The first night in Shadowspire, I don’t sleep.
I sit on the edge of the bed in my assigned chambers—cold stone, black silk sheets, a canopy carved with snarling wolves—and listen to the silence. Not true silence. The castle breathes. Pipes hum beneath the floor. Distant footsteps echo through the halls. Somewhere, a vampire laughs, low and predatory. But beneath it all—deeper, quieter—is *him*.
Kaelen.
The bond thrums between us like a plucked wire. I can feel his presence, not in my mind, but in my blood. A slow, steady pulse. A hunger that isn’t mine, yet I feel it anyway. My skin is too tight. My heat—suppressed, but not gone—flares in response, a traitorous warmth low in my belly. I clench my thighs together, jaw tight, fingers gripping the hilt of the dagger I’ve laid across my lap.
I came here to burn this place down.
Not to *feel* him.
I close my eyes and breathe. In. Out. Slow. Controlled. I’ve spent sixteen years mastering my body, my magic, my rage. I will not let a bond—*a curse*—undo me in one night.
But when I open my eyes, I see it.
The sigil on my spine.
I twist, craning to see in the mirror across the room. The fire sigil—dormant since I was a child—glows faintly beneath my skin, a web of golden veins pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It only ignites for the true mate. The magic doesn’t lie.
And neither does my body.
I touch it. A jolt of heat surges through me, sharp and sweet. I gasp, arching. My nipples tighten. My breath quickens. It’s not pleasure. Not exactly. It’s *recognition*. As if my body knows what my mind refuses to accept.
He is my mate.
The thought makes me sick.
I stand, strip off my nightgown, and step into the shower. Ice-cold water. I let it burn my skin, my scalp, my spine. I scrub at the sigil like I can wash it away. Like I can scrub *him* out of my blood.
It doesn’t work.
The sigil still glows.
The bond still hums.
And when I step out, dripping, shivering, I catch a scent on the air—dark earth, old blood, frost and fire.
His scent.
Impossible. The door is sealed. The room is warded. But I know that smell. I *feel* it. The bond. It’s not just emotion. It’s sensation. He’s near. Watching. Waiting.
I dress quickly—black leather pants, a fitted tunic, boots that whisper against the stone. I tuck the dagger into my sleeve, another into my boot. I don’t need magic to kill him. I just need to get close.
The summons comes at dawn.
A servant—pale, silent, eyes downcast—delivers a scroll sealed with the Draven crest. I break it with a flick of my thumb.
Morgana Vale,
Per Council decree, fated pairs must undergo joint training to ensure compatibility and prevent bond instability. Report to the East Courtyard at 0700.
—Prince Kaelen Draven
Compatibility.
As if we’re some matched pair of warhorses, being broken in for battle.
I crumple the scroll and toss it into the fire.
Let him think this is about control.
Let him think he’s training me.
I’ll train *him*—in pain.
The East Courtyard is a killing ground disguised as a garden.
Marble pathways wind between obsidian statues of wolves and serpents. Moonflowers bloom in the shadows, their petals glowing faintly silver. The air is thick with the scent of iron and damp stone. And in the center—him.
Kaelen stands in the middle of the sparring ring, stripped to the waist, his chest and arms carved from shadow and muscle. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips. His feet are bare on the stone. He’s already moving—fluid, precise—a dagger in each hand, spinning, slashing, parrying invisible enemies.
He doesn’t look at me when I enter.
But I feel it. The bond flares. His pulse spikes. His scent deepens.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low, without turning.
“I was busy,” I say, stepping into the ring. “Plotting your death.”
He stills. Then turns.
His eyes—dark as a starless sky—rake over me. Slow. Deliberate. Assessing. Not just my face. My stance. My hands. My weapons.
“You brought knives,” he says.
“You expected flowers?”
A ghost of a smile. “No. But I expected fear.”
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved.”
He tosses one of the daggers to me. I catch it midair, the weight familiar, the balance perfect. It’s a Draven blade—black steel, silver hilt, etched with runes. A weapon of the Night Court.
“Rules are simple,” he says. “First blood. First pin. First surrender. We stop when one of those happens.”
“And if neither of us surrenders?”
“Then we keep going until one of us does.”
I roll my shoulders. “Let’s see how long you last.”
He doesn’t attack. Doesn’t rush. Just watches. Waits.
So I do.
We circle. The bond hums. My heat flares. His scent wraps around me—dark, intoxicating. My skin prickles. My breath hitches. I hate that he affects me. Hate that my body *wants* him, even as my mind screams to kill him.
Then he moves.
Fast. Blurring. A strike to my left. I block. Spin. Counter. He parries, but I’m already shifting, feinting right, then slashing low. He jumps back, but not fast enough—the blade nicks his thigh, drawing a thin line of blood.
First blood.
I smile. “Looks like you’re already bleeding for me.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just wipes the blood with two fingers, then licks it off, slow, deliberate. His eyes never leave mine.
“Tastes like yours,” he murmurs. “Sweet. Wild.”
My stomach flips. My heat surges. I hate him. I *hate* him.
I attack.
Blades clash. Sparks fly. I’m faster. Stronger. Trained in the Hollow Coven’s brutal style—no rules, no mercy. I fight like a wolf. Like a witch. Like a woman who’s spent sixteen years learning how to kill.
And for a moment, I have him.
I disarm him—twist his wrist, kick the dagger from his hand. He stumbles. I press forward, slashing, driving him back. He blocks, but I’m relentless. A cut to his shoulder. A slash across his ribs. He’s bleeding. Breathing hard.
Then—mistake.
I go for the kill. Overextend. He sees it. Uses it.
He drops low, sweeps my legs, and I go down hard. Before I can roll, he’s on me—knees pinning my thighs, hands locking my wrists above my head. His body presses down, heavy, hot. His face is inches from mine. His breath fans my lips. His scent floods my lungs.
First pin.
“You’re good,” he says, voice rough. “But you fight angry. That makes you reckless.”
“And you fight like a coward,” I spit. “Hiding behind rules and titles.”
His eyes darken. “I fought in the Bloodfire Uprising. I’ve killed men with my bare hands. Don’t call me a coward.”
“You let my mother die,” I hiss. “That’s not courage. That’s complicity.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just watches me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “You think I don’t regret it?”
“Regret doesn’t bring her back.”
“No,” he says. “But I can keep you alive.”
I try to buck him off. He doesn’t budge. His hips press down, and I feel it—hard, thick, unmistakable. He’s aroused. *I* did that. The thought should disgust me. But instead, heat floods my core. My body betrays me, arching up, grinding against him.
He groans. Low. Deep. His grip tightens on my wrists. His hips roll, just once, a slow, maddening grind.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s not control. That’s *you*. Your heat. Your need. It calls to me like a siren.”
“I don’t need you,” I gasp, even as my hips lift, seeking more.
“Liar.”
He leans down. His lips brush my ear. “You can fight me all you want. But your body knows the truth. You’re mine.”
I knee him—hard, in the gut. He grunts, rolls off just enough. I twist, break free, scramble to my feet. My chest heaves. My skin burns. My heat is a firestorm.
He rises slowly, wiping blood from his lip. “You’re fast. Strong. But you don’t trust your instincts.”
“I don’t trust *you*.”
“Then trust the bond.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Or a gift.”
I snarl and attack again.
This time, he doesn’t hold back.
He’s faster. Stronger. A predator unleashed. He disarms me in three moves, flips me onto my back, and pins me again—this time, one hand gripping my throat, the other holding my wrist. Not tight. Not enough to choke. But enough to remind me who’s in control.
“You’re good,” he says, voice a growl. “But I’ve had centuries to train. You’ve had sixteen years of running.”
“I wasn’t running,” I hiss. “I was preparing.”
“For what? To die for a cause your mother already died for?”
“To finish what she started.”
He leans down. His fangs graze my neck. Not a bite. A *promise*.
“Then let me help you,” he whispers. “Not as your enemy. As your mate.”
“Never.”
He releases me. Stands. Offers a hand.
I don’t take it. I rise on my own, dusting off my pants. My body aches. My heat still burns. But my mind is clear.
“We’re done,” I say.
“No,” he says. “We’re just beginning.”
I turn to leave.
“Training resumes tomorrow,” he calls after me. “Same time. Same place.”
I don’t answer.
But I know I’ll be there.
Not because I have to.
Because I *want* to.
And that terrifies me more than any blade.
I don’t go back to my chambers. I walk. Through the castle, down winding stairs, past silent guards, into the Moon Garden—a hidden courtyard where silver willows weep over black pools. Moonflowers bloom here, their scent thick, narcotic. I sit on a stone bench, close my eyes, and try to breathe.
But I can’t escape him.
The bond hums. My heat flares. My skin still burns where he touched me.
“You’re not the only one who feels it.”
I open my eyes.
Riven stands at the edge of the garden, his wolf-gold eyes watching me. Tall. Broad. Loyal. My childhood friend. My lieutenant. The only person I’ve ever trusted.
“You followed me,” I say.
“I always do,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re reckless today. Even for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He sits beside me. “I can smell it. Your heat. His scent on you.”
I stiffen. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s *everything*,” he says quietly. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? Like you’re the only light in his darkness?”
“He’s my enemy.”
“And yet you let him pin you. Grind against you. You didn’t fight back when he had your throat.”
“I was assessing his strength.”
“Liar.” He turns to me. “I’ve loved you since we were children. And I’d die for you. But I won’t watch you destroy yourself for him.”
My chest tightens. “Riven—”
“He’s dangerous, Morgana. Not just to you. To your mission. To *us*.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” He stands. “Because right now, you look like a woman who’s already lost.”
He walks away.
I don’t stop him.
Because he’s right.
I *am* losing.
Not to Kaelen.
But to myself.
To the part of me that remembers his hands on my wrists. His body over mine. The way my heat flared when he whispered, *You’re mine.*
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since I returned to Shadowspire…
I let myself wonder.
What if he’s telling the truth?
What if he tried to save her?
And what if—
Just what if—
He’s not the monster I think he is?
The thought is a spark in dry tinder.
And I am already burning.