just your captor. I’m your *mate*.”
“I don’t want you.”
“You do.”
“I hate you.”
“And I’ll still keep you safe.”
He stepped forward, one hand lifting to my face. His thumb brushed my cheek, catching a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “I won’t claim you in Heat. I won’t bind you while you’re delirious. I won’t take you like *them*.”
“Then what?” I choked. “Leave me like this?”
“No.” He wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off my feet. “I’ll carry you. I’ll hold you. I’ll keep you safe—”
“From *what*?”
“From me.”
And then he was moving, carrying me through the halls of the Keep, his steps long and steady, his arms like iron around me. I should’ve fought. Should’ve kicked, twisted, screamed. But I was too far gone. Too weak. Too *needy*. My body arched into his, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my core clenching with every step.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Just carried me through the twisting corridors, up a narrow stair, down a hall I’d never seen before, until we reached a door—black stone, etched with silver runes.
He kicked it open.
Inside was a room—small, circular, lit by a single blue flame in the hearth. No bed. No chairs. Just a thick rug, a chest, and a window that looked out over the sea. The Blood Moon hung low, bathing the room in crimson light.
He carried me to the rug, laid me down gently, then knelt beside me.
“This is the quiet room,” he said. “No one comes here. No one knows about it. You’ll be safe.”
“Safe from *what*?” I whispered.
“From the guards. From the Council. From *me*.”
“You’re leaving?”
“No.” He sat beside me, back against the wall, one arm resting on his knee. “I’m staying. But I won’t touch you. Not like that. Not until you’re clear-headed. Until you *choose* me.”
“I’ll never choose you.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re mine.”
I turned my face away, tears spilling down my temples. My body was on fire. My wolf was howling. Every instinct screamed to crawl into his lap, to press my face to his neck, to *beg* for the bite, for the bond, for the release.
But he just sat there. Still. Silent. A wall of control.
Hours passed.
I don’t know how many. Time blurred. The Heat pulsed—waves of need crashing through me, receding, then returning stronger. I writhed. Moaned. Cried. At one point, I crawled to him, pressed my face to his thigh, *begged* him to touch me. He didn’t move. Just let me be. Let me break. Let me fall apart in his shadow.
And when the worst of it passed—when the moon began to wane, when the Heat finally ebbed, when my body stopped trembling—I collapsed against him, exhausted, spent, humiliated.
He didn’t speak. Just wrapped an arm around me, pulled me close, and let me sleep.
When I woke, the moon was gone. The room was dark. The fire had burned low.
And he was still there.
Still awake. Still watching.
“You stayed,” I whispered.
“I said I would.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “Because no one ever protected your mother,” he said. “And I won’t make the same mistake.”
My breath caught.
“You think I’m the monster,” he said. “But I’m not the one who let her die. I’m not the one who bound your bloodline. I’m not the one who used the Oath to enslave you.”
“You’re the king.”
“And I’ll change it.”
I stared at him. This vampire. This enemy. This *mate*—who had denied his nature, who had held me through the worst of it, who had refused to take what he could have.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I lay there, his arm still around me, his breath warm against my hair, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.