I didn’t sleep.
Not because of the opulence. Not because of the fire’s unnatural blue glow or the way the velvet drapes whispered against the stone floor like ghosts. But because every inch of my skin remembered him.
Kaelen.
His voice. His scent. The way his breath had curled over my pulse like a promise. The way my body had answered—traitorous, aching, alive—as if it had been waiting for him my entire life.
I paced. Back and forth. Boots silent on the thick rug. My wrists still bore the faint red marks from the iron cuffs, the runes now dull, their magic spent. But the bond? That was awake. Thrumming. A low, constant hum beneath my skin, like a wire stretched too tight.
The sigil on my hip burned in time with it.
I pressed a hand there, wincing. The Silence Sigil. A witch’s curse disguised as protection. It flared when I lied—when my words didn’t match my blood. My mother had given it to me the night before they took her. “So they can’t make you speak,” she’d said, tears in her eyes. “So you can’t betray us.”
Now it felt like a brand. A reminder that I was already betraying myself.
I stopped in front of the mirror again. Same face. Same dark eyes, same sharp cheekbones. But something had shifted. A flush across my collarbone. A lingering warmth between my thighs. My lips looked fuller, darker, like they’d been kissed.
They hadn’t.
But my body didn’t know that.
“You’re not his,” I whispered to my reflection. “You’re not.”
The sigil flared.
I hissed, doubling over. Not a lie. Not exactly. But close enough. The sigil didn’t care about intention. It cared about truth. And the truth was—
The door opened.
I straightened fast, wiping my face, forcing my breathing slow. Two female vampires entered—attendants, from the look of their silver-trimmed gowns and blank expressions. One carried a tray of food: black bread, roasted venison, a goblet of deep red wine. The other held a folded stack of clothes.
“Change,” the first said, setting the tray on the table. “The master requests your presence in one hour.”
“Master?” I snapped. “I’m not his servant.”
The second vampire didn’t react. She laid the clothes on the bed—dark trousers, a fitted tunic, boots. Practical. Not a gown this time. “Wear these. Or we’ll dress you ourselves.”
They left without another word. The lock clicked behind them.
I exhaled. Walked to the tray. The wine smelled like blood. Not human. Not quite. Something older. Richer. I didn’t touch it. Ate the bread. The venison. My wolf side growled at the rare meat, wanting more, wanting hunt. I ignored it.
Then I stripped.
The clothes fit perfectly. Too perfectly. Like they’d been made for me. I laced the boots, tied back my hair, and stood in front of the mirror again. Cleaner. Stronger. Ready.
For what, I didn’t know.
But I wasn’t going to play the prisoner.
One hour passed. Then two.
The door opened again.
He stood there.
Kaelen.
Still in that midnight coat, though the sleeves were rolled to his forearms now, revealing strong, corded arms dusted with dark hair. His eyes were shadowed, but sharp. Assessing. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“You’re late,” I said.
“I’m not your keeper,” he replied. “I’m your captor.”
“Same thing.”
He tilted his head. “You’re not afraid.”
“Should I be?”
“Most would be.”
“Most aren’t me.”
He stepped forward, slow. The bond flared between us—heat, pressure, a pull low in my belly. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him come.
“What’s your name?” he asked, stopping a breath away.
I hesitated.
“River Vale,” I said.
The sigil on my hip burned.
I gasped, clutching my side. Pain lanced through me—white-hot, searing. I dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, sweat breaking across my brow.
Kaelen didn’t move. Just watched. “That’s not your real name.”
I lifted my head, glaring up at him. “It is.”
Burn.
Another wave of fire. I groaned, curling in on myself.
“You’re lying,” he said, voice soft. “And your magic is punishing you for it.”
I spat at his boots. “Go to hell.”
He crouched, bringing us eye to eye. One hand reached out, not to strike, but to touch my hip, right over the sigil. His fingers pressed down, firm, unrelenting.
The pain flared—then shifted.
Not less. But different. The fire didn’t fade. But it spread, curling up my spine, down my thighs, pooling between my legs. A low moan escaped me before I could stop it.
His eyes darkened.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “The sigil burns for lies. But it responds to touch. To me.”
I tried to pull away, but his hand held me in place. His thumb moved, just slightly, pressing in a slow circle. Pleasure spiked through the pain. My breath hitched. My core clenched.
“Stop,” I whispered.
“Say your real name,” he said. “And I will.”
“River Vale—”
Burn.
I cried out, arching into his touch. My hips lifted, just slightly. Just enough.
He saw it. Felt it.
His fangs flashed. “You feel it, don’t you? The bond. It doesn’t care about your lies. It knows the truth.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t,” he warned. “Another lie, and I’ll make you scream it.”
I clenched my jaw. Sweat dripped down my temple. My body was on fire—pain and pleasure tangled together, impossible to separate. I could feel my pulse between my legs. Could smell my own arousal, sharp and sweet in the air.
And him—his scent, dark and intoxicating—filled my lungs.
“I am River Vale,” I forced out. “Daughter of Elara Vale. Witch of the Blackthorn Line. I came to break the Oath—”
The sigil flared again.
I screamed.
This time, he didn’t stop me from collapsing. I fell onto my side, trembling, tears in my eyes. The pain was unbearable. My vision blurred. My wolf whined inside me, wanting to submit, to yield.
Then his hands were on me. Lifting me. Cradling me against his chest.
He carried me to the bed and laid me down gently. His touch was careful. Controlled. But his eyes—those crimson depths—were anything but.
“You’re stubborn,” he said, brushing hair from my face. “I’ll give you that.”
I turned my head away. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“Then kill me.”
He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips. “I could. But I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t,” he warned. “Not again.”
I swallowed. Closed my eyes. The sigil still throbbed, a dull ache now. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know nothing.”
He stood, stepping back. “Then tell me. Who are you, really?”
I didn’t answer.
He exhaled, slow. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.”
He turned to the door. “Guards. Bring the truth-scribe.”
My eyes snapped open. “No.”
“You lied to me,” he said, not looking at me. “You’ll answer for it.”
“I told you my name—”
“And your magic burned you for it. That’s not a lie, River. That’s proof.”
I sat up, heart pounding. “You can’t force a truth-scribe on me. It’s Council law—requires consent.”
“You’re not under Council protection,” he said. “You’re under my roof. My rules.”
“Then I’ll appeal to the Tribunal.”
He laughed—low, dark. “You think they’ll care? A hybrid witch-wolf, caught sabotaging the Oath, lying under a known sigil? They’ll call you a traitor and be done with it.”
I glared at him. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re a liar,” he said. “But you’re my liar.”
The door opened. Two guards entered, flanking an older vampire in gray robes—his eyes milky white, his hands stained with ink. The truth-scribe. He carried a quill and a scroll of black parchment.
My stomach dropped.
“Restrain her,” Kaelen said.
“No!” I scrambled back on the bed, but the guards were fast. They grabbed my arms, pinned me down. The scribe stepped forward, unrolling the parchment.
“Name,” he intoned, quill poised.
I stayed silent.
He didn’t wait. Dipped the quill in his own blood and pressed it to my forehead.
The pain was instant. Like fire etched into my skull. I screamed, thrashing, but the guards held me firm.
“Name,” he repeated.
“River—”
Burn.
“Real name,” the scribe demanded.
I gritted my teeth. Sweat poured down my face. My vision swam.
“I am River Vale—”
Burn.
“Daughter of Elara—”
Burn.
“Of the Blackthorn—”
Burn.
I sobbed. “Please—”
“Say it,” Kaelen said, stepping closer. “Or it won’t stop.”
“I—”
The sigil flared. The scribe’s quill caught fire. The parchment blackened.
And then—silence.
The scribe stepped back, eyes wide. “The magic… it rejected me.”
Kaelen frowned. “What?”
“Her truth is bound by older magic. Stronger. I cannot force it.”
The guards released me. I curled into myself, shaking, tears streaking my face.
Kaelen dismissed them with a wave. When the door closed, he turned to me.
“You’re protected,” he said. “By something older than the sigil.”
I didn’t answer.
He crouched beside the bed again. “Who gave you that sigil?”
“My mother.”
“And she’s dead.”
“Because of you.”
He didn’t deny it. Just watched me. “Then who bound your true name? Who has the power to shield you from a truth-scribe?”
I stayed silent.
He reached out, brushed a tear from my cheek. “You don’t have to tell me. Not yet. But you will. The bond will see to that.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I’ll never be yours.”
“You already are.”
He stood, straightened his coat. “Rest. You’ll need your strength. The Council convenes tomorrow. And you’ll be there—with me.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, pausing at the door, “if we don’t stand together, war begins. And I won’t let that happen. Not for them. Not for you.”
He left.
I stayed on the bed, trembling, the sigil still warm against my skin.
He thought he had me.
He thought the bond would break me.
But he was wrong.
I wasn’t River Vale.
And the truth?
It wasn’t his to take.
It was mine to wield.
And one day—soon—I’d use it to destroy him.
But as I lay there, the echo of his touch still burning on my skin, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want to destroy him.
I wanted him to touch me again.