I don’t sleep.
Not that night. Not ever, really. Sleep is for the weak, and I stopped being weak the night I watched my mother bleed out on black marble while the world turned its back. I stay awake now—alert, calculating, surviving. But tonight, staying awake isn’t a choice. It’s a punishment.
The mark on my wrist pulses like a second heartbeat, hot and insistent. Every time I close my eyes, I feel him—Kaelen—his presence pressing against the edges of my mind like a shadow I can’t shake. His scent lingers in the room: dark wine and storm-laced iron, something ancient and predatory that makes my skin prickle, my breath hitch. I pace the length of his chambers—*our* chambers now, I remind myself with a snarl—running my fingers over the spines of ancient tomes, tracing the carvings on the bedpost, testing the lock on the balcony door. It’s reinforced with iron and sigils. Of course it is. He’s not stupid. He knows what I am.
Half-Fae. Half-Witch. Thorned Blood.
And now, Blood Consort to the Vampire King.
I press my palm to the mark. It flares under my touch, a jolt of heat shooting up my arm. My magic stirs beneath my skin, restless, agitated. The Thorned Blood’s power feeds on emotion—rage, grief, desire. And right now, I’m drowning in all three.
I exhale sharply, forcing my breathing to slow. *Control. You have to stay in control.* Mira’s voice echoes in my skull, steady and calm. *Magic is not your enemy. It’s your weapon. But like any weapon, it must be wielded with precision.*
I nod to myself, grounding. I can do this. I’ve survived exile, betrayal, starvation. I’ve trained for years in secret, mastering spells, learning to fight, honing my body and mind into a blade meant to cut through lies. I didn’t come here to fall apart. I came to destroy Kaelen D’Rae.
And I still will.
The bond changes nothing.
It *can’t*.
A knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Enter,” a voice calls—deep, smooth, commanding.
The door opens, and he steps in.
Kaelen.
He’s changed from the ceremonial black velvet into something darker, sleeker—a fitted coat of shadow-gray silk, the collar high, the sleeves long. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s run a hand through it. His eyes, though—still gold. Still sharp. Still watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“You’re still awake,” he says, closing the door behind him.
“I don’t trust you enough to sleep in your bed,” I say, lifting my chin.
He doesn’t react. Just walks toward me, slow, deliberate, like a predator circling prey. “You’ll sleep here. Eventually. The bond demands proximity. If we’re apart too long, it triggers bond sickness—fever, pain, hallucinations. You’ll beg to return to me before the first night ends.”
“I don’t beg,” I snap.
“Everyone breaks,” he says, stopping just inches from me. “Even you.”
I glare up at him. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” His gaze drops to my wrist, to the mark. “Your blood answers mine. That’s not something you can fight.”
“It’s magic. And magic can be undone.”
“Not this.” He reaches out, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to touch me—my face, my neck, my mark. But instead, he plucks a loose thread from the sleeve of my dress—the one I wore to the ceremony, now torn at the shoulder from the struggle. “You’re bleeding.”
I hadn’t noticed. A shallow cut, just above my collarbone, probably from the shadow chains. A trickle of blood seeps through the fabric.
And the moment he sees it—
The air between us *changes*.
His pupils dilate. His breath hitches. His hand twitches at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. Vampires and blood. I know the rules. I know the hunger. But this isn’t hunger. This is something else. Something deeper. The bond flares—hot, sudden—and my magic *surges*.
“Don’t,” I warn, stepping back. “Don’t you dare—”
But it’s too late.
My skin *burns*. Not from pain—from power. The cut on my collarbone pulses, and vines erupt from beneath my flesh, black and thorned, twisting up my arm, across my chest, bursting through the fabric of my dress. They lash out, wild, uncontrolled, curling around the nearest bookshelf, cracking the wood, sending tomes crashing to the floor.
Kaelen doesn’t move.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just watches.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
I gasp, clutching at the vines, trying to pull them back, to suppress the magic. But it’s too strong. It’s feeding on the bond, on his proximity, on the raw, electric tension between us. My breath comes fast. My heart hammers. And lower—*lower*—heat pools, deep and dangerous, a slow, aching throb between my thighs.
No.
Not *that*.
Not *now*.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting it. *This is not arousal. This is magic. This is emotion. This is not—*
But it is.
And the worst part?
I’m not the only one feeling it.
Because when I open my eyes, Kaelen is still watching me—but his jaw is clenched, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. His scent shifts—darker, richer, edged with something warm and musky that makes my mouth go dry.
Desire.
His.
And mine.
The vines curl tighter around my arm, one tendril snaking toward him, wrapping around his wrist like a living bracelet. He doesn’t pull away. Just stares at it, then at me.
“Your magic responds to me,” he says, voice low.
“It’s reacting to the bond,” I correct, breathless. “It’s not *you*.”
“Isn’t it?” He lifts his hand, studying the vine around his wrist. It pulses faintly, in time with my pulse. “It feeds on emotion. And right now, you’re full of it.”
“I hate you.”
“Do you?” He takes a step closer. “Then why does your body burn for me?”
My breath catches.
“You don’t know what I feel.”
“I feel it,” he says. “Through the bond. Your pulse. Your heat. The way your magic flares when I’m near. It’s not just anger, Rowan. It’s *arousal*.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m *fighting*.”
“Against what? Me? Or yourself?”
I snarl, yanking my arm back, trying to pull the vine free. But it holds. And the more I struggle, the more my magic surges. Another vine lashes out, wrapping around his forearm, then his bicep. He’s pinned now—not by force, but by my magic, by the bond, by whatever the hell is happening between us.
And he still doesn’t fight.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, voice rough.
“Good,” I bite out.
He smiles. Not kind. Not warm. But something darker. Something that makes my stomach flip.
“Yes,” he says. “You are.”
And then—
He *pulls*.
Not away. Toward.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us, his free hand gripping my waist, hauling me against him. My breath stutters. My magic flares—vines erupting from my back, curling around his neck, his shoulders, binding us together. Our chests press together. His heart—slow, steady, immortal—beats against mine.
And the bond—
It *sings*.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I whimper, my head falling back. His gaze drops to my throat, to the pulse hammering there. His fangs—just a glimpse—lengthen, sharp and deadly.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but it’s weak. Shaky.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice a growl.
“Yes.”
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Liar.”
And then—
He releases me.
Just like that.
The vines loosen. The magic recedes. I stumble back, gasping, my body aching with the loss of contact, with the sudden absence of heat.
Kaelen steps away, adjusting his coat, his expression unreadable. “You’ll learn to control it,” he says. “Or it will control you.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I snap, clutching my arms, trying to steady myself.
“I don’t,” he says. “The bond does.”
He turns toward the bed. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”
“For what?”
He pauses, glancing back. “The Council. They’ll want to see us. Together. And they’ll want proof the bond is… progressing.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of proof?”
His gaze darkens. “You’ll find out.”
And then he’s gone—into the adjoining chamber, the door clicking shut behind him.
I’m alone again.
But the mark on my wrist burns.
And my body—my traitorous, betraying body—still hums with the memory of his touch.
I press my palm to the vine mark, now faded back into my skin, leaving only a faint scar. My breath is still uneven. My thighs still ache.
This is war.
And I just lost the first battle.
But I’m not done.
Not yet.
Because the Thorned Blood doesn’t break.
We rise.
And when we do—we bring thorns.
I strip off the ruined dress, tossing it into the fire. It burns fast, the flames licking at the fabric, turning it to ash. I pull on a black nightgown from the wardrobe—his doing, no doubt. Everything here is his. Even me, in their eyes.
I crawl into the bed—*his* bed—and pull the covers tight.
The mark pulses.
And somewhere, deep in the dark, I swear I hear him whisper my name.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time in years—I let myself dream.
Of fire.
Of blood.
Of him.
And it doesn’t scare me.
It *excites* me.
And that—
That terrifies me most of all.