The next morning, I woke with the taste of ash and fury in my mouth.
I lay still for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of my breath. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the ceiling. Outside, the first gray light of dawn crept through the heavy velvet drapes, painting the stone walls in pale silver. Blackthorn Keep was silent—no footsteps, no voices, no distant hum of magic. Just the quiet, the cold, and the relentless thrum of the bond beneath my skin.
It hadn’t faded. Not after last night’s Touch Pact. Not after the way my body had betrayed me, trembling under Kaelen’s touch, aching for more. If anything, it was stronger now—darker, deeper, like roots had taken hold in my bones and were slowly spreading.
I sat up, wincing as the silk sheets slid from my bare shoulders. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes, boots still on, tension coiled so tight in my muscles I felt like I’d been fighting all night. My wrist still tingled where he’d held me—where his thumb had stroked the delicate skin, sending shocks of pleasure up my arm, straight to my core. I clenched my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm. A small, sharp pain. Grounding.
I wouldn’t think about it.
I couldn’t.
I stood, stripped off the tunic and trousers, and stepped into the bathing alcove. The water was already 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 voice, his scent, the way his eyes had darkened when I trembled.
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 gritted my teeth.
No. I didn’t.
I was River Vale. Daughter of Elara. Witch of the Blackthorn Line. I had come to break the Duskbane Oath, not fall to my knees for the monster who’d killed my mother.
And I still would.
But I had to be smarter now. The Council had bound us with the Touch Pact, turning our every encounter into a battlefield of sensation and control. Kaelen would use it against me—he already had. He’d seen how my body responded, how my breath hitched, how I’d nearly moaned when he touched me. He’d use that. Again and again. Until I broke.
So I wouldn’t give him the chance.
I washed quickly, dried off, and pulled on fresh clothes—dark trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots laced tight. Practical. Unremarkable. I braided my hair back, secured it with a leather tie. 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 three things: a sliver of blackthorn bark, a vial of dried moonlight (stolen from a Fae market), and a tiny silver pin etched with a sigil of disruption.
The last of my weapons.
I tucked the pin into the seam of my sleeve, where it wouldn’t be seen. The bark and vial I left hidden. I wouldn’t need them today. But I would soon.
I stepped out of the room and into the hall.
The west wing was quiet, the corridors dimly lit by flickering sconces. No guards in sight. No attendants. Just silence. It was too easy. Too deliberate. Kaelen wasn’t stupid. He knew I’d try something. He’d be watching. Waiting.
Good.
Let him watch.
I moved quickly, silently, following the familiar path to the eastern wing, where the lesser rituals were held. The Bloodstone Chamber was sealed after the Oath Renewal, but the secondary sanctum—the Crimson Altar—was still active. Today, they’d be conducting a minor blood-binding, reinforcing the loyalty of a newly turned vampire to House Duskbane. It was a small ritual, but it fed into the larger web of the Oath. If I could disrupt it—if I could weaken even a single thread—the whole structure might fray.
And if the structure frayed, it could break.
I turned the final corner and stopped.
The door to the sanctum was open, a soft red glow spilling into the hall. Voices murmured from within—chants, low and rhythmic. The air smelled of iron and incense, thick with magic. My wolf stirred inside me, restless, sensing power. My witch’s blood hummed in response.
I took a breath. Stepped forward.
“Going somewhere?”
I froze.
Kaelen stood at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall like he’d been there all night. Dressed in black as always, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it. His eyes—crimson, knowing—locked onto mine.
“I could ask you the same,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
“I live here,” he said, pushing off the wall. “You’re the guest.”
“Prisoner,” I corrected.
He smiled, slow, dangerous. “Semantics.”
He walked toward me, each step deliberate, silent. The bond flared between us, heat rising in my chest, my skin prickling. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him come.
“You’re up early,” he said, stopping just a breath away. “Eager for our next touch?”
My jaw tightened. “I’m not eager for anything involving you.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning. I ignored it.
He inhaled, slow, like he was savoring the air around me. “Liar,” he murmured. “Your scent says otherwise.”
“My scent says I’m disgusted by you.”
“Then why is it spiking?”
I didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, refusing to look away. Refusing to let him see the truth: that my body *was* reacting. That the heat between my thighs had returned the moment he stepped into the hall. That my pulse had jumped at the sound of his voice.
He stepped closer. His chest nearly brushed mine. I could feel the heat of him, the quiet power thrumming beneath his stillness. His hand lifted, slow, and brushed a loose strand of hair from my forehead. His fingers grazed my skin—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet.
“You’re hiding something,” he said, voice low, intimate. “I can feel it. In the bond. In your blood.”
“You feel nothing,” I snapped.
“I feel *you*.”
My breath hitched.
He smiled. “There it is. That little gasp. That tremble. You can’t hide from me, River. Not anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said, forcing my voice cold. “I’m going to the Crimson Altar. I was invited.”
“Invited?”
“By the High Priestess.”
He tilted his head. “And when did she invite you?”
“Last night. After the Council.”
The sigil burned.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him, daring him to call me on it.
He did.
“Liar,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “The High Priestess hasn’t left the sanctum in three days. She didn’t speak to you.”
“Then I misheard.”
Burn.
Another wave of fire. I clenched my teeth, refusing to cry out. Sweat beaded on my temple. My vision blurred for a second.
Kaelen saw it. Of course he did.
His hand moved, fast, gripping my arm just above the elbow. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to hold. To *claim*.
“You’re going to sabotage the ritual,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
Burn.
I gasped, arching into his grip. My hips shifted forward, just slightly. Just enough.
He felt it. His eyes darkened. His fangs flashed. “You want to break the Oath. I get it. But this isn’t the way.”
“It’s the only way.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then I die.”
He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips. “And if you succeed?”
“Then my bloodline is free.”
“And me?”
“You burn with it.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just watched me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “You think I’m the monster,” he said. “But you’d kill thousands to destroy me. Is that justice? Or just revenge?”
“It’s both.”
He exhaled, slow. Then, to my shock, he let go.
“Go,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“Go to the sanctum. Do what you came to do.”
My pulse jumped. Suspicion coiled in my gut. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you try.”
“You’re setting a trap.”
“Maybe,” he said, stepping back. “Or maybe I just want to know what you’re capable of.”
He turned, started to walk away. Then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Ten seconds, River. Don’t forget.”
And then he 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.
He’d let me go.
Why?
It didn’t matter. I had my chance. And I wouldn’t waste it.
I stepped into the sanctum.
The air was thick with magic, pulsing like a heartbeat. The Crimson Altar stood at the center—a slab of black stone veined with red, carved with ancient runes. A young vampire knelt before it, wrists slit, blood dripping into a silver chalice. The High Priestess, robed in crimson, chanted in a language older than memory. The walls shimmered with blood-light, the runes glowing brighter with each drop.
I moved to the edge of the room, pretending to observe. My fingers slipped into my sleeve, found the silver pin. My heart hammered, but my hands were steady. I focused on the ritual, on the flow of magic, on the weak points in the enchantment.
There.
A single rune on the altar’s eastern edge—*Veshran*, the sigil of binding. If I could disrupt it, just for a second, the ritual would falter. The blood wouldn’t bind. The Oath’s thread would weaken.
I waited. Watched. Counted the beats of the chant.
Then, when the Priestess raised the chalice to the ceiling, I moved.
Quick. Silent. My hand darted out, the pin scraping lightly against the rune. A whisper of metal on stone. A flicker of silver.
And then—
A spark.
Just one. Small. Fleeting.
But enough.
The runes dimmed. The chant stuttered. The blood in the chalice turned black for a heartbeat—then cleared.
The Priestess turned, eyes blazing. “Who disrupted the rite?”
Silence.
All eyes turned to me.
I stepped back, hands at my sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The sigil on my hip burned.
I cried out, doubling over. Pain lanced through me—white-hot, searing. I dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, sweat breaking across my brow.
“She lies,” hissed the Priestess. “The Silence Sigil does not burn without cause.”
I lifted my head, glaring. “I didn’t do anything.”
Burn.
Another wave. I groaned, curling in on myself.
Then—
“Enough.”
Kaelen stepped into the sanctum, calm, composed, like he’d been expecting this. He didn’t look at me. Just walked to the altar, examined the rune I’d touched.
“The binding is weakened,” he said. “But not broken.”
“She did this,” the Priestess said.
“Did you?” Kaelen asked, finally turning to me.
I stayed silent.
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.
“You’re reckless,” he murmured. “And stupid. You think a scratched rune 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 stood, pulling me up with him. “Guards. Take her to the training yard. Let her run. Let her fight. Let her *burn*.”
“No,” I said. “I won’t—”
“You will,” he said. “Or the next touch won’t be so gentle.”
They dragged me out.
But as they hauled me down the hall, I didn’t feel fear.
I didn’t feel shame.
I felt something worse.
Triumph.
The rune was weakened.
The thread was fraying.
And Kaelen?
He hadn’t killed me.
He hadn’t even punished me.
He’d *tested* me.
And I’d passed.
The mission wasn’t over.
It had just begun.
And this time, I wouldn’t be alone.
Because somewhere, deep in the Blood District, Mira was waiting.
And she knew the truth.
Not just about the Oath.
But about me.
About who I really was.
And what I was truly capable of.