The scream still echoed in my skull when I woke.
Not the one from the corridor—sharp, panicked, cut short—but the one I hadn’t made. The one that had built behind my ribs, hot and suffocating, the moment Kaelen’s hand slid beneath my tunic, the moment his thumb brushed the underside of my breast, the moment I arched into him like a starved thing. That scream lived in my blood now, pulsing with every heartbeat, tangled with the bond’s relentless hum.
I hadn’t slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of nightmares—visions of my mother’s body, of Kaelen’s fangs in my neck, of Lyria’s smile as she whispered, “He fed me for three nights.” And then, worse: dreams of his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the way my body had answered him like it belonged to him.
I pressed my palm to the mark on my wrist. It pulsed beneath my skin, warm and insistent, as if it knew I was thinking of him. As if it wanted me to.
Outside, the storm had passed. The sky was clear, the mountains sharp against the dawn. The Spire stood silent, as if holding its breath. No one had spoken of the scream. No bodies had been found. No investigation announced. It was as if it had never happened.
But I knew better.
Someone had screamed.
Someone had been afraid.
And I was starting to think it was me.
—
I found Lyria in the solarium.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. The glass-domed chamber was reserved for Council elders, a place of quiet reflection, of sunlight and silence. But there she was, lounging on a chaise longue, draped in a silk robe that shimmered like blood under the morning light. Her pale hair spilled over one shoulder, her lips slightly parted, her eyes half-lidded. And she was wearing his shirt again—black silk, tailored, the cuffs unbuttoned, the collar loose. The scent of him—cold stone, iron, that dark hunger—clung to her like a second skin.
She didn’t look up when I entered. Just kept staring at the ceiling, one hand trailing along the edge of the chaise, her fingers brushing the fabric like it was a lover.
“You’re up early,” she purred, voice low, honeyed. “Or perhaps… you never slept?”
I didn’t answer. Just walked forward, my boots clicking against the marble floor, my dagger a cold weight against my calf. The bond flared on my wrist, a hot pulse of warning.
“You took it,” I said, voice low. “His shirt.”
She smiled, slow, knowing. “Oh, this?” She ran her fingers down the front, smoothing the fabric over her stomach. “Kaelen let me borrow it. After our night together.”
My pulse roared.
“Liar.”
“Am I?” She turned her head, her silver eyes locking onto mine. “Three nights, Sable. Three nights he gave me his blood. Three nights I slept in his bed. He said it was to test the bond. To see if it could be broken.”
“And did it?”
She smiled. “No. But he enjoyed trying.”
I wanted to hit her. To draw my dagger and make her bleed. To rip that shirt from her body and burn it in front of her.
But I didn’t.
Because the worst part wasn’t the lie.
It was the way my chest ached. The way my throat tightened. The way heat pooled low in my belly—not with desire, but with envy.
I shouldn’t care.
I didn’t care.
And yet—
What if she was telling the truth?
What if he had fed her? Touched her? Held her in the dark, whispered her name like a prayer?
What if he’d done with her what he’d done with me—what he’d almost done—last night?
“You don’t believe me?” Lyria asked, sitting up slowly, the robe slipping off one shoulder. “Ask him. Go on. Ask Kaelen if he’s ever fed from another since the bond activated.”
“I don’t need to,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I know what he is.”
“Do you?” She reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing the pulse point on her neck. “He bites softly. Slowly. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s savoring me.”
My breath hitched.
“You’re pathetic,” I said, stepping back. “You think wearing his clothes makes you special? That sleeping with him gives you power?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “I know it does.”
And then she was gone, gliding past me like smoke, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding, my skin burning.
Three nights.
Three nights he gave me his blood.
The words echoed in my skull, sharp and cruel. I thought of the way he’d touched me—possessive, hungry, knowing. Thought of the bond, flaring with every brush of his hand. Thought of how he’d said, “I haven’t fed in fifteen years. Until you.”
Had he lied?
Was Lyria telling the truth?
And worse—why did the thought of him touching her make my chest ache like a wound?
—
I didn’t go to my chambers.
Didn’t return to the training hall. Didn’t seek out Kaelen. I walked—fast, hard, boots slamming against stone, my breath ragged, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The Spire twisted around me, its corridors narrowing, its torches flickering like dying stars, but I didn’t care. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Because if I stopped, I’d have to think.
And I couldn’t think. Not after what I’d seen. Not after what I’d felt.
Jealousy.
Hot. Sharp. Unwanted.
I’d spent my life mastering control. Training my body, my mind, my magic. I’d learned to mask my scent, to silence my footsteps, to lie with my eyes as easily as my tongue. But this—this raw, clawing need to know, to see, to hurt—it was something I couldn’t control.
And it terrified me.
I turned a corner and slammed my fist into the stone wall. Pain flared up my arm, sharp and grounding. Good. I needed it. Needed to feel something real, something that wasn’t the ghost of his touch, the echo of his breath, the memory of his voice—“Next time, I won’t stop.”
I pressed my forehead to the cold stone, breathing hard. My dagger was still strapped to my calf. Still cold. Still mine. I could draw it. Could run. Could disappear into the wilds, let the Tribes fend for themselves, let the Council burn.
But I wouldn’t.
Because I wasn’t a coward.
And because I wasn’t sure I wanted to run.
—
I found myself outside her chambers.
Not by choice. Not by plan.
By instinct.
The door was slightly ajar—just a crack, just enough to see inside. The room was opulent—black silk drapes, gilded mirrors, the air thick with the scent of dark roses and blood. And there she was, standing in front of the mirror, still wearing his shirt, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes.
I didn’t knock.
Didn’t announce myself.
Just stepped inside, my boots clicking against the floor.
She didn’t turn. Just kept brushing, her reflection watching me in the mirror. “Back so soon?” she asked, voice smooth. “Miss me?”
“You lied,” I said.
She smiled. “About what?”
“The blood. The nights. The feeding.”
“Did I?” She set the brush down, turning to face me. “Or did I just say what you wanted to hear?”
“You said he fed you.”
“And?”
“He hasn’t.”
She tilted her head. “How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
“And you believe him?” She stepped closer, her perfume wrapping around me. “You believe the man who bound you against your will? Who forced you into this farce of a union? Who watches you like you’re his next meal?”
“I believe what I feel,” I said, voice low. “And I feel the truth.”
She laughed—soft, mocking. “Oh, Sable. You feel desire. You feel need. You feel the bond pulling you toward him like a puppet on a string. But that’s not truth. That’s magic.”
“And you?” I stepped closer. “What do you feel when you wear his shirt? When you pretend you’ve had him? Is that magic too?”
Her smile faltered.
“I don’t pretend,” she said, voice colder now. “I know what it’s like to be wanted. To be chosen.”
“You’re not chosen,” I said. “You’re a distraction. A pawn. He let you think you had power because he wanted to see how far you’d go.”
“And you?” She stepped even closer, her silver eyes burning into mine. “What are you? The vengeful daughter? The hybrid whore? The woman who kisses him like she means it, then runs away like a coward?”
My hand flew before I could stop it.
My palm cracked across her face, sharp and loud.
She didn’t flinch. Just touched her cheek, her fingers brushing the red mark, her lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. “You’re jealous,” she whispered. “You hate that I’ve had him. That I’ve tasted him. That I know what he’s like when he comes apart.”
“You’ve never had him,” I said, voice shaking. “You’ve never tasted him. You’ve never known him.”
“And you have?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “You think one kiss makes you special? One ritual? One desperate act of healing? You’re nothing to him, Sable. You’re a mistake. A glitch in the system. A hybrid with a pulse and a pulse is all he needs to keep the bond alive.”
“Then why hasn’t he fed from anyone else?” I demanded. “Why hasn’t he touched anyone else? Why does he look at me like I’m the only thing in this cursed world that matters?”
Her smile faded.
“Because he’s waiting,” she said, voice low. “Waiting for you to break. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to say, ‘Take me.’ And when you do—when you finally surrender—he’ll claim you. Not as his mate. As his possession.”
“And you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
“Power,” she said. “Legacy. A place at his side. And you’re in my way.”
“Then fight me,” I said. “Not with lies. Not with stolen shirts. Fight me like a warrior.”
“I don’t need to,” she said. “You’re already losing. You came here to kill him. And now you’re saving him. You came here to hate him. And now you’re jealous of me. You’re not a hunter, Sable. You’re prey.”
“And you?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re not a rival. You’re a ghost. A shadow. A woman clinging to the scent of a man who doesn’t want you. And when he finally claims me—when he finally bites me, when he finally drinks from me, when he finally makes me his—you’ll be nothing. Just another lie he saw through.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stared at me, her silver eyes wide, her breath coming fast.
And then—
She smiled.
Slow. Bitter. Defeated.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve never had him. I’ve never tasted him. I’ve never known him.”
My breath caught.
“But I wanted to,” she whispered. “I wanted to so badly. I thought if I wore his clothes, if I said I’d been with him, if I made you jealous—he’d notice me. He’d want me. He’d choose me.”
“And did he?”
She shook her head. “No. He saw through me. Just like you said. He let me think I had power because he wanted to see how far I’d go. And now… now he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I’m weak. That I’m desperate. That I’ll do anything to be chosen.”
I stared at her. Not with hatred. Not with anger.
With pity.
Because for the first time, I saw her not as a rival, but as a woman broken by the same hunger that haunted me. A woman who’d tried to steal a man’s scent because she couldn’t bear the silence of being unloved.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, voice softer now. “You don’t have to lie. You don’t have to steal. You could be more than this.”
She laughed—a broken sound. “And what would I be? A hybrid with no house? A vampire with no bloodline? A woman who’s been used and discarded?”
“You could be yourself,” I said. “Not him. Not me. You.”
She looked at me. Really looked. And for a heartbeat, just one, I saw it—the flicker of something real. Pain. Loneliness. Hope.
Then it was gone.
“Get out,” she said, voice cold. “Before I make you.”
I turned and walked out, my steps steady, my spine straight.
But inside?
Inside, I was screaming.
Because she was right.
I was jealous.
I did care.
And that terrified me more than any dagger, any bond, any lie ever could.
—
I found myself in the training chamber.
Not by choice. Not by plan.
By instinct.
The room was empty, the air thick with the scent of iron and sweat. I stripped off my tunic, my boots, my dagger, leaving only my trousers and the silver cuff on my wrist. The mark pulsed beneath it, warm and insistent, as if it knew what I was about to do.
I picked up a practice dagger—dulled, but heavy in my hand—and began to move.
Spin. Slash. Lunge. Parry.
Each motion a scream of frustration, of fear, of need.
Spin. Slash. Lunge. Parry.
My body remembered the training—the years of discipline, of control, of silence. But my mind was chaos. Lyria’s words echoed in my skull. Kaelen’s voice whispered in my blood. The bond flared with every step, every breath, every heartbeat.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar.
Footsteps.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t stop.
Just kept fighting.
“You’re angry,” Kaelen said, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
I spun, slashing at the air. “I’m training.”
“You’re punishing yourself.” He stepped into the room. “For what? For wanting me?”
I froze. Turned to him. “I don’t want you.”
“You do.” He walked toward me. “You wanted me last night. You want me now. And you hate yourself for it.”
“I hate you.”
“No.” He stopped in front of me. “You hate that you can’t hate me.”
My breath hitched.
“Lyria told me the truth,” I said. “She never had you. Never tasted you. Never knew you.”
He didn’t look surprised. Just nodded, once. “I know.”
“And you let her?”
“I let her think she had power,” he said. “Because I wanted to see how far she’d go. How deep the betrayal ran.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he said, stepping closer, his body pressing against mine, his heat searing through my clothes, “I know.”
His hand lifted, slow, deliberate, and this time, I didn’t pull away. His fingers brushed my wrist, pushing back my sleeve, revealing the mark beneath.
“This bond,” he said, “isn’t just fate. It’s a key. And no one—no thing—will take it from me.”
“You don’t own me,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, his thumb pressing over the pulse point. My breath hitched. My knees weakened. “But I know you. I know when you’re jealous. When you’re afraid. When you’re hurting.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He stepped closer, his body pressing against mine, his heat searing through my clothes. “And you don’t have to hide it. Not from me. Not from this.”
His hand slid up, cupping the back of my neck, tilting my face up to his. His eyes burned into mine—dark, hungry, knowing.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “And I am not hers to take.”
I should have fought. Should have shoved him away. Should have drawn my dagger and made him bleed.
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I hated it.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I didn’t want it.
He let me go, stepping back, leaving me standing there, breathless, trembling, ruined.
“Get some rest,” he said, voice calm. “Tomorrow, we train.”
I turned and walked out, my steps steady, my spine straight.
But inside?
Inside, I was screaming.
Because he was right.
I did care.
And that terrified me more than any dagger, any bond, any lie ever could.
I pressed my palm to the mark on my wrist, feeling it pulse beneath my skin.
She wears his scent.
The wind howled outside, a sound like mourning.
And I want to rip it from her skin.