The summons came at dusk—a ripple in the bond, subtle but insistent, like a hand tugging at the edge of my awareness. I was in the east tower, standing at the cracked window where I’d kissed him, where the wind had howled and the sea had roared and my body had betrayed me with a climax so fierce it left me trembling. My lips still felt swollen. My core still ached. And the sigil on my hip? It pulsed, not with pain, but with a low, warm thrum, like it was *satisfied*.
I pressed a hand to it, jaw clenched. “Don’t get used to it,” I muttered.
But I wasn’t sure who I was warning—myself or the mark.
The summons wasn’t a command. Not exactly. Just a pull, a whisper in the blood, a pressure behind my ribs. Kaelen wanted me. And if I didn’t go? The bond would flare. The Touch Pact would demand its due. And the sigil? It would burn.
So I went.
Boots silent on the stone, I moved through the Keep, avoiding the main halls, sticking to the servant’s passages—narrow, dim, lined with pipes that hissed like serpents. I didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to face the whispers, the stares, the knowing glances. Not after last night. Not after the banquet. Not after I’d saved his life and he’d claimed me in the infirmary and I’d kissed him in the tower like I *wanted* it.
Like I *meant* it.
I reached the Council Spire just as the first torches were lit, their crimson flames flickering in the gathering dark. The guards at the door didn’t stop me. Just bowed, eyes averted, as if they already knew what I was. What I’d become.
Inside, the Chamber was alive with tension.
Fae nobles in gilded silks, vampire elders in black velvet, werewolf envoys in leather and bone—they filled the half-circle of thrones, their magic humming, their scents sharp. The air was thick with ambition, with suspicion, with the quiet thrill of a scandal unfolding. And at the center of it all?
Kaelen.
He stood at the dais, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the low light. His eyes—crimson, knowing—locked onto mine the moment I stepped in. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just watched, like he could see every lie I’d ever told, every secret I’d ever kept, every time I’d touched myself in the dark and whispered his name.
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*.
“We are gathered,” the High Elder intoned, his voice like cracked marble, “to address the instability of the bond between River Vale and Kaelen Duskbane. The Oath trembles. The balance falters. And the Council demands clarity.”
My breath caught.
“Clarity,” the Fae Queen purred, golden eyes sharp, “in the form of a public alliance. A demonstration of unity. A display of—” she smiled, slow, dangerous—“*affection*.”
Malrik stepped forward, silver eyes gleaming. “If the bond is true, if the claim is real, then let them prove it. Not in whispers. Not in shadows. But in front of us all.”
“You want a show,” I said, voice steady.
“We want *proof*,” Virell sneered. “That you are not a saboteur. That you are not a threat. That you are, in fact, his *mate*.”
“She is,” Kaelen said, stepping down from the dais, long strides eating the marble floor. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild. My pulse jumped. My breath hitched.
“Then prove it,” the Elder said.
Kaelen didn’t answer. Just turned to me, his gaze intense, unreadable. “Dance with me,” he said, voice low.
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Dance.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Show them what we are.”
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.
But I didn’t have a choice.
Not really.
The bond pulsed. The sigil burned. The Council watched.
So I took his hand.
The moment our skin touched, 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.
And then—
Music.
Not from any instrument. Not from any speaker. Just a low, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat, rising from the stone, filling the Chamber. The torches dimmed. The air thickened. And the Council? They leaned forward, eyes sharp, scents flaring, magic humming with anticipation.
Kaelen didn’t hesitate. He pulled me into his arms, one hand settling low on my back, the other clasping mine, his grip firm, unrelenting. Our bodies aligned—chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh—and the bond *screamed*.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it made me dizzy. My head spun. My breath came in shallow gasps. My core clenched, already slick, already *ready*.
“Relax,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Let me lead.”
“I don’t follow,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “You *fight*. But even fighters need to yield. Sometimes.”
He moved, slow at first, guiding me in a circle, his body a wall of heat against mine. My boots clicked on the stone, in time with the pulse, in time with his heartbeat, in time with the bond. His hand on my back pressed down, just slightly, urging me closer. I resisted—just a little—but he didn’t let me pull away.
“You’re tense,” he said.
“I’m not dancing with you.”
“You are.”
“This isn’t a dance. It’s a display.”
“And?” He stepped closer, until our bodies were flush. His cock pressed against my thigh, hard, insistent. My breath hitched. “Isn’t that what they want? Proof?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I glared at him. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re mine.” He spun me, slow, deliberate, his hand never leaving my back. I stumbled, just slightly, and he caught me, pulling me back against him, his chest a wall of heat, his breath hot on my neck. “Don’t fight it, River. Just feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“Us.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Because it wasn’t just the heat. Not just the bond flaring white-hot between us. It was the way his hand felt on my back. The way his breath ghosted over my skin. The way his body moved with mine, like we were made to fit.
Like we *belonged*.
And that?
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 lifted my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, his lips parted, his breath uneven. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t smirking. Just watching me, like I was something *precious*, not prey.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice raw.
“Neither are you.”
“I came here to destroy you.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I want.”
His breath caught.
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me *climax*—right there, in his arms, in front of the Council, with his body pressed to mine.
I gasped, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. My vision blurred. My breath came in sharp gasps. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
He felt it. Knew it. His eyes darkened, his fangs flashed, his grip tightened. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I *wanted* it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it was over, when the pulse faded, when the torches brightened, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
I was still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still *his*.
The Council was silent. Not just quiet. *Silent*. Like the world had stopped breathing. The Fae Queen’s lips were parted, her golden eyes wide. Malrik’s jaw was clenched, his silver eyes burning. Virell looked like he’d been slapped.
And Kaelen?
He just watched me, his expression unreadable, his presence a storm held in check.
“Satisfied?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.
No one answered.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’re done.”
He turned, still holding my hand, and walked, long strides eating the marble floor. I followed, boots clicking behind him, my mind racing. He’d claimed me. In front of them all. Not with a bite. Not with a mark. But with a dance. With a touch. With a climax that had left me trembling, breathless, *his*.
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 do that?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He 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.
“Because 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.