I woke tangled in black silk, the scent of dark amber and iron wrapped around me like a second skin.
For a heartbeat, I didn’t remember where I was. The room was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of the hearth, the air cool against my bare shoulders. The sheets were soft beneath me, too soft, too warm. My body ached—not from injury, not from the Heat—but from something deeper. Something real.
And then it came back.
The Moonwell Chamber. The ritual. The water rising, the moonlight flaring, the runes pulsing like a heartbeat.
And him.
Kaelen.
His hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The way my body had arched into his, how I’d come apart in his arms, breathless, trembling, his.
I sat up too fast, the silk slipping from my shoulders, my breath coming in sharp gasps. The scar on my shoulder throbbed—just a whisper, a memory of his mouth, of his tongue dragging over the healing flesh. My core clenched, still sensitive, still aching.
He wasn’t here.
The bed was empty beside me. The other side untouched. No imprint. No warmth. Just silence and shadow.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, willing the heat not to rise. Willing my body not to remember. But it did. Every inch of me remembered. The glide of his hands. The press of his body. The way his fangs had grazed my lip, sharp and sweet. The way he’d held me after—gentle, possessive, protective.
And the kiss.
God, the kiss.
It hadn’t been soft. Not tender. It had been a claiming. A collision. A surrender. And I’d given in. Not because of the ritual. Not because of the bond. But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I’d wanted it.
“You came to break his oath,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice raw. “You’ll die before you serve you.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Just pressed a hand to the mark, my jaw clenched.
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 swung my legs over the edge of the bed, boots silent on the stone. The room was his—tall, circular, lit by the blue flame, the walls lined with ancient tomes, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something darker, something wild. A blackthorn flower sat in a crystal vase on the nightstand—fresh, dew-kissed, its petals edged in silver. The one he’d left for me after the Blood Moon. The one I’d tucked into my sleeve, the one he must have found.
I stared at it.
A symbol of loyalty in the old witch tongue.
My mother used to wear one behind her ear when she thought no one was looking.
And now it was here. In his room. On his nightstand.
Like a promise.
Like a claim.
Like a warning.
I stood, stripped off the silk robe—still marked with the silver runes, still smelling of salt and iron—and stepped into the bathing alcove. The water was warm, steam rising from the carved stone basin. I sank into it, letting the heat seep into my skin, trying to burn away the memory of his touch, of his voice, of the way he’d looked at me—like I was something precious, not prey.
But the bond didn’t care about water. It didn’t care about distance or denial. It pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a quiet, insistent reminder: He’s near. He’s waiting. You belong to him.
I washed quickly, dried off, and pulled on fresh clothes—dark trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots laced tight. Practical. Unremarkable. No gowns. No silks. No vulnerability.
Then I reached for the small leather pouch hidden beneath the mattress. My fingers trembled as I opened it—just slightly—but I forced them steady. Inside lay four things: a sliver of blackthorn bark, a vial of dried moonlight (stolen from a Fae market), a tiny silver pin etched with a sigil of disruption, and now—the blackthorn flower.
And now—
The memory of his mouth.
The echo of his hands.
The ghost of his breath on my skin.
I tucked the flower beside the others, my heart pounding. This was more than a weapon. More than a symbol.
It was a key.
My mother had used blackthorn in her rituals—the strongest binding-breaker in witch magic. But it required a personal token. A lock of hair. A drop of blood. A flower worn close to the heart.
And now I had one.
With this, I could weaken the Oath. Not just a rune. Not just a thread.
The whole thing.
And if the Oath broke—
Kaelen would burn with it.
The thought should have brought me satisfaction. Relief. Justice.
But it didn’t.
Instead, my chest tightened. My breath caught. My fingers curled around the pouch, pressing it to my hip like I could stop the ache.
I didn’t want him to die.
I didn’t want him to suffer.
I just wanted my family free.
And if that meant his death—
Then so be it.
I wouldn’t mourn him.
I couldn’t.
I stepped out of the room and into the hall.
The Keep was quiet. Too quiet. No guards. No attendants. Just silence and shadow. The storm had passed. The repairs were still underway—cracks in the walls, pools of shadow-water on the floor, the occasional groan of settling stone. But it was holding. Like me.
I moved toward the eastern wing, toward the Crimson Altar. Not to sabotage. Not yet.
To *watch*.
To learn.
To understand the magic I meant to break.
I turned the final corner—and froze.
The door to Kaelen’s private chambers stood open.
And inside—
A woman.
She stepped into the hall, barefoot, draped in nothing but one of Kaelen’s black silk shirts—long enough to cover her thighs, but not her legs, not the curve of her hips, not the silver chain around her ankle that glinted in the low light. Her hair was platinum blonde, cascading in waves down her back. Her skin was pale, flawless, glowing with a faint, unnatural luminescence. And her eyes—
Fae gold.
She didn’t look at me. Just stepped into the hall, stretched like a cat, and let out a soft, satisfied sigh.
Then she turned.
And her gaze locked onto mine.
“Oh,” she said, voice like honey and smoke. “You must be *her*.”
My blood ran cold.
“And you must be the ghost everyone’s too afraid to name,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
She smiled—slow, dangerous. “Lyra Vex. Former consort to the king. And—” she leaned in, just slightly, “—the last woman he fed from for three nights straight.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, *painful*.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stared at her, at the way her fingers toyed with the top button of the shirt, at the way her scent—Fae glamour, dark rose, something metallic—filled the air.
“Three nights?” I said. “How… intimate.”
“It was,” she purred. “He *screamed* my name.”
My stomach dropped.
She saw it. Felt it. Her smile widened.
“You didn’t know, did you?” she said, stepping closer. “The blood bond? Three exchanges—irreversible. Addiction. *Ownership*.”
“Kaelen doesn’t *own* anyone,” I said.
“He owned me,” she said, lifting her wrist. There, just above her pulse, was a bite mark—two small punctures, healed but still visible, glowing faintly silver. “And he’ll own you too. If you survive.”
The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing. I gasped, doubling over. Sweat broke across my brow. My vision blurred.
She didn’t move. Just watched. “Liar,” she murmured. “You’re already his. I can smell it on you. Your scent—wolf, witch, *need*—it’s all over you.”
I lifted my head, glaring. “I don’t belong to him.”
“You will.” She stepped even closer, until we were barely a breath apart. Her Fae glamour pressed against me—soft, warm, *seductive*. “And when he finally bites you, when he finally claims you—” her voice dropped to a whisper—“he’ll forget I ever existed.”
“He already has.”
She laughed—low, dark. “You think so? You think he doesn’t dream of me? That he doesn’t wake up with my name on his lips?”
“He dreams of *me*,” I said, voice shaking. “And he wakes up with *my* scent on his skin.”
Her smile faltered—just for a second. Then it returned, sharper. “You’re strong. I’ll give you that. But you’re not *her*.”
“Who?”
“The one who broke him.”
My breath caught.
“He’s never fed from a lover’s throat,” she said. “Never wanted to. Until *me*.”
“Then why did he stop?”
“Because I left.” She tilted her head. “Because I knew he’d destroy me if I stayed.”
“And now you’re back.”
“And now I’m here.” She stepped back, smoothing the shirt over her hips. “To remind him what he’s about to lose.”
“He doesn’t *lose* anything,” I said. “He gains a mate.”
“A mate?” She laughed. “You think that’s what you are? A *mate*?” She leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted over my lips. “You’re a *threat*. A saboteur. A weapon. And when he’s done using you to stabilize the bond, he’ll discard you like he did me.”
“He didn’t discard you,” I said. “You ran.”
“And you’ll run too,” she whispered. “When you realize he’ll never love you. Not the way he loved *me*.”
The bond flared—hotter, sharper. Pain lanced through me. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry out.
She saw it. Smiled. “You feel it, don’t you? The jealousy. The fear. The *need*.”
“I don’t need him.”
“You do,” she said. “And you’ll beg for him before this is over.”
She turned, started to walk away. Then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, and River?”
I didn’t answer.
“Welcome to the court,” she said, smile sharp as a blade. “It’s *so* much darker than you think.”
And then she was gone.
I stood there, heart pounding, breath unsteady. The bond hummed, restless. The sigil on my hip still throbbed. But I didn’t care.
She was wrong.
She had to be.
Kaelen hadn’t loved her. Couldn’t have. Not the way he’d looked at me—like I was something *precious*, not prey. Not the way he’d denied his nature, held me through the Heat, refused to take what he could have.
That wasn’t ownership.
That was *protection*.
That was *care*.
Wasn’t it?
I turned and walked back to my room, boots silent on the stone. The halls were still quiet. No guards. No attendants. Just silence and shadow.
But I wasn’t alone.
The bond pulsed—hot, insistent. And beneath it, something else.
Doubt.
It crept in like a thief, quiet, relentless. What if Lyra was right? What if Kaelen had loved her? What if the blood bond was real? What if he’d screamed her name, fed from her throat, *claimed* her in a way he’d never claim me?
And what if—when the Oath was broken, when the bond was tested—when he had to choose—
He chose her?
I reached my room, closed the door, and leaned against it, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. My breath came in shallow gasps. My hands trembled. I pressed them to my hips, to the sigil, to the leather pouch hidden beneath the mattress.
I had weapons.
I had a mission.
I had a plan.
But I didn’t have answers.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know who to trust.
I didn’t know if I was fighting for justice—or just my own survival.
The sigil flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Just pressed a hand to the mark, my jaw clenched.
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 tucked the flower into the seam of my sleeve, where it wouldn’t be seen. Then I stood, wiped my face, and walked to 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.