The training room door slams behind me, but it doesn’t block out the image.
Her. In *his* shirt. Bare legs. Damp hair. Smirking like she’d just been fucked.
Like she’d just won.
I run. Boots pounding against the obsidian floor, breath ragged, pulse screaming in my ears—no, not mine. *His*. Still synced to mine, still thudding like a war drum in my chest, mocking me with its calm, steady rhythm while I’m falling apart.
I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t care. Just *away*. From him. From her. From the bond that showed me his desire, his hunger, his *truth*—only to twist it into a lie.
Because that’s what it was.
A lie.
He said he never bit her. Said the mark was forged. Said he’d never claimed her.
And I *believed* him.
For one stupid, traitorous second, I believed him.
And then I kissed him.
God, I *kissed* him.
Not in love. Not in surrender. In rage. In desperation. In the awful, aching need that’s been building since the moment our blood touched. I kissed him like I wanted to destroy him. Like I wanted to *consume* him.
And he kissed me back like I was salvation.
His hands on my waist. My legs around him. My body grinding against his erection. The bond flaring, the magic surging, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his fangs, the way his groan vibrated through my bones.
I wanted him.
I *still* want him.
And that’s what makes this worse.
Because now I don’t know what’s real. What’s the bond. What’s *him*. What’s *me*.
Is his desire for me magic? Or is it true?
Did he really never want Lysara?
Or did he just want her in secret?
I skid to a stop in the west corridor, pressing my back against the cold stone, gasping for air. My skin is too tight. My core still throbs from the friction, from the memory of him hard against me. My lips tingle, still tasting him—smoke and iron and something darkly sweet.
I press my fingers to my mouth.
And I *hate* myself.
Not for kissing him.
For wanting it to mean something.
For letting myself believe—just for a second—that maybe, *maybe*, he wasn’t the monster I came to kill.
But Lysara in his shirt?
That wasn’t a lie.
That was *proof*.
I push off the wall and keep running. Past the library. Past the blood archives. Toward the ritual chambers—deep in the heart of the Obsidian Court, where magic is sealed in stone and oaths are written in blood.
Maybe there’s a way to break the bond.
Maybe there’s a spell. A curse. A knife sharp enough to cut through magic.
Maybe I can burn it out of me.
I reach the Chamber of Chains—a circular room of black marble, its walls lined with ancient sigils that pulse faintly with dormant power. At the center, a stone altar, stained dark with centuries of ritual. Candles float in midair, their flames blue and cold.
I step inside.
The air hums with energy. The bond flares—reactive, *alive*. This place remembers blood. Pain. Oaths.
I close my eyes, reaching for my magic. Fire. I need fire. To cleanse. To destroy. To *burn* the bond out of me.
I whisper the incantation—*“Ignis sanguis, exurge”*—and press my palm to the altar.
Nothing.
Again. Louder. *“Ignis sanguis, exurge!”*
Still nothing.
My magic is muffled. Distant. Like it’s being held back—by the bond, by my own fear, by the weight of what I just lost.
I slam my fist onto the altar, screaming in frustration.
And then—
A voice.
“You can’t burn it out.”
I whirl.
Cassian stands in the doorway, tall and still, shadows curling at his heels. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and the bond *surges*, a hot pulse of energy that makes me stagger. He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, like I’m a storm he’s trying to read.
“It’s not fire you need,” he says. “It’s truth.”
“You don’t get to talk about truth,” I snap. “Not after what I just saw.”
“Lysara wore my shirt,” he says, voice calm. “That doesn’t mean she’s been in my bed. It doesn’t mean I’ve touched her. It means she’s desperate. And you fell for it.”
“I didn’t fall for anything!”
“You *ran*,” he says, stepping closer. “You didn’t stay. You didn’t fight. You didn’t demand answers. You *fled*.”
“Because I *saw* her!”
“You saw what she *wanted* you to see,” he says. “She’s not loyal. She’s not mine. She’s a pawn. And you let her win.”
I clench my fists. “You expect me to believe you? After everything? After the bond? After *her*?”
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he says. “I expect you to *feel* me. In your blood. In your pulse. In the way your body burns when I’m near.”
“It’s the bond,” I hiss. “It’s *magic*.”
“Magic doesn’t lie,” he says. “And neither does your body.”
He takes another step. The air between us crackles—heat, tension, the pull of the bond. I feel his presence like a physical weight, his scent wrapping around me, his heartbeat syncing to mine.
And then—
A chime.
Clear. Melodic. Ringing through the chamber.
The Council sigil above the door flares crimson.
“You’re summoned,” Cassian says, voice low. “The Hall of Echoes. Now.”
“Why?”
“A ritual,” he says. “To test the bond. To prove it’s real.”
My stomach drops.
A ritual. Public. Binding.
“I’m not going,” I say.
“You don’t have a choice,” he says. “Refuse, and they’ll declare you a threat. Exile you. Execute you.”
I glare at him. “You’d let them?”
“No,” he says. “But I won’t stop them if you make it necessary.”
I want to hit him. To claw his eyes out. To make him *hurt* like I’m hurting.
But I don’t.
Because part of me knows he’s right.
And that’s the worst part.
—
The Hall of Echoes is packed.
Every seat in the Council chamber is filled—vampires in blood-red, werewolves in charcoal, witches in indigo, Fae in silver. Queen Nyx sits at the center, her winter-blue eyes sharp, her presence a weight in the air. Kael stands at the edge of the dais, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Lysara is there too—dressed in crimson again, hair perfect, lips curved in a faint smile.
She’s enjoying this.
The dais glows with runes—ancient, pulsing, etched into the obsidian. At the center, a silver chain, coiled like a serpent, waiting.
“Step forward,” Queen Nyx intones.
I don’t move.
Cassian does. He steps onto the dais, then turns, holding out his hand to me.
“Take it,” he says, voice low. “Or they’ll force you.”
I look at his hand—pale, strong, veins faintly visible beneath the skin. I remember how it felt on my calf. On my hip. On my wrist.
My body *aches*.
I step forward.
But I don’t take his hand.
I stand beside him, arms crossed, chin high, defiance burning in my chest.
Queen Nyx raises her hand. “The bond between Gold Silvershade and Cassian D’Vraeth has been declared valid. But doubt remains. So we invoke the Ritual of Shared Pulse—to test the truth of the bond. They will hold hands for ten minutes. If the bond holds, the magic will react. If it does not—”
“Then what?” I challenge. “You’ll let me go?”
“No,” she says. “You’ll be deemed unstable. A danger to the peace.”
I glare at her. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
“The bond did that,” she says. “Now, *hold hands*.”
I look at Cassian.
He’s watching me. Not demanding. Not threatening.
Just waiting.
And then—
He holds out his hand again.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like he knows what this means.
I take it.
The moment our skin touches—
Fire.
Not metaphorical. Not magical.
*Real*.
It erupts up my arm, a searing, blinding heat that makes me cry out, stumbling back—but he doesn’t let go. His grip is iron, his eyes locked on mine, storm-gray and unyielding.
And then—
The bond *flares*.
His heartbeat slams into mine, not just in rhythm, but in *force*. His breath fills my lungs. His presence—cold, vast, *hungry*—presses against my mind. And beneath it—his *need*, raw and undeniable, echoing in my core.
But something else—
Something *new*.
My magic—dormant, muffled—shivers, *awakening* at the contact. It surges through me, hot and wild, like a caged beast breaking free. My veins glow faintly gold. My eyes burn. My skin prickles with power.
And then—
Flame.
It erupts from our joined hands—gold and crimson, swirling together like fire and shadow. It licks up the silver chain, scorching the runes, blackening the obsidian. The candles flare, then snuff out. The sigils on the walls pulse, then crack.
The room erupts in chaos.
Vampires hiss, shielding their eyes. Werewolves growl, shifting partially. Witches chant sigils, trying to contain the magic. Fae watch with cold, detached interest.
Queen Nyx rises, her voice cutting through the noise. “The bond is *true*! The magic confirms it!”
I don’t hear her.
I don’t hear anything.
Because in that moment—
I *see*.
Not with my eyes.
With the bond.
Flashes—images, emotions, *memories*.
Cassian, young, kneeling beside a woman with winter-pale skin, her throat slit, her blood staining the snow. Grief. Rage. Helplessness.
Me, in the library, holding the ledger, my hands shaking as I read Malrik’s handwriting. Recognition. Horror. *Truth*.
Lysara, in the Blood Archive, pressing a silver needle to her finger, blood dripping into a vial—then, a Fae hand, slipping something into the solution. *Glamour*.
And then—
Us.
Not as enemies.
Not as prisoner and king.
As *mates*.
Him, carrying me to his chambers. Me, pressing my face into his shoulder. Him, touching my calf. Me, arching, moaning.
Him, refusing to take me. Me, wondering if he’s real.
Him, saying he wants me *free*.
And me—
Wanting to believe him.
The flame dies.
The room falls silent.
Our hands are still joined.
I look at him.
He’s watching me, eyes dark, voice rough. “You felt it,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you? The truth.”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t.
The bond is still singing in my veins. My magic is alive. My body is on fire.
And deep inside me—where the sigil burns, where the fever pulses, where the truth claws at the edges of my mind—
I feel something shift.
Not surrender.
Not trust.
But *recognition*.
He’s not the villain.
And I’m not the avenger.
We’re something else.
Something *real*.
Queen Nyx raises her hand. “The ritual is complete. The bond is confirmed. You will proceed with the engagement. No further resistance will be tolerated.”
The Council murmurs in agreement.
Cassian finally releases my hand.
I step back, trembling, my skin still burning, my core aching.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the room.
From the bond.
“The truth burns brighter than vengeance.”
Mira.
My mentor.
And she’s right.
Because I just saw it.
Not in a ledger.
Not in a memory.
In *fire*.
And it was beautiful.
And terrifying.
And true.
I turn and walk out of the Hall, not running this time.
Not fleeing.
But moving.
Toward something.
Toward *him*.
Because if the bond showed me the truth—
Then maybe, just maybe—
It’s not my enemy.
Maybe it’s the only thing that can save me.
From the lie.
From the mission.
From myself.
And as I walk, I press a hand to the sigil on my hip.
And for the first time—
I don’t feel it burn.
I feel it *sing*.