The first thing they took was my dagger.
Not violently. Not dramatically. Just a quiet hand on my arm as Kael led me from the Grand Atrium, a vampire guard stepping forward with a silver tray. No words. Just an expectation.
I didn’t resist. Not yet. My fingers brushed the hidden hilt beneath my sleeve, the cold metal a familiar comfort. But I unstrapped it, placed it on the tray with deliberate calm. Let them think I’m compliant. Let them believe the bond has already broken me.
It hadn’t.
The bond still hummed beneath my skin, a low, insistent current that pulsed in time with Kael’s heartbeat—steady, controlled, infuriatingly calm. Every step we took together sent a ripple through it, like dragging a live wire across raw nerves. My storm magic crackled in response, restless, agitated. I could feel it building in my chest, a pressure behind my ribs, begging to be unleashed. But I held it back. Not here. Not now. Not when every noble in the Fae High Court was watching, waiting for me to slip.
The second thing they took was my autonomy.
We didn’t go to my assigned chambers. We didn’t even leave the dais corridor. Kael turned sharply down a narrow, torch-lit passage veined with glowing runes, his grip on my hand unrelenting. I tried to pull back.
“My rooms are in the east wing,” I said, voice low, clipped.
He didn’t slow. “Not anymore.”
“I have a right—”
“You have nothing,” he cut in, glancing at me, his obsidian eyes glinting in the flickering light. “You’re bound to me. You live where I live. You sleep where I sleep. That’s the law. That’s the *bond*.”
My stomach dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.”
We reached a set of black iron doors etched with serpentine vines—Valen sigils. A guard bowed, pressing a hand to the stone. The doors groaned open, revealing a chamber that stole my breath.
Not for its beauty. But for its prison.
The room was vast—high ceilings carved with scenes of ancient blood rituals, walls lined with dark mahogany bookshelves and weapons displays. A massive hearth dominated one wall, cold and empty. The floor was black marble veined with silver, reflecting the dim glow of enchanted sconces. Silk drapes in deep crimson hung heavy over arched windows that overlooked the city of Edinburgh, veiled in perpetual twilight beneath the Fae Court’s glamour.
And in the center—a bed. Huge. Canopied in black velvet, draped with chains of silver and blood-red gemstones. It looked like a sacrificial altar.
“Welcome to my suite,” Kael said, releasing my hand at last. “Your new home.”
“This isn’t a home,” I said, stepping inside, my voice echoing. “It’s a tomb.”
He shut the doors behind us with a soft click. “It’s safer than yours. Less drafty. Less chance of assassins in the night.”
“Or less chance of me escaping.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he moved to a side table, pouring two glasses of dark red liquid from a crystal decanter. Blood wine. The scent hit me—iron, plum, something faintly sweet. My stomach twisted.
“Drink,” he said, offering me a glass.
“No.”
“It’s not poisoned.”
“I don’t care. I won’t drink your blood, Kael.”
He set the glass down, eyes narrowing. “It’s not *my* blood. It’s synthetic. Court-regulated. Safe.”
“Safe for whom?” I shot back. “You? Or your political image?”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like a growl. “You think this is a game? You think I enjoy this? Being bound to a woman who wants me dead?”
“I think you enjoy control,” I said, stepping closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I think you thrive on it. And now you have me—your enemy, your prisoner—forced to play your little courtly farce. Must be *delicious*.”
For the first time, his mask cracked. A flicker of something—anger, maybe pain—flashed in his eyes. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done to keep my father’s legacy from consuming this house. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed.”
“And whose fault is that?” I challenged. “You could have stopped him. You could have freed my mother.”
“I was *seventeen*,” he snapped, voice sharp as a blade. “A prince in name only. My father ruled with blood and fear. I had no power. No voice. And when I tried to help her—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
My breath caught. “You *tried*?”
He turned away, pouring himself a glass. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone. And you’re here. And the bond is real. So stop fighting it and start surviving.”
I wanted to rage. To scream. To summon lightning and tear this room apart. But I held back. Because in that moment, I saw it—the crack in his armor. The guilt. The grief. Not for my mother. But for his own helplessness.
And I hated that I cared.
“I’ll survive,” I said coldly. “But I’ll never play your obedient little fiancée. Not unless I have to.”
He turned back, eyes unreadable. “Then you’ll suffer.”
“I’ve suffered since I was six years old,” I said. “Try harder.”
We stood there, locked in silence, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The air was thick with unspoken threats, with tension that wasn’t just political—it was *personal*. Intimate. I could feel the heat of him, the pull of his presence, the way my body responded despite my hatred.
And then—
He moved.
Not toward me. Not to attack. But to a chest at the foot of the bed. He opened it, pulling out a folded bundle of fabric—deep blue silk, embroidered with silver storm sigils.
My breath caught.
It was a nightgown. *My* nightgown. The one I’d packed. The one with my mother’s magic woven into the hem.
“How did you—?”
“I had your things moved,” he said, holding it out. “Everything. Your clothes. Your books. Even that ridiculous silver hairpin shaped like a lightning bolt.”
My fingers trembled as I took it. The fabric was soft, familiar. But it felt like a trap. A gesture of control disguised as kindness.
“You went through my things?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I needed to know what weapons you had. What spells. What secrets.”
“And?”
“Found three more daggers. A vial of paralysis powder. And a journal filled with increasingly creative ways to kill me.”
I lifted my chin. “I update it daily.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “I’m flattered.”
Then he turned, walking toward a door on the far side of the room. “Bathroom’s through there. Servants will bring dinner in an hour. Don’t try to leave. The doors are warded. The windows are warded. And I’ll know if you so much as breathe wrong.”
“Charming.”
He paused at the threshold. “One more thing.”
“Of course.”
“The bond.” He turned back, his voice lower now. “It’s not just political. It’s *biological*. If we’re apart for more than twenty-four hours, it triggers *Storm Sickness*—for you. Lightning from your skin. Pain. Madness. And for me… it’s not pleasant either.”
I swallowed. “So we’re chained together. Literally.”
“Effectively.”
“And if I die?”
“Then I’ll feel it. And I’ll make sure your death means war.”
“How noble.”
He held my gaze. “I’m not your enemy, Tide. Not yet. But you keep pushing, and I will become one.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence.
I stood there, clutching the nightgown, my body trembling—not from fear, but from fury. From the sheer, suffocating *wrongness* of it all. I had come here to destroy him. To break the bond that enslaved my mother.
And now I was trapped in his bedchamber, wearing his ring—no, wait—
I looked down at my left hand.
Empty.
No ring. Not yet.
But the absence felt heavier than any metal.
I dropped the nightgown on the bed and paced, my boots clicking against the stone. The room was a fortress—no weak points, no hidden exits. The windows were too high, the sills too narrow. The door was warded, he’d said. And even if I could break through, where would I go? The entire court knew I was his now. Any move I made would be seen as treason.
I was boxed in.
But not broken.
I stopped in front of a mirror—tall, ornate, framed in black iron. My reflection stared back: storm-gray eyes, pale face, lips still slightly parted from the shock of the day. My hair was coming loose from its pins, strands curling around my face like smoke.
And then—
A flicker.
In the mirror, behind me, the air shimmered. A ripple, like heat over stone. I spun, magic flaring in my palms—
Nothing.
Just the empty room.
But I’d felt it. A presence. A whisper of power.
“Riven?” I whispered.
No answer.
I stepped closer to the mirror, tracing the frame. The iron was cold, the runes faintly glowing. Then I saw it—a tiny sigil etched into the corner. A werewolf mark. A message.
I pressed my palm against it.
A voice, low and rough, echoed in my mind.
“They’re watching. Don’t trust the servants. Kael’s not what you think. And Tide—be careful. He’s not the only one who wants you bound.”
Riven.
I exhaled, relief and dread warring in my chest. He was still with me. Still watching.
But he was right. I couldn’t trust anyone.
Not even my own instincts.
Because as I turned back to the mirror, I caught my reflection again—and this time, I saw it.
The way my fingers had lingered on the nightgown.
The way my breath had hitched when Kael spoke of suffering.
The way my body still hummed with the memory of his touch.
I wasn’t just fighting the bond.
I was fighting *myself*.
A knock at the door.
I tensed, magic coiling in my veins.
“Enter,” I called, voice steady.
The door opened. A vampire servant—pale, expressionless—wheeled in a cart laden with food: roasted venison, blood-orange compote, dark bread, a carafe of water. No wine.
“Dinner, my lady,” the servant said, bowing.
“Leave it,” I said.
They did. The door shut. I waited—counted to fifty—then moved to the cart. Sniffed the food. Tested it with a drop of blood from my fingertip. No reaction. Safe.
I ate slowly, every bite a battle. My mind raced—plans forming, failing, reforming. I needed the contract. I needed proof. I needed to know what Kael wasn’t telling me.
And I needed to survive the night.
After dinner, I changed into the nightgown, the silk cool against my skin. I washed my face, braided my hair, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.
Hours passed.
The torches dimmed. The room grew colder.
Then—
The door opened.
Kael stepped in, dressed in black silk robes, his hair slightly tousled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He froze when he saw me.
“You’re still dressed,” he said.
“Observant.”
He closed the door, locking it. “You could have slept.”
“I don’t sleep with enemies in the room.”
“Then you’ll be tired tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage.”
He moved to the far side of the bed, pulling back the covers. “You take the left. I’ll take the right. We don’t touch. We don’t speak. We survive the night. Understood?”
“Crystal.”
I stood, walking around to the other side. The mattress dipped as I sat. The sheets were cold. The air between us was charged.
We lay down.
Backs to each other.
Silence.
And then—
The bond flared.
A sudden, searing heat shot through my body, low in my belly, spreading like wildfire. I gasped, rolling onto my side—
And collided with him.
He’d turned too.
Our faces were inches apart. His breath was cool against my lips. His eyes, in the dim light, were wide, startled. The bond surged again, stronger this time, a pulse of raw, unfiltered desire that wasn’t mine alone.
I could feel *his* want. His hunger. His restraint.
“Control it,” he growled, voice rough.
“I *am*,” I lied, my body trembling.
He reached out, gripping my wrist—his touch like ice and fire. “The bond—it reacts to proximity. To emotion. To *arousal*.”
“Then maybe you should sleep somewhere else.”
“Can’t,” he said, his thumb brushing my pulse point. “Storm Sickness. Remember?”
Our eyes locked.
The air between us crackled.
And then, slowly, he released my wrist.
“Turn over,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn over. Back to back. It’ll help.”
I hesitated—then did as he said.
We lay there, rigid, the bond still humming, but quieter now. The heat receded, though the tension didn’t.
Minutes passed.
Then—
His voice, low, in the dark.
“Tide.”
“What.”
“When this is over… if we both survive… what will you do?”
I didn’t answer at first. Then, softly: “I’ll burn it all down.”
He was silent for a long time.
Then, just as I thought he’d fallen asleep—
“You’ll need help.”
I didn’t respond.
But in the darkness, I smiled.
Not because I trusted him.
But because for the first time, I wasn’t sure he was lying.