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.
The next morning, I was summoned.
Not by Kaelen. Not by the Council.
By the High Priestess.
“A diplomatic walk,” she said, her voice like dry leaves. “Through the Blood Garden. The king will accompany you. A show of unity. A sign of peace.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. Just nodded, pulled on a high-collared tunic, laced my boots tight, and braided my hair back. No gowns. No silks. No vulnerability.
But when I stepped into the east hall, Kaelen was already there.
He stood in the archway, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the low light. His eyes—crimson, sharp—locked onto mine. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just stepped forward and offered his arm.
“We’re expected,” he said.
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I took it.
The moment my fingers brushed his sleeve, the bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling me toward him, even as my mind screamed to run. His arm was solid beneath my touch, warm, thrumming with quiet power. I could feel his pulse in the fabric, could smell him—dark amber, iron, wild—filling my lungs.
We walked in silence through the twisting corridors, guards falling into step behind us. The Keep was still damaged—cracks in the walls, pools of shadow-water on the floor, the occasional groan of settling stone. But it was holding. Like me.
The Blood Garden was a narrow terrace carved into the cliffside, lined with blackthorn hedges, blood-red roses, and silver-veined lilies that glowed faintly in the dim light. Paths of crushed bone led to small fountains filled with dark liquid that wasn’t quite blood, wasn’t quite water. Statues of ancient vampires stood like sentinels, eyes hollow, hands clasped over hearts that no longer beat.
And we weren’t alone.
Fae nobles strolled in pairs, their laughter sharp and false. Vampire elders stood in clusters, whispering behind fans of black lace. Werewolf envoys prowled the edges, eyes sharp, senses alert. All watching. All judging.
“They’re waiting for a scandal,” I murmured.
“Let them wait,” Kaelen said, voice low. “We’re not here to entertain.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because the Council demanded it. Because Lyra is watching. Because someone wants us to fail.”
I glanced at him. “And do you?”
“Fail?” He turned his head, just slightly. “No. But I don’t trust this. Not the garden. Not the path. Not the silence.”
He was right.
The air was too still. The shadows too deep. The bond hummed beneath my skin—quiet, but tense, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
We walked deeper into the garden, following the main path toward the central fountain. The others gave us space, but their eyes followed. Whispers rose and fell like the tide. I kept my head high, my grip firm on Kaelen’s arm, my breath steady.
Then—
A flicker in the shadows.
Just a shift. A ripple. Like something moving behind the hedges.
Kaelen felt it too. His arm tensed. His fangs lengthened. His hand lifted, not to touch me, but to signal the guards.
“Stay close,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, my body aligning with his, my pulse climbing.
Then—
It happened.
Not from the shadows.
From *above*.
A figure dropped from the balcony above—a blur of black and silver, moving faster than sight. A blade flashed, aimed not at Kaelen, but at his throat.
Instinct took over.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t hesitate.
I *moved*.
My body twisted, my arm shot out, and I shoved Kaelen aside—just enough. The blade missed his neck by an inch, slicing through the air where his throat had been.
But not mine.
It caught me in the shoulder—deep, sharp, hot pain lancing through me as the steel bit into flesh. I cried out, stumbling back, my hand flying to the wound. Blood welled, dark and rich, soaking through the fabric of my tunic.
“River!”
Kaelen was beside me in an instant, his arm around my waist, holding me upright. His eyes blazed crimson, his fangs fully out, his body coiled like a storm about to break.
But I wasn’t looking at him.
I was looking at the attacker.
He stood in the center of the path, tall and lean, dressed in black armor etched with silver runes. His face was pale, his eyes like frozen steel, his lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Lord Malrik.
Vampire Elder. Council seat. Kaelen’s greatest rival.
And now—my would-be killer.
“You’re quick,” he said, voice smooth as poison. “But not quick enough.”
Kaelen stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. “You dare lay a hand on my mate?”
“She’s not your mate,” Malrik said, tilting his head. “She’s a saboteur. A traitor. And now—” he glanced at me, smile widening—“a martyr.”
My breath came in shallow gasps. The pain was sharp, but not unbearable. My wolf stirred inside me, restless, angry. My witch’s blood hummed in response.
But I didn’t move.
I stayed behind Kaelen, my hand pressed to the wound, my body trembling—not from fear. From the bond. From the heat that flared between us, raw and urgent.
“Guards!” Kaelen roared.
They moved—fast, precise—but Malrik was faster. He vanished into the shadows, reappearing behind a statue, then another, then gone.
“He’s using illusion,” I whispered.
“I know,” Kaelen said, voice low. “But he’ll come back. He always does.”
He turned to me, his hands gentle as he peeled back the torn fabric of my tunic. The wound was deep, but clean—no poison, no curse. Just steel and blood.
“You saved me,” he said, voice rough.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
My jaw clenched. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“No?” He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my skin. “Then why did you step in front of the blade?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Because the truth was—I *had* done it for him.
Not because of the mission. Not because of the Oath.
But because, despite everything—despite the lies, the blood, the centuries of hate—I couldn’t let him die.
And that?
That was the real betrayal.
He reached out, slow, and brushed his thumb over my cheek, catching a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “You’re hurt,” he murmured. “Let me help you.”
“No,” I said, stepping back. “I don’t need your—”
“You do.”
Before I could protest, he brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down.
Blood welled—dark, rich, *alive*—and he pressed it to my lips.
“Drink,” he said, voice low, commanding.
I tried to turn away, but he held me steady. “You’re losing blood. Your wolf is weak. Your magic is unstable. Drink, or you’ll pass out.”
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I opened my mouth.
His blood touched my tongue—warm, metallic, *powerful*—and the world *exploded*.
Heat. Light. A surge of energy so intense it stole my breath. My knees buckled. I grabbed his arm to steady myself, and the contact only made it worse—better?—a wave of sensation crashing through me, from my lips down my throat, into my chest, pooling between my legs.
He groaned, low and deep, his free hand tightening on my waist. “Gods, you taste like *mine*.”
I drank—just a sip, just enough—and the wound in my shoulder flared, then began to close. The pain faded. My strength returned. My wolf settled.
But the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder now, stronger, *hungrier*.
He pulled his wrist away, licking the remaining blood from his skin. His eyes were dark, his lips stained red, his breath uneven. “Better?”
“I don’t need you,” I whispered.
“You do,” he said. “And you will.”
The guards surrounded us, weapons drawn, scanning the shadows. The garden was in chaos—nobles fleeing, envoys shouting, the air thick with magic and fear.
Kaelen turned to me, his voice low. “We need to get you inside. Now.”
“I can walk.”
“Not without help.”
He scooped me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back. I should’ve fought. Should’ve kicked, twisted, screamed.
But I didn’t.
I let him carry me.
Because, for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt like a woman.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
He carried me through the halls, fast and steady, his arms like iron around me. I pressed my face to his chest, breathing him in, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the quiet power that radiated from him like a storm held in check.
And the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder here, in the silence. Thrumming, pulsing, *pulling*.
“You didn’t have to save me,” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
I stayed silent.
Because he was right.
And because if I spoke, I might say the truth.
That I *had* saved him.
That I *would* save him again.
That 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 there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my hair, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be saved.
I just wanted him.