The invitation arrived sealed in black wax, the emblem of the Twilight Court pressed deep into the wax—a crescent moon wrapped in thorns, the same sigil that pulsed beneath my skin. I turned it over in my hands, the parchment cold, the scent of night-blooming jasmine clinging to the edges. No words. No names. Just a time, a place, and a warning etched in silver ink: *Come alone. Or not at all.*
I didn’t go alone.
Kaelen was waiting outside my door when I stepped into the hall, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the low light. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not command. *Concern.*
“You’re not going without me,” he said, voice low.
“It says *come alone*.”
“And I say *f*ck the Twilight Court*.” He stepped closer, heat radiating from him, the bond flaring between us like a live wire. “If it’s a trap, I’m in it with you. If it’s a test, I’ll pass it for you. If it’s a lie—” his voice dropped to a growl—“I’ll burn it to the ground.”
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.
“Fine,” I said, voice steady. “But you don’t speak unless I say so. You don’t act unless I signal. This is *my* game. *My* move. And if you ruin it—”
“I won’t.” He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “I trust you.”
My breath caught.
Because that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Not the bond.
Not the Oath.
But the fact that he trusted me with his life.
And I didn’t know if I deserved it.
The gala was held in the Glass Gardens of the Twilight Court—a sprawling estate built into the cliffs above the sea, its walls made of enchanted crystal that shifted with the moonlight, reflecting colors that didn’t exist in nature. We arrived in silence, the carriage gliding over the black stone path, shadows stretching long behind us. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, bloodwine, and something darker—ambition.
Kaelen offered his arm as we stepped out. I hesitated—just a second—then took it, my fingers curling around the hard muscle of his forearm. The bond flared, hot and insistent, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. His hand covered mine, warm, possessive, and I felt it—the way his pulse jumped, the way his breath hitched, the way his fangs grazed his lower lip.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re ready.”
We stepped into the Gardens.
Music swirled through the air—no instruments, just voices, layered and haunting, rising and falling like waves. Fae nobles in gilded silks moved through the crystal halls, their laughter sharp, their eyes sharper. Vampire elders in black velvet watched from the shadows, silver eyes gleaming. Werewolf envoys in leather and bone stood in tight clusters, their scents wild, their magic restless.
And at the center of it all—
Malrik.
He stood near the eastern arch, silver eyes locked onto us, a goblet of bloodwine in his hand. He didn’t smile. Didn’t bow. Just watched, like a wolf waiting for the hunt to begin.
“He knows,” I said, voice low.
“Let him,” Kaelen said. “We’re not here to hide. We’re here to *win*.”
We moved through the crowd, his hand never leaving the small of my back, a constant pressure, a constant reminder: *You’re not alone.* Every step sent a jolt through me—heat, tension, *need*. I kept my face neutral, my spine straight, but inside, I was unraveling. The bond pulsed, restless. The sigil on my hip burned—not from lying, but from anticipation. From fear. From *wanting*.
And then—
Lyra.
She stepped into our path, barefoot, draped in a gown of liquid silver that clung to every curve. Her platinum hair cascaded in waves down her back. Her skin glowed with a faint, unnatural luminescence. And her eyes—Fae gold—were sharp with amusement.
“Oh,” she purred, voice like honey and smoke. “The king and his little rebel. How… *domestic*.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stared at her, at the way her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass, at the way her scent—Fae glamour, dark rose, something metallic—filled the air.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice steady.
She laughed—low, dark. “Neither are you. I thought you’d be broken by now. Shattered. Begging for his mercy.”
“I don’t beg,” I said. “And I don’t break.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “You *burn*. And he loves it.” Her gaze flicked to Kaelen. “Isn’t that right, my king? You’ve never fed from a lover’s throat. Never wanted to. Until *me*.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, *painful*.
Kaelen didn’t react. Just kept his hand on my back, firm, unrelenting. “You’re not her,” he said, voice low. “And you never were.”
Her smile faltered—just for a second. Then it returned, sharper. “We’ll see.” She turned to me, eyes gleaming. “Enjoy the dance, River. It might be your last.”
And then she was gone.
I exhaled, slow, steady. 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 fever, refused to take what he could have.
That wasn’t ownership.
That was *protection*.
That was *care*.
Wasn’t it?
The music shifted—slower, deeper, a low, rhythmic pulse that rose from the stone, filling the Gardens. The torches dimmed. The air thickened. And the Fae Queen—golden eyes sharp, lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—rose from her chaise and raised her glass.
“To the bond,” she said, voice like silk and steel. “To loyalty. To *truth*.”
The crowd echoed, glasses lifting, bloodwine catching the torchlight like liquid rubies.
And then—
Kaelen turned to me.
“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 Court 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 Gardens. The torches dimmed. The air thickened. And the Court? 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 Court, 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 Court 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. Lyra stood at the edge of the crowd, her smile sharp as a blade.
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 crystal 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 Gardens. Crystal walls, lit by floating orbs of silver 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.