The dream doesn’t last.
It shatters the moment sunlight—thin, silver, cutting through the heavy velvet drapes—slashes across my face. I jerk awake, heart slamming, magic sparking beneath my skin like live wire. For a disoriented second, I don’t know where I am. The bed is too soft. The air too still. The scent—dark wine, storm-laced iron, *him*—too thick in my lungs.
Then it all crashes back.
The Blood Moon. The blade. The blood. The mark.
I bolt upright, yanking the sleeve of the nightgown down to expose my wrist. The sigil is still there—thorned vines coiling around a fang, etched into my flesh like a brand. It pulses faintly, warm and insistent, a constant reminder that I’m not free. That I’m bound.
To *him*.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting cold marble. The room is silent. No sound from the adjoining chamber. No movement. Kaelen is gone.
Good.
I don’t want to face him. Not yet. Not after last night—after the vines, the heat, the way my body responded to his touch like a traitor to my own mission. I press my palms to my thighs, grounding myself. *Control. You have to stay in control.* Mira’s voice again, steady as stone. *Magic is not your enemy. It’s your weapon.*
But desire?
Desire is a different kind of weapon. One that cuts both ways.
I stand, pacing to the wardrobe. Inside, folded with unnatural precision, are clothes—dresses, tunics, pants, all in deep blacks, rich crimsons, shadows of violet. None of them are mine. None of them are from my life before. They’re gifts. Or uniforms. Or traps.
I grab the first thing my fingers touch—a high-collared tunic of charcoal-gray silk, paired with fitted black trousers. I dress quickly, pulling my hair into a tight braid. No jewelry. No adornment. Just function. Just survival.
The door opens before I can reach it.
Kaelen steps in.
He’s already dressed—impeccable, as always—in a tailored coat of obsidian silk, the collar high, the cuffs fastened with silver clasps shaped like fangs. His hair is perfectly in place. His expression—unreadable. Cold. But his eyes—gold, sharp, relentless—lock onto mine the second he sees me.
“You’re awake,” he says. No warmth. No greeting. Just observation.
“I don’t sleep long,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I don’t like being watched.”
“Then you’ll hate today,” he says, stepping aside. “The Council has summoned us. Immediately.”
My stomach tightens. “Why?”
“You’ll find out.”
I glare at him. “You always have to be so cryptic, don’t you? Or is it just part of the whole ‘mysterious tyrant’ act?”
He doesn’t react. Just turns, walking toward the door. “They want proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That the bond is real. That you’re not just a political puppet. That you’re *mine*.”
I freeze. “You said that last night. What kind of proof?”
He stops, glancing back. “The kind that can’t be faked.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the door open.
I follow, every muscle tense, every instinct screaming *trap*. But I have no choice. The bond hums under my skin, a low, constant vibration, like a second pulse. If I run, it will punish me. If I resist, it will break me. And if I die—then my mother’s name dies with me.
So I walk.
Through the grand halls of the Obsidian Court, past towering statues of past kings with hollow eyes, past portraits of queens whose bloodlines were erased the moment they failed to please. Vampires in dark robes whisper as we pass. Some sneer. Some stare. A few—older ones, their eyes ancient and knowing—bow their heads, just slightly, as if acknowledging something I don’t understand.
Kaelen doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t look at me. He walks like a man who owns the world, and maybe he does. The Vampire King. The ruler of southern France and Italy. The one who stands at the head of the Supernatural Council, the governing body of all species.
And now, according to them, I’m his.
We reach the Council Chamber—a vast, circular hall with a domed ceiling painted in scenes of blood rituals and ancient wars. The floor is black marble, polished to a mirror sheen, and in the center, the same runes from the sanctum are etched into the stone, dormant now, but still humming with residual power.
The Council members are already seated—twelve of them, representing the major supernatural factions. Vampires. Fae. Werewolves. Witches. Their thrones are carved from bone, obsidian, and living wood, each one a testament to their power.
At the head of the circle, on a throne of blackened silver, sits High Councilor Vex.
Lyria Vex.
My breath catches.
She’s beautiful in the way a dagger is beautiful—sharp, lethal, designed to cut. Her hair is silver-white, cascading over one shoulder, and her eyes—pale lavender, unnaturally bright—lock onto me the second I enter. She’s wearing a gown of liquid mercury, shifting with every breath, revealing just enough skin to be dangerous.
And she’s smiling.
“Ah,” she says, voice like honey laced with poison. “The Blood Consort. How… *exotic* you look.”
I don’t answer. I don’t look at her. I keep my gaze forward, my spine straight, my hands clasped behind my back.
Kaelen takes his seat to the right of hers. I’m expected to stand beside him. I don’t. I stay where I am, in the center of the chamber, where the runes lie beneath my feet.
“You summoned us,” Kaelen says, voice calm, commanding. “State your purpose.”
Lyria leans forward, steepling her fingers. “The Blood Claim was completed under… *unusual* circumstances. A failed assassination, a rogue half-breed, a ritual interrupted by violence.” Her gaze flicks to me. “We need assurance that the bond is legitimate. That it is not merely a magical accident, but a true union.”
“The magic doesn’t lie,” Kaelen says. “The Claim was completed. The mark is real. She is my consort.”
“But is she *yours*?” Lyria asks, voice dropping to a whisper. “Has the bond been *consummated*?”
The chamber goes still.
Every eye turns to me.
My face burns. Not from shame. From rage. From the sheer, audacious *violation* of the question. They’re not asking about love. Not about loyalty. They’re asking if I’ve been *fucked*.
And they’re doing it in public.
“That is none of your concern,” Kaelen says, but his voice is tight. Controlled. I can feel the tension in the bond, a sharp spike of something—anger? Possessiveness?—that makes my pulse jump.
Lyria smiles. “Oh, but it is. The Supernatural Council demands it. Without consummation within 72 hours of the Claim, the bond is considered null and void. And the consort—” she pauses, letting the word hang, “—is executed for treason.”
The words hit like a blade to the gut.
Executed.
For treason.
Because I haven’t *slept* with him.
I laugh. A sharp, broken sound. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“I never joke about blood,” Lyria says, her smile widening. “The law is clear. 72 hours. From the moment the mark was seared into your flesh. And, my dear…” She checks a silver pocket watch. “You’ve already used up 12 of them.”
My breath stops.
72 hours.
Three days.
To either submit—or die.
I look at Kaelen. His jaw is clenched. His hands are fisted on the arms of his throne. But he doesn’t look at me. He stares straight ahead, his expression unreadable.
“This is a farce,” I say, voice shaking. “You’re using me. Using *him*. This isn’t about the bond. This is about control.”
“It’s about *order*,” Lyria corrects. “Without consummation, the bond is unstable. It could fracture. It could trigger war between the vampire houses. We cannot risk that. So you will fulfill your duty. Or you will pay the price.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you die,” she says simply. “And your mother’s name dies with you.”
The words are a knife to the chest.
Because she’s right.
If I die, my mission dies. My vengeance dies. The truth about my mother—whatever it is—dies.
And Kaelen—
He still claims he didn’t kill her.
That she died protecting *him*.
From someone in *my* bloodline.
Doubt slithers through me again, cold and insidious.
But I can’t think about that now.
Not with a death sentence hanging over my head.
“You have until the next Blood Moon,” Lyria says, standing. “72 hours. No more. No less. And we will *know*.” She steps down from her throne, walking toward me, her heels clicking against the marble. “Because we’ll test you. Blood to blood. Magic to magic. And if the bond hasn’t been sealed—” she leans in, whispering in my ear, “—you’ll bleed out on this floor, just like your mother did.”
I don’t flinch.
I don’t look away.
But inside, I’m screaming.
She turns, gliding back to her throne. “You are dismissed.”
Kaelen stands. I follow, numb, my legs moving on their own. The bond hums, louder now, a constant, insistent pressure. We walk in silence through the halls, back to his chambers, the weight of the ultimatum pressing down on me like a stone.
The second the door closes, I whirl on him.
“You knew,” I hiss. “You knew about the 72 hours.”
He doesn’t answer. Just walks to the fireplace, staring into the flames.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he says finally.
“And you didn’t *tell* me?”
“Would it have changed anything?” he asks, turning to face me. “Would you have stopped trying to kill me? Would you have trusted me?”
“No,” I snap. “But I have a right to know when I’m being sentenced to death!”
“You knew the risks when you came here.”
“I came to *kill you*, not become your goddamn wife!”
He steps toward me, slow, deliberate. “And now you have a choice. Submit. Or die.”
“Those aren’t choices. That’s coercion.”
“It’s politics.”
“It’s *barbaric*.”
“It’s the law.”
I glare at him, my magic simmering beneath my skin. “I’d rather die than let you touch me.”
He doesn’t react. Just watches me, his golden eyes unreadable. “Then you’ll die hating me. And I’ll still keep you.”
“You can’t force me.”
“I don’t have to. The bond will. 72 hours apart without consummation triggers bond sickness—fever, pain, hallucinations. By the end, you’ll be begging me to take you. And I’ll say no. Just to watch you break.”
My breath catches.
He’s not bluffing.
He means it.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“And you’re mine,” he says, stepping closer. “Whether you like it or not.”
I back away, but the room is too small. He follows, relentless. The bond flares—hot, sudden—and my magic surges. Vines burst from my skin, lashing out, cracking the bookshelf, shattering a vase. But he doesn’t flinch. He just keeps coming.
Until I’m pressed against the wall.
His hand lands beside my head. His body cages me in. His scent—dark, rich, intoxicating—fills my lungs.
“You don’t get to hate me,” he says, voice low, rough. “Not when your body burns for me. Not when your magic flares at my touch. Not when every breath you take is laced with my name.”
“Liar,” I breathe.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I do.
And in his eyes—gold, molten, endless—I see it.
Desire.
Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just mine.
It’s his too.
My breath hitches.
His hand slides down, fingers brushing the curve of my lower back, just above my hip. A spark of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous.
“You want me,” he murmurs. “Admit it.”
“Never.”
His thumb strokes my spine. “Liar.”
And then—
He pulls away.
Just like that.
Leaving me gasping, trembling, aching with the loss of contact.
“72 hours, Rowan,” he says, walking toward the door. “Choose wisely.”
And then he’s gone.
I slide down the wall, clutching my arms, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The mark on my wrist burns. My body hums with unsated magic, with heat, with *need*.
I press my forehead to my knees.
I came here to kill him.
Now I have to choose between my mission—and my life.
And for the first time—
I’m not sure which one I want more.