The training yard wasn’t a yard at all.
It was a pit.
Carved from black stone, fifty feet across, ringed with iron spikes and flickering torches that burned with cold blue flame. The air smelled of old blood, sweat, and something sharper—magic, burned into the walls from centuries of combat. This was where vampires trained their fledglings. Where werewolves fought for dominance. Where witches were broken until their sigils bled.
And now, where I was going to be punished.
The guards shoved me in. I stumbled, caught myself, and turned just as the heavy gate slammed shut behind me. No weapons. No armor. Just me, in my boots and tunic, facing whatever Kaelen had planned.
“You’ll run,” he’d said. “You’ll fight. You’ll *burn*.”
I straightened, wiped the sweat from my brow, and scanned the pit.
Nothing.
No opponent. No obstacle. Just silence and shadow.
Then—movement.
A figure stepped from the far side.
Tall. Broad. Wolf-built.
Torin.
Beta of the Ashen Pack. Kaelen’s enforcer. The only vampire I’d ever seen who still carried the scent of pine and river water, like he hadn’t fully shed his human skin. He wore black leathers, his dark hair tied back, his one good eye fixed on me. The other—the ruined one—was covered by a silver patch etched with a wolf’s fang.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, voice steady.
He didn’t answer. Just drew a blade—a curved, silver-edged dagger—and crouched into a fighting stance.
I exhaled. Pulled my own—small, hidden in my boot. Not much. But enough.
We circled.
The bond hummed between me and Kaelen, distant but present, like a pulse beneath the earth. I could feel him watching. Not from the stands—there were no stands. He was somewhere above, in the shadows, in the silence. Watching. Waiting.
Torin lunged.
I dodged, rolled, came up slashing. My blade caught his arm—shallow, but it drew blood. He didn’t flinch. Just growled and came at me again, faster this time. I blocked, parried, kicked. My wolf surged, eager for the fight, for the hunt. But I held her back. This wasn’t about winning. It was about surviving. About proving I wouldn’t break.
He feinted left, went right. His fist caught my jaw. I tasted blood. Spun, kicked out, caught him in the ribs. He grunted, staggered, but didn’t fall.
Again.
Again.
We fought for what felt like hours. Sweat soaked my clothes. My muscles burned. My breath came in ragged gasps. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every time I faltered, the bond flared—hot, insistent—reminding me that Kaelen was near, that he was watching, that he *wanted* to see me fail.
But I wouldn’t.
On the tenth pass, I disarmed him. My dagger at his throat. His back against the wall.
He didn’t fight. Just looked at me, breathing hard. “You’re good,” he said, voice rough.
“I had to be.”
“He’s going to make it worse next time.”
“Let him.”
He nodded, almost respectfully. Then, soft enough that only I could hear: “You’re not what he expected.”
Before I could ask what he meant, a voice cut through the silence.
“Enough.”
Kaelen.
He stood at the gate, tall and still, hands clasped behind his back. No expression. No anger. Just… assessment.
The guards opened the gate. Torin stepped back. I lowered my blade.
“You lasted,” Kaelen said, stepping into the pit. “Impressive.”
“I’m not fragile,” I spat, wiping blood from my lip.
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re not invincible either.”
He walked toward me, slow, deliberate. The bond flared—hotter now, more urgent. My skin prickled. My breath hitched.
“You disrupted the ritual,” he said. “You fought Torin. You lied to the Priestess.”
“And you let me,” I said. “Why?”
He stopped a breath away. “Because I needed to know if you were worth the risk.”
“Risk of what?”
“Of being mine.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’m not—”
“Don’t,” he warned. “Not this time.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper. I clenched my jaw, refusing to react.
He reached out, not to touch me, but to signal the guards. “Take her to the Blood Hall. Prepare her.”
“For what?” I demanded.
“A test,” he said. “To confirm what the bond already knows.”
“What bond? What test?”
He smiled—slow, dangerous. “A blood-sharing test. To verify your lineage. To see if you’re truly who I think you are.”
My blood ran cold.
Blood-sharing wasn’t just intimacy. It was invasion. A vampire could taste your memories, your desires, your deepest fears in a single drop. Three exchanges, and you were addicted. Bound. *Owned*.
And if he tasted my blood—
He’d know everything.
My real name.
My mother’s last words.
The truth about the Oath.
“I won’t do it,” I said.
“You will,” he said. “Or I’ll take it by force.”
The guards grabbed my arms. I fought—kicked, twisted, slammed my heel into one’s instep—but they were too strong. Too many. They dragged me from the pit, through winding corridors, up a narrow stair, and into a room I’d never seen before.
The Blood Hall.
It wasn’t grand. No thrones. No banners. Just a long obsidian table, lit by floating orbs of crimson light. At the center sat a silver basin, filled with dark liquid that wasn’t quite blood, wasn’t quite water. Around it, thirteen empty goblets—each etched with a sigil of binding.
They forced me to the table. Stripped off my left glove. Pressed my wrist over the basin.
Kaelen entered behind us, rolling up his sleeves. His fangs were already out—long, sharp, glinting in the low light.
“This doesn’t have to hurt,” he said, stepping close. “But it will if you resist.”
“Go to hell.”
He sighed. “Always so dramatic.”
Then he took my wrist.
Not roughly. Not gently. But with absolute certainty, like he had every right. His fingers wrapped around my pulse, cool and firm. My breath caught. My skin burned. The bond flared—hot, deep, *intimate*—and I felt it then, not just in my body, but in my blood: a pull, a hunger, a *recognition*.
He leaned in.
His breath was warm against my skin. His lips brushed my inner wrist—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, straight to my core. My thighs clenched. My breath hitched.
“You feel it,” he murmured. “Don’t lie.”
“I don’t—”
The sigil burned.
I gasped, arching into his touch. My hips shifted forward, just slightly. Just enough.
He smiled. “Good girl.”
Then he bit me.
Not deep. Not to drain. Just a precise, controlled puncture—two small holes just above my pulse. A trickle of blood welled, dark and rich, and dripped into the basin below.
I cried out—not from pain, but from the *sensation*.
It wasn’t just the bite. It was the *heat* of his mouth. The slow, deliberate pull as he tasted me. The way his tongue dragged over the wound, sealing it, *soothing* it. Pleasure spiked through me—sharp, undeniable—worse than pain, better than release. My knees buckled. I would’ve fallen if the guards hadn’t held me.
He lifted his head.
His lips were stained red. His eyes—crimson, depthless—locked onto mine. And in that moment, I saw it: not triumph. Not cruelty.
Hunger.
Raw. Unfiltered. *Needing*.
“Witch-blood,” he said, voice rough. “With a thread of wolf. But… older. Deeper.” He inhaled, slow. “I taste power. Legacy. A name I can’t reach.”
My heart pounded.
He could feel it. The truth. Just out of reach.
“Again,” he said.
“No,” I whispered.
“Again.”
He brought my wrist back to his mouth. This time, he didn’t just bite.
He *sucked*.
A deep, slow pull that sent waves of sensation crashing through me. My head fell back. A moan tore from my throat—raw, desperate, *uncontrolled*. My hips arched. My core clenched. I could feel the wetness between my thighs, could smell my own arousal sharp in the air.
And him—his scent, dark and intoxicating—filled my lungs.
He groaned against my skin. “Gods, you taste like *mine*.”
He lifted his head again, blood on his lips, his eyes blazing. “Third time.”
“Please—”
“No more begging.”
He didn’t bite this time.
He licked.
Long, slow strokes of his tongue over the wound—warm, wet, *maddening*. Each pass sent shocks of pleasure up my arm, down my spine, pooling between my legs. My breath came in shallow gasps. My body trembled. My wolf whined inside me, not in pain, but in *pleasure*.
He pulled back, watching me. “Your body knows the truth,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Even if your mind won’t admit it.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“You want me.”
“No—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you raw.”
I stayed silent.
He reached out, brushed a tear from my cheek—tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “You’re strong,” he said. “Stubborn. Fierce. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”
“Then you’re weak.”
He smiled. “Or you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel *alive*.”
He turned to the basin. The liquid had changed—swirled with gold and silver, glowing faintly. The sigils on the goblets flared one by one.
“The test is complete,” he said. “Your blood confirms it.”
“Confirms what?”
He turned back to me, eyes burning. “You’re not just my fated mate.”
My breath caught.
“You’re the last heir of Elara Vale. The witch who tried to break the Oath a century ago.”
My blood ran cold.
He knew.
Not everything. Not my real name. Not the full truth.
But enough.
“You came to destroy me,” he said. “To finish what your mother started.”
“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin. “And I will.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer. “Then why did your blood sing for me? Why did your body tremble when I touched you? Why—” his hand lifted, brushed my jaw—“do you look at me like you’re already mine?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Because the truth was—
I *did* want him.
Not just my body.
But my soul.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any monster ever could.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips. “You can fight me,” he said. “You can hate me. You can try to destroy me.”
His thumb stroked my lower lip. “But you’ll never stop *wanting* me.”
He pulled back. “Guards. Return her to her room. And—” he met my eyes—“no more sabotage. Or next time, I won’t stop at a blood test.”
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.
Need.
Raw. Unrelenting. *Unforgivable*.
I touched my wrist where he’d bitten me.
The skin was smooth. Healed.
But the mark?
The mark was inside.
And it wasn’t just in my blood.
It was in my heart.
And I didn’t know how to tear it out.
Because every time I tried, all I could think about was his mouth 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 bite 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.