The Obsidian Court should feel like victory.
Orin is dead. The Iron Spire lies in ruins. The Hollow King is ash beneath our boots. The blood that bound the Council, that weakened hybrids like me, has been destroyed. The lies are gone. The chains are broken. And Kaelen—
Kaelen is mine.
Not because of magic. Not because of a forced bond or a cursed ritual. But because he chose me. Because he bled for me. Because he cried for me when he thought I’d die.
And yet—
I don’t feel free.
I feel… watched.
It starts with the whispers. Faint at first, curling through the halls like smoke. “She’s too powerful.” “The bond is unnatural.” “What if she turns on us?” Then the glances—flickers of fear in the eyes of the Night Guard, suspicion in the gaze of the courtiers. Even Cassien watches me differently now. Not with loyalty. Not with respect. But with something darker. Something like awe. Like fear.
And I don’t blame them.
I’ve burned kings. I’ve shattered empires. I’ve stood in the center of collapsing magic and survived.
But power like that—
It doesn’t inspire love.
It inspires fear.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *him*. Kaelen. I can feel him through the bond, a steady, insistent hum, like a thread tying us together no matter the distance. But even that feels different now. Not weaker. Not broken. But… heavier. Like the bond isn’t just a connection. Like it’s a claim. A demand. A tether that pulls me toward him, whether I want to go or not.
And I *do* want to go.
That’s the worst part.
I don’t miss the woman I was—the one who came here to kill. I don’t miss the cold focus, the hunger for vengeance, the way my magic used to flare only with rage. I don’t miss the loneliness.
But I miss the *certainty*.
Now, everything is shadow. Everything is doubt. Even my own heart.
Kaelen finds me in the library at dawn, the first light of morning slicing through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colors across the ancient tomes. I’m seated at the long oak table, maps spread before me, scrolls of old bloodlines unfurled, my fingers tracing the sigil of the Thorned Blood. The same one on the locket. The same one etched into the walls of the Chamber of Binding.
“You’re thinking again,” he says, stepping beside me, his voice low, rough with sleep.
“I’m planning.”
“You don’t need to.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head, his lips warm against my hair. “The war is over.”
“No,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. “It’s just changed shape.”
He studies me—golden eyes burning, jaw tight. “What do you feel?”
“Fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of us.”
He stills. “You don’t trust the bond.”
“I trust *us*.” I press my palm to the mark. “But I don’t trust what it’s becoming. I don’t trust what *I’m* becoming.”
He doesn’t answer. Just cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, his gaze searching mine. “You’re not losing yourself,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming who you were always meant to be.”
“And who is that?”
“Mine.”
And for a heartbeat, I believe him.
Then—
A knock.
Cassien steps in, his expression grim. “My lord. There’s a visitor.”
“Who?” Kaelen asks, not turning.
“Lyria Vex.”
My breath catches.
Lyria.
Unseelie noble. Former lover. The woman who once wore his shirt like a trophy, who smirked as she adjusted the collar, who whispered poison in his ear while I stood frozen in the doorway, my magic flaring with jealousy.
She’s supposed to be exiled.
She’s supposed to be gone.
“She says she has proof,” Cassien continues. “Proof that the bond is a lie. That you never claimed her. That she bears your mark.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “She’s lying.”
“Then let her say it to your face,” I say, standing. “Let her show us this mark.”
He turns to me. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
He studies me. Then—
He nods.
We find her in the receiving hall—tall, elegant, draped in black silk that clings to her curves like shadow. Her hair is silver, her eyes violet, her lips painted the color of dried blood. She stands at the center of the room, her back straight, her chin lifted, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
And when she sees us—
She smiles.
“Kaelen,” she purrs, stepping forward. “You look well. For a man who’s been played.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches her, his expression unreadable. “You’re not welcome here.”
“And yet, here I am.” She turns to me, her gaze sweeping over me with cold appraisal. “Rowan. The half-breed. The weapon. The *consort*.” She laughs—low, brittle. “How does it feel to be used?”
“Better than it feels to be discarded,” I say, stepping forward. “You were exiled, Lyria. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“And yet, here I am.” She lifts her hand, slowly unbuttoning the collar of her dress. “Because I have something you both need to see.”
My pulse hammers.
She pulls the fabric aside—
And there it is.
A scar.
Low on her neck, just above her collarbone. A crescent-shaped mark, dark as old blood, its edges slightly raised. A bite. A claim.
Gasps ripple through the chamber. Cassien tenses. The guards shift. Even Kaelen stills, his golden eyes narrowing.
“You see?” Lyria says, her voice triumphant. “He marked me. Years ago. Before you. Before the ritual. He *claimed* me. And then he cast me aside for a half-blood whore.”
My breath comes too fast.
The mark. The bond. The Council’s laws—
If she’s telling the truth, then the Blood Claim is invalid. Because a Vampire King can only claim one consort per century. If he already claimed her—
Then I’m not his.
Then everything is a lie.
“You’re lying,” I say, stepping forward. “That mark is fake.”
“Prove it,” she says, smiling. “Touch it. Feel the magic. The bond doesn’t lie, does it?”
She’s daring me.
And I take the dare.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I cry out, my magic flaring—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves. I step forward, my fingers reaching for the scar—
And the moment I touch it—
I feel it.
Not magic.
Not power.
But *nothing*.
No pulse. No hum. No connection. Just cold, dead flesh.
“It’s not real,” I say, stepping back. “It’s a scar. Nothing more.”
“Liar,” Lyria hisses. “You’re just afraid the truth will destroy you.”
“The truth?” I step forward, my voice low, deadly. “The truth is you’ve been lying since the beginning. You never meant anything to him. You were a pawn. A political tool. And when he was done with you, he cast you aside.”
“And you?” She laughs. “You think you’re different? You think he loves you? He doesn’t love *anyone*. He’s a monster. A tyrant. A killer.”
“And yet,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark, “he chose me.”
“Over me?”
“Over *everyone*.”
She snarls—fast, furious—and lunges.
I don’t move.
Because I don’t have to.
The bond explodes.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I scream, my magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the floor, the air, the walls, lashing out like whips, wrapping around Lyria, yanking her off her feet, thorns digging into her flesh, drawing blood.
She howls.
She fights.
But she’s not fast enough.
I press my palm to the mark.
And I *push*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send a vision—Kaelen weeping, my mother’s blood on his hands, Orin’s cold words—through the link, down the thread that ties me to him, into her mind, her heart, her soul.
And I feel it—
Her shock.
Her fear.
Her rage.
And beneath it all—
Jealousy.
Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just about Kaelen.
It’s about *me*.
“You see it, don’t you?” I whisper, stepping closer. “You see the truth. He never loved you. He never claimed you. And he never will.”
She struggles, but the vines hold. Her violet eyes burn with hate. “You’re not better than me,” she spits. “You’re just *lucky*.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m chosen.”
And then—
Kaelen steps forward.
He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t speak to her. Just walks to me, his golden eyes burning, his presence a wall of heat and shadow. He stops beside me, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark.
“You lied about something,” he says, voice low.
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He turns to Lyria.
“You were never mine,” he says, voice cold, final. “You were a distraction. A political alliance. A means to an end. And when that end was served, I let you go.”
She stares at him. “You said you loved me.”
“I said what I needed to say.”
“And her?” She jerks her head toward me. “You love *her*?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I would die for her.”
Her breath hitches.
And then—
She laughs. Low. Broken. “Then you’ll die.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer. “But I’ll die knowing I chose right.”
He turns to Cassien. “Remove her.”
“And if she returns?” Cassien asks.
“Then kill her.”
Lyria doesn’t fight as they drag her away. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. Just watches me, her violet eyes burning with hate, with jealousy, with the knowledge that she’s lost.
And when the doors close behind her—
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.
But as we walk back to the chambers, the bond humming between us, I can’t shake the feeling—
Lyria isn’t done.
She’s not just jealous.
She’s not just angry.
She’s *hunting*.
And she won’t stop until she destroys us.
When we reach the chambers, he closes the door behind us, then turns to me, his golden eyes burning.
“You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.
Marked: Blood & Thorns
The first time Rowan touches Kaelen D’Rae, it’s with a dagger at his throat. Moonlight bleeds through the stained-glass vaults of the Obsidian Court as she breaches the sanctum, her fae glamour flickering like dying breath. She came to kill him. To reclaim her stolen birthright. To avenge the woman who bled out on black marble while he stood silent. But the moment her blade breaks skin, his blood drips onto the ancient runes beneath them—and the magic reacts. Chains of living shadow erupt from the floor, binding them wrist to wrist, heart to heart. A Blood Claim. A legal, magical, irreversible union. The Council declares it fate. The world calls her his.
Now she is Rowan of the Thorned Blood, publicly marked as the Vampire King’s consort—against her will, against her mission, against every instinct screaming run. But she can’t. Not when the bond flares with every glance, when his scent—dark wine and storm-laced iron—makes her thighs clench in betrayal. Not when she discovers the truth: her mother didn’t die by his hand. She was betrayed by someone inside Rowan’s own bloodline.
Kaelen is cold, ruthless, a tyrant draped in velvet and silence. But his hands are gentle when he finds her weeping in the library. His mouth is fire when he kisses her during a false emergency, silencing her with teeth and tongue to sell their lie to spies. And when the rival queen appears in his chambers wearing nothing but his shirt, Rowan doesn’t just burn with jealousy—she unleashes her magic, scorching the walls with thorned vines.
This is no slow burn. This is war. This is lust. This is power awakening—and love rising from the ashes of vengeance.