The moment the heavy doors of the royal wing seal shut behind us, I yank my arm from Kael’s grip.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, stepping back, my spine pressing against the cold obsidian wall. The mark on my palm pulses—a living thing, thrumming with stolen blood and forced magic. I press it against my thigh, as if I can smother it, hide it, deny it.
Kael doesn’t flinch. He just watches me, his storm-gray eyes unreadable, his expression carved from stone. He doesn’t look like a man who’s just claimed a mate. He looks like a king who’s just won a war.
“You’re in my wing now,” he says, voice low, measured. “The north tower. My private quarters. You’ll be safe here.”
“I didn’t ask to be safe,” I snap. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No,” he agrees, stepping forward. “But you’re here. And until the bond stabilizes, you don’t leave my sight.”
My breath hitches. “You’re imprisoning me.”
“Protecting you,” he corrects. “There are those in this court who would see you dead before they let a fated mate bond disrupt the balance. Especially one so… unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” I laugh, sharp and brittle. “Or inconvenient? You needed a political alliance, and the gods handed you a convenient lie to exploit.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not a lie.”
“It *has* to be,” I whisper, desperation clawing up my throat. “I’m half-human. Half-*Fae*. There’s no such thing as a fated bond for someone like me. It’s not in the records. It’s not in the laws. It’s—”
“Irrelevant,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “The bond doesn’t care about bloodlines. It doesn’t care about politics. It only knows *truth*. And it knows you’re mine.”
He reaches out.
I slap his hand away.
“Don’t,” I warn, my voice trembling. “Don’t pretend this is about destiny. You saw an opportunity and you took it. You *bound* me in front of the entire court. You *humiliated* me—”
“I saved you,” he growls, sudden and fierce. “You think I don’t know what you are? The moment you stepped into that hall, every predator in the room scented the Fae in your blood. The Lupari were already circling. The witches were whispering. And Lira Nox?” He lets out a cold laugh. “She would have had your throat slit before midnight.”
I freeze. Lira Nox. The name slithers through my mind like poison. I’d seen her earlier—pale gold hair, eyes like poisoned honey, draped in crimson silk that clung to every curve. She’d been watching me from the shadows, a smile playing on her lips, like she already knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard.
“And you?” I challenge. “How am I safer with you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Something flickers in his expression—hunger, maybe. Or regret.
“You’ll have your own chambers,” he says finally. “Adjacent to mine. Guards outside. No one enters without my permission. You’ll be given new clothes. New identity. No more lies.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.”
He turns, strides down the hall, and I have no choice but to follow. My heels click against the black marble, the sound echoing in the suffocating silence. The wing is opulent—walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting vampire conquests, sconces burning with blue witch-fire, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and old blood.
He stops before a pair of carved oak doors, runes etched into the wood glowing faintly. With a word in the old tongue, the doors swing open.
“Yours,” he says.
I step inside.
The room is vast—high ceilings, a four-poster bed draped in black silk, a fireplace crackling with emerald flames. A vanity. A wardrobe. A balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens. It’s beautiful. It’s a gilded cage.
“I’ll send someone to attend to you,” he says. “Rest. The bond will be stronger tonight. It will… demand attention.”
“Demand?” I turn to face him. “Is that what you call it? This—this *pull* in my chest? This heat under my skin? It feels like sickness.”
“It feels like life,” he murmurs. “Like coming home.”
And then he’s gone, the doors closing behind him with a soft, final click.
I don’t move. I just stand there, listening to the silence, feeling the mark on my palm burn.
Home?
Home is the gallows. Home is my father’s scream.
This is not home.
But my body disagrees.
The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, like a second heartbeat. My breath comes too fast. My skin is too sensitive. Every shadow in the room feels like it’s watching me. Every flicker of fire feels like a caress.
I pace. Once. Twice. Then I stop at the wardrobe, yank it open.
Inside—dozens of dresses. All black. All elegant. All *his* taste.
At the back, a small wooden box.
I open it.
Inside—jewelry. Necklaces, earrings, rings. And a single silver locket, cold to the touch.
I don’t know why I open it.
Maybe I’m looking for proof. Maybe I’m looking for weakness.
Inside—two tiny portraits. One of a woman with dark hair and sharp eyes. The other—a child. A boy, no older than six, with storm-gray eyes and a solemn face.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen that face in the archives. In the records of the Draven line.
That’s *him*.
And the woman…?
I don’t recognize her. But the way he looks at her in the portrait—like she was the only light in a dark world—tells me everything.
I snap the locket shut, drop it back into the box, slam the wardrobe closed.
He’s not just a king.
He’s a man who’s lost someone.
And that makes him dangerous.
I need to move. I need to *act*. Standing here, feeling this bond twist inside me, is making me weak.
I cross to the balcony, throw open the doors.
The night air hits me—cool, sharp, laced with the scent of night-blooming magnolias. Below, the gardens stretch out, moonlight silvering the hedges, the fountains, the winding paths. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
And utterly false.
This court is a viper’s nest. And I’m standing in the center of it, bound to the most dangerous snake of all.
I need information. I need proof. And if Kael Draven is hiding secrets, the best place to find them is in his study.
I turn back inside—just as the connecting door between our chambers creaks open.
And he steps through.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he says.
“I’m not tired,” I lie.
He’s removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. His forearms are corded with muscle, veins tracing like rivers beneath pale skin. He carries a crystal decanter of dark red liquid—blood, no doubt, aged and spiced for vampire consumption.
He pours two glasses.
“Drink,” he says, offering me one.
“I don’t drink blood.”
“This isn’t blood,” he says. “It’s wine. Human. From the south. You claimed to be from there, didn’t you?”
I hesitate—then take the glass. The wine is rich, velvety, laced with blackberry and something smoky. I sip it slowly, watching him over the rim.
He leans against the mantel, his gaze on the fire. “You looked in the wardrobe.”
My pulse jumps. “So?”
“You found the locket.”
It’s not a question.
I set the glass down. “Who was she?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares into the flames.
“Your mother?” I press.
“No,” he says quietly. “My *mother* was a political marriage. Cold. Calculating. This woman…” He pauses. “This was Elara.”
The name hits me like a blade.
*Elara Vale.*
My mother.
Impossible.
He couldn’t—
“She was a guest at court,” he continues, voice distant. “Years ago. Fae nobility. Beautiful. Sharp. She… intrigued me.”
My blood runs cold.
He knew her.
He *knew* her.
And if he knew her, then he knew *me*. He knew my father. He knew the truth.
“What happened to her?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She disappeared,” he says. “After your father was executed. No one knows where she went. Some say she fled. Others say she was silenced.”
My hands tremble. I clench them into fists.
He’s lying.
Or he’s hiding something.
Because my mother didn’t disappear.
She was murdered.
By the same people who killed my father.
And if Kael knew her… if he *cared* for her… then why didn’t he stop it?
Why didn’t he save her?
The questions burn in my throat, but I don’t ask them. Not yet. I can’t afford to show my hand.
Instead, I take another sip of wine, force my voice to stay calm. “And the boy in the portrait?”
“Me,” he says. “Before the crown. Before the blood.”
I study his face—the sharp lines, the weight in his eyes. It’s hard to imagine him as a child. Innocent. Unbroken.
“You don’t seem like a man who was ever innocent,” I say.
A ghost of a smile. “You don’t know me.”
“And you don’t know me,” I counter. “So why claim me? Why bind me to you when you know nothing about who I am?”
He sets his glass down. Steps toward me.
“I know your scent,” he says, voice low. “I know the way your magic tastes on the air. I know the sound of your heartbeat—how it stutters when I’m near. I know the way your skin flushes when you lie.”
He’s close now. Too close.
I can feel the heat of him. The pull of the bond, stronger than before, a live wire between us.
“And I know,” he murmurs, “that you’re not who you say you are.”
My breath catches.
He knows.
He *knows*.
But before I can react, he reaches past me—toward the wineglass on the table.
Our fingers brush.
And the world *explodes*.
Heat. Fire. A surge of pure, unfiltered sensation that rips through me like lightning. My skin ignites. My blood sings. My magic—trapped, stolen, *hunted*—roars to life, responding to his touch like a starving thing.
I gasp.
So does he.
His eyes flare, darkening. His pupils swallow the gray. His breath comes fast, ragged.
“You feel it,” he whispers, his voice rough, strained. “Don’t you? The bond. The *need*.”
I stumble back, clutching my chest. The mark on my palm burns. My skin still tingles where we touched.
“It’s magic,” I breathe. “It’s not *real*.”
“It’s the most real thing I’ve ever felt,” he says, stepping closer. “And you know it.”
I turn away, gripping the edge of the balcony door. “I need air.”
“The bond will only grow stronger,” he says. “Especially at night. You’ll feel me. In your dreams. In your blood. In your bones.”
I don’t answer. I just step out onto the balcony, slam the doors shut behind me.
The night air is cold, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my veins.
I press my forehead to the stone railing, breathing hard.
He knows something.
He *knew* my mother.
And if he knew her, then he knew the truth about my father.
Was he complicit?
Or was he… trying to protect her?
I don’t know.
But I need to find out.
I wait until the moon is high, until the emerald flames in the hearth burn low. I wait until I hear his door close, until the silence stretches long and deep.
Then I move.
Back through the balcony. Into the room. To the connecting door.
I press my ear to the wood.
Silence.
I turn the handle. Slowly.
The door opens.
His chambers are darker, colder. Larger. A massive bed, unmade. A writing desk. A bookshelf filled with ancient tomes. And a door—closed, locked, runes glowing faintly.
His study.
I cross the room, press my palm to the lock.
Nothing.
I close my eyes, reach for the Fae magic in my blood. The stolen power hums, eager. I whisper the unlocking charm, feel the runes flicker, fade.
The door opens.
Inside—shelves of scrolls. Maps. Ledgers. And a single file, labeled in elegant script: *Regent’s Assassination – Case Closed.*
My hands shake as I open it.
Reports. Testimonies. And a final decree—signed in blood.
Kael Draven.
My stomach twists.
But then I see it.
A note, scribbled in the margin, in a hand I recognize from old court records.
“Execution unjust. Subject innocent. Appeal denied by Fae High Court. Regret.”
My breath stops.
He tried to stop it.
He *knew* my father was innocent.
And he couldn’t save him.
The door creaks behind me.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn.
Kael stands in the doorway, shirtless, his chest marked with old scars, his eyes blazing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
My heart hammers.
But I don’t move.
“You knew,” I whisper. “You knew he was innocent.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He just steps forward, his voice low, raw. “I tried to save him. I failed.”
And in that moment, I see it—the guilt. The grief. The centuries of carrying a burden he never asked for.
But I don’t trust it.
I don’t trust *him*.
Because vengeance doesn’t care about regret.
It only cares about blood.
I close the file. Set it back on the shelf.
And as I walk past him, I let my fingers brush his bare arm—just once.
The bond flares.
And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
Because if he feels this—this fire, this need—then maybe, just maybe, I can use it.
Maybe I can make him *hurt*.
The door clicks shut behind me.
And I whisper into the dark:
“You failed him.
But I won’t fail my vengeance.”