I woke alone.
The quiet room was still cloaked in shadow, the blue flame in the hearth reduced to a faint ember glow. The air was cool, still heavy with the scent of salt and storm, but beneath it—faint, lingering—was him. Kaelen. Dark amber. Iron. Wild. The ghost of his presence clung to the rug, to the walls, to my skin.
I sat up slowly, muscles aching, my body still tender from the fever of Heat. My thighs were slick, my core hollow, as if something vital had been taken and not returned. I pressed a hand to my stomach, trying to steady my breath, to ground myself in the aftermath. The bond hummed beneath my skin—quiet now, subdued—but it was still there. A low, insistent throb, like a heartbeat not my own.
He’d left.
Not the room. Not the Keep.
But me.
He’d carried me through the halls like I weighed nothing, laid me down with a care that made my chest ache, and then—after hours of silence, after I’d writhed and begged and broken in his shadow—he’d stayed. Watched. Protected. Denied.
And now he was gone.
I stood on unsteady legs, my boots silent on the thick rug. The window looked out over the cliffs, the sea churning below, waves crashing against black stone. The Blood Moon had set. Dawn was still hours away. The world was suspended in that breathless moment between night and day—between one truth and the next.
I touched my neck.
Where he’d almost bitten me.
Where his lips had hovered, his breath hot, his fangs just visible in the dim light. Where I’d arched into him, my body betraying me even as my mind screamed to pull away.
Why had he stopped?
Not because he didn’t want me. I’d felt his hunger—raw, unrelenting, needing. I’d seen it in his eyes, in the way his fangs had lengthened, in the low growl that had rumbled in his throat when I’d pressed my face to his thigh and begged.
He’d wanted me.
More than air. More than blood.
And still, he’d said no.
“I won’t have you like them,” he’d said. “Like animals. Like prey.”
My fingers trembled against my skin. My throat tightened.
No one had ever protected my mother.
She’d been taken during her Heat, chained in the Bloodstone Chamber, her wrists slit, her blood used to renew the Oath while she screamed for mercy. The Council had called it justice. The vampires had called it tradition. And Kaelen—Kaelen had stood by and let it happen.
Or so I’d believed.
But last night—he’d broken every rule. Every instinct. Every vampiric law that said a mate in Heat was to be claimed, bound, owned. He’d looked at me—delirious, trembling, begging—and he’d walked away.
Not because he didn’t want me.
Because he did.
And that terrified me more than any lie, any blade, any oath ever could.
I turned from the window, my breath unsteady. The room was empty, but not untouched. His coat was gone. His scent was fading. But on the chest in the corner—a simple black stone box, lid slightly ajar—I saw it.
A single blackthorn flower.
Deep violet, nearly black, its petals edged in silver. Rare. Forbidden. A symbol of loyalty in the old witch tongue. My mother used to wear one behind her ear when she thought no one was looking. I hadn’t seen one in years. Hadn’t smelled one since the night they took her.
I stepped forward, heart pounding, and lifted it.
Fresh. Dew-kissed. As if it had just been plucked from the cliffs.
My fingers brushed the petals, and a jolt of memory tore through me—my mother’s voice, soft, desperate: “If you ever find one, River, wear it. Let them see. Let them know you’re not afraid.”
I pressed it to my chest, tears burning in my eyes.
He’d left it for me.
Not as a claim. Not as a threat.
As a promise.
And I didn’t know what to do with it.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make my mission?
What did that make me?
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Just pressed a hand to the mark, my jaw clenched.
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 tucked the flower into the seam of my sleeve, where it wouldn’t be seen. Then I stepped out of the room, boots silent on the stone.
The halls were quiet. No guards. No attendants. Just silence and shadow. The Keep was still damaged from the storm—cracks in the walls, pools of shadow-water on the floor, the occasional groan of settling stone. But it was holding. Like me.
I made my way to my room, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the bathing alcove. The water was 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 touch, of his voice, of the way he’d looked at me—like I was something precious, not prey.
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 bond was no longer just a threat. It was a weapon—against me. Against him. And if I didn’t control it, it would control me.
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.
And now—the blackthorn flower.
I tucked it beside the others, my heart pounding. This was more than a weapon. More than a symbol.
It was a key.
My mother had used blackthorn in her rituals—the strongest binding-breaker in witch magic. But it required a personal token. A lock of hair. A drop of blood. A flower worn close to the heart.
And now I had one.
With this, I could weaken the Oath. Not just a rune. Not just a thread.
The whole thing.
And if the Oath broke—
Kaelen would burn with it.
The thought should have brought me satisfaction. Relief. Justice.
But it didn’t.
Instead, my chest tightened. My breath caught. My fingers curled around the pouch, pressing it to my hip like I could stop the ache.
I didn’t want him to die.
I didn’t want him to suffer.
I just wanted my family free.
And if that meant his death—
Then so be it.
I wouldn’t mourn him.
I couldn’t.
I stepped out of the room and into the hall.
The west wing was still 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. “Recovered from last night?”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t need your concern.”
“It’s not concern,” he said, voice low. “It’s ownership.”
“You don’t own me.”
“You’re mine,” he said. “And I won’t let you destroy yourself trying to prove otherwise.”
“Then let me go.”
“No.”
“Kill me.”
He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted over my lips. “I could. But I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not just my enemy,” he said. “You’re my mate. 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.
“I’m going to the Crimson Altar,” I said, forcing my voice cold. “I was invited.”
“By the High Priestess?”
“Yes.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning. I ignored it.
He tilted his head. “She 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 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 sanctum. Do what you want.”
He stepped back. “Go. Do what you came to do.”
“You’re not stopping me?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll be watching. And if you try to run—” his eyes darkened—“I’ll find you. And next time, I won’t be so gentle.”
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 blackthorn flower. 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 flower brushing lightly against the rune. A whisper of petal on stone. A flicker of violet.
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 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 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.
And as I walked, 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.