The summons came at dawn.
No note. No attendant. Just the cold press of magic against my skin, a ripple in the bond that pulled me from restless sleep like a leash. I sat up too fast, heart already pounding, the echo of Lyra’s words still coiled in my chest—*“He’ll forget I ever existed.”* I pressed a hand to the sigil on my hip, willing it not to burn. It didn’t. Not yet. But it throbbed, a quiet warning, like it knew what was coming.
I dressed quickly—dark trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots laced tight. No gowns. No silks. No vulnerability. I tucked the blackthorn flower into the seam of my sleeve, where it wouldn’t be seen. A weapon. A secret. A promise.
The corridors were silent as I moved toward the Council Spire. No guards. No whispers. Just the low hum of ancient magic in the stone, the occasional drip of shadow-water from the ceiling. The Keep was still healing from the storm, from Malrik’s ambush, from the truth that had cracked open like a wound. And so was I.
I reached the Chamber just as the others began to gather—Fae nobles in gilded silks, vampire elders in black velvet, werewolf envoys in leather and bone. They didn’t look at me. Not directly. But their eyes flickered, their scents sharpened, their magic hummed with anticipation. They knew. Something was coming.
And then—
Kaelen entered.
He didn’t walk. He *claimed* the space. Long strides, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the low light. His eyes—crimson, knowing—locked onto mine the moment he stepped in. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just moved to the dais and took his seat, his presence a storm held in check.
I stayed where I was, spine straight, hands clasped at my back. The bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling me toward him, even as my mind screamed to run. I didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Because if I did, I’d see the doubt. The fear. The *wanting*.
The High Elder rose, his voice like cracked marble. “We are gathered to address a matter of grave concern. A theft. A betrayal. A threat to the Oath itself.”
My breath caught.
“Last night,” he continued, “the Bloodstone—the heart of the Oath—was disturbed. A fragment, no larger than a fingernail, was taken from its casing. A piece of power. A piece of history.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But my stomach dropped.
Because I hadn’t taken it.
But I *had* been near it.
Two nights ago, after the ritual bath, I’d slipped away to the Crimson Altar. Not to steal. Not to sabotage. But to *understand*. I’d touched the casing, traced the runes, felt the pulse of the magic beneath. And for a heartbeat, I’d thought—maybe this is how. Maybe a small fracture, a hidden flaw, could be exploited. Maybe the Oath wasn’t as unbreakable as they claimed.
But I hadn’t taken anything.
And now?
Now someone was making it look like I had.
“River Vale,” the Elder said, turning to me. “You were seen near the Altar. You were the last to leave. And now—” he lifted a hand, and a guard stepped forward, holding a velvet-lined box—“this was found in your chambers.”
My blood ran cold.
The box opened.
And there it was.
A sliver of black stone, no bigger than a fingernail, pulsing with a faint, crimson light. The Bloodstone.
“This is a lie,” I said, voice steady. “I didn’t take it.”
“Then how did it get into your room?” the Fae Queen purred, her golden eyes sharp. “No one else has access. No one else could have planted it.”
“She’s a witch,” sneered Virell. “They hide things in blood. In breath. In *desire*.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie,” Kaelen cut in, voice low, dangerous. “The sigil will burn you.”
I pressed a hand to my hip, jaw clenched. The mark flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. Not because I was lying. Not exactly.
But because I hadn’t been honest. Not with him. Not with myself.
Because the truth was—I *had* touched the Altar.
I *had* wanted to break the Oath.
And now, someone had used that against me.
“You disrupted the ritual,” Malrik said, stepping forward, his silver eyes gleaming. “You attacked the king. You took a blade meant for his throat. And now—” he gestured to the Bloodstone—“you steal from the heart of the Oath. You are not a mate. You are a *threat*.”
“She’s my mate,” Kaelen growled. “And I’ll deal with her.”
“You’ve already failed,” the Elder said. “She’s compromised the bond. She’s destabilized the Keep. And now she’s stolen sacred power. The Council demands justice.”
“Then give it,” I said, lifting my chin. “But don’t pretend this is about the Oath. This is about *me*. About my bloodline. About the truth you’ve buried for a century.”
“Silence!” the Elder roared.
“No.” I stepped forward, my voice rising. “My mother wasn’t a traitor. She was framed. You executed her to hide your lies. And now you’re doing the same to me.”
The sigil flared—white-hot, searing. I gasped, doubling over, sweat breaking across my brow. My vision blurred. My knees buckled.
“She lies,” hissed the Priestess. “The Silence Sigil does not burn without cause.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. One hand lifted, 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.
“You’re reckless,” he murmured. “And stupid. You think a flower will break the Oath?”
“It’s a start,” I whispered.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips. “Then let me show you what happens when you fail.”
He turned to the Council. “She didn’t steal the Bloodstone. It was planted. By someone who wants to destroy her. To destroy *us*.”
“And you believe her?” the Elder asked.
“I do.”
“Even though the sigil burned?”
“Because she’s afraid,” Kaelen said. “Afraid of what she’s becoming. Afraid of the bond. Afraid of me.”
I stared at him. This vampire king, this predator, this killer—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.
“Then she stays,” said the Elder. “Under your protection. Under your watch. And if she lies again—” his eyes turned to me—“the sigil will burn her alive.”
They dismissed us with a wave.
Kaelen didn’t wait. He turned and walked, long strides eating the marble floor. I followed, boots clicking behind him, my mind racing. He’d covered for me. Protected me. Lied for me.
And I’d felt it—the shift in him. The doubt. The softening.
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 my eyes.
When we reached the private elevator—a cage of black iron that descended into the earth—I stepped inside and turned to him.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you lie for me?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. I could smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild and ancient. My pulse jumped. My breath hitched.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “And I protect what’s mine.”
“You didn’t protect my mother.”
“I wasn’t there,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
I stared at him. This vampire king, this predator, this killer—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.
The elevator stopped. The door opened.
We were back in Blackthorn Keep. The west wing. His chambers.
He stepped out, then turned, holding the door. “After you.”
I didn’t move.
“River.”
“What?”
“The Pact starts now.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Ten seconds,” he said, stepping toward me. “Skin to skin. Or would you rather wait until tomorrow and feel the pain?”
I glared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I stepped out of the elevator, turned to face him. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
He held out his hand, palm up. “Touch me.”
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I reached out.
My fingers brushed his skin.
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 fingertips up my arm, down my spine, pooling between my legs.
His breath hitched.
His eyes flared crimson.
“Ten seconds,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t rush.”
I tried to pull away, but his free hand shot out, catching my wrist, holding me in place. His grip was firm, unrelenting. My skin was cool, but the touch burned.
One second.
My pulse thundered in my ears. My skin tingled. My breath came fast.
Two.
His thumb moved, just slightly, stroking the inside of my wrist. A jolt of pleasure shot through me. I bit back a moan.
Three.
He stepped closer. Our bodies nearly touched. I could feel the heat of him. The rise and fall of his chest. The low, quiet growl in his throat.
Four.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
Five.
“Your scent is driving me mad.”
Six.
My core clenched. My hips shifted, just slightly, just enough.
He felt it.
His fangs flashed. “Seven.”
Eight.
“You want this.”
“No—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
Nine.
My breath came in shallow gasps. My skin was on fire. My body ached—ached—for more.
Ten.
He released me.
I stumbled back, clutching my wrist like I could tear the sensation out. My heart pounded. My legs trembled. My thighs were slick.
He just watched me, eyes dark, lips parted, breath uneven. “Not so bad, was it?”
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
“And you’re mine,” he said. “One touch a day. But I’ll take more if you beg.”
I turned and walked away.
But as I moved down the hall, 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.
That night, 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.