The silence after he leaves is worse than the confrontation.
It doesn’t echo. It doesn’t fade. It presses—heavy, suffocating, like the weight of the Obsidian Court itself settling onto my chest. I stay on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around myself as if I can hold the pieces together. But I’m unraveling. Not from fear. Not from pain. From something far more dangerous.
Want.
It coils low in my belly, a slow, insistent heat that pulses in time with the mark on my wrist. Every breath I take tastes like him—dark wine, storm-laced iron, something ancient and predatory that makes my skin prickle. My magic hums beneath my flesh, restless, agitated, as if it’s still reaching for him, still craving the contact he ripped away.
I press my palms hard against my thighs, grounding myself. Control. You have to stay in control. Mira’s voice, steady as stone. But even her voice feels distant now, drowned out by the echo of Kaelen’s words.
“You want me. Admit it.”
“Liar.”
He’s wrong. He has to be. I don’t want him. I hate him. He’s the Vampire King. The man who stood by while my mother was executed. The tyrant who now holds my life in his hands, dangling it like a prize.
But then why does my body burn when he’s near?
Why do my fingers twitch with the memory of his touch?
Why does the bond—cold, cruel, forced—feel like it’s stitching itself into my soul?
I push myself up, shaky but determined. I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when the clock is ticking. 72 hours. Three days to either submit to him—or die.
And I will not die.
Not until I know the truth.
Because despite everything—despite the bond, despite the magic, despite the way my body betrays me—I can’t shake the words he whispered in the sanctum:
“She died protecting me. From someone inside your bloodline.”
Lies. They have to be lies.
But the bond doesn’t lie.
And when he said it, I felt it—just for a second—like a whisper in my blood, a flicker of truth buried beneath centuries of deception.
I need answers. And I won’t get them cowering in this gilded cage.
I stride to the wardrobe, yanking open the doors. Inside, the clothes are still arranged with that same unnerving precision—silk, velvet, leather, all in shades of black and crimson. I grab the first thing my fingers touch—a fitted jacket of deep violet leather, lined with silver thread—and pull it on over the tunic. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. He’s had me measured. Studied. Prepared for.
I don’t care.
I’m not his puppet. Not his consort. Not his wife.
I’m Rowan of the Thorned Blood.
And I’m going to find out who really killed my mother.
I leave the chambers without hesitation, my boots clicking against the marble as I move through the private wing. The halls are quieter here—no whispers, no stares, just the distant echo of footsteps and the low hum of magic in the walls. The Obsidian Court is alive, not just with vampires, but with ancient spells woven into the stone, the air, the very foundation of the place.
I don’t know where I’m going. Not exactly. But I know where secrets are kept.
The Archives.
Hidden beneath the main hall, accessible only by those with royal blood or Council clearance. But I don’t need permission. I have magic. And I have rage.
I find the entrance—a narrow, unmarked door tucked behind a tapestry of a forgotten war. The sigil on the handle glows faintly, warding off intruders. I press my palm to it, letting my magic surge. The Thorned Blood’s power feeds on emotion. And right now, I’m drowning in it.
The sigil flares—white-hot—then cracks. The door swings open.
Inside, the Archives stretch endlessly—rows upon rows of towering shelves, filled with ancient tomes, scrolls, grimoires bound in leather and bone. The air is thick with dust and the scent of old paper, of ink and dried blood. Candles float in midair, casting long, flickering shadows. The silence is absolute.
Perfect.
I move down the first aisle, scanning the spines. Chronicles of the Blood Moon. Treaties of the First Night. The Fall of the Thorned Blood. My fingers pause on that last one. I pull it free, the cover cold beneath my touch. The pages are brittle, the ink faded, but the words are clear:
“On the night of the Blood Moon, the exiled heir of the Thorned Blood coven was executed for treason. Her consort, the Vampire King Kaelen D’Rae, stood witness but did not intervene. The coven was disbanded. The bloodline declared extinct.”
I slam the book shut.
Lies. All of it.
They paint her as a traitor. Paint him as a silent observer. But Kaelen said she died protecting him. That she was betrayed by someone in my family.
I need more.
I keep searching, moving deeper into the Archives. Supernatural Council Records. Vampire House Alliances. Fae-Blood Pacts. Nothing. Then—
Personal Correspondence: House D’Rae, 12th Century – Present.
My breath catches.
I pull the volume free. The pages are thick, the handwriting elegant, in a language I don’t recognize at first—then it clicks. Old Fae. Mira taught me.
I flip through, scanning for anything—names, dates, mentions of my mother. And then I find it.
A letter.
Dated the night she died.
Addressed to Kaelen.
From her.
My hands tremble as I read.
“Kaelen,
If you are reading this, I am already dead. They’ve come for you. The coup is real. My sister—Aurelia—has turned. She’s made a pact with the Council. They mean to take your throne, your life, your blood. I will not let them succeed.
I am going to the sanctum. I will draw them out. I will make them believe I am the traitor. That I acted alone. That I betrayed you. It is the only way to protect you. The only way to keep the peace.
Do not mourn me. Do not seek vengeance. Let them believe I died a traitor. Let my name rot in the dirt. But live, Kaelen. Rule. And if one day a girl with my eyes and my fire comes to you—
Protect her.
She is your only hope.
—Lysandra”
The book slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I can’t breathe.
My mother—Lysandra—didn’t die because of Kaelen.
She died for him.
She let them execute her. Let them call her a traitor. Let them erase her name—so that he could live.
And my aunt—Aurelia—betrayed her. Betrayed us.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the wave of nausea, of grief, of rage that crashes through me. All these years—I’ve been hunting the wrong enemy. I’ve been hating the wrong man.
And Kaelen—
He knew.
He’s known all along.
And he didn’t tell me.
But then—neither did Mira.
Why?
Was it to protect me? To keep me focused? Or was it because she didn’t know either?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
But one thing is certain.
I was sent here to kill a king.
And I was sent by a murderer.
I sink to my knees, the weight of it crushing me. The mission I’ve lived for, the vengeance I’ve carried like a blade—shattered. My mother wasn’t a victim of Kaelen’s cruelty.
She was a martyr.
And I’ve spent my life hating the man she died to protect.
Hot tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. The Thorned Blood doesn’t weep. We burn.
And I am on fire.
I stand, wiping my face with the back of my hand. The Archives spin around me, but I lock my jaw, forcing myself to focus. I need to think. To plan. To—
A sound.
Soft. Delicate. A whisper of fabric.
I freeze.
Someone’s here.
I move silently, slipping between the shelves, my magic coiled tight beneath my skin. The candles flicker as I pass, shadows stretching long behind me. I follow the sound—down the next aisle, past a shelf of ancient grimoires, toward the far end of the Archives.
And there—
She’s standing in front of a mirror, adjusting the collar of a man’s shirt.
His shirt.
Black silk. Silver clasps. The crest of House D’Rae embroidered over the heart.
And she’s wearing nothing else.
Lyria Vex.
Her silver-white hair spills over one shoulder, her pale lavender eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she studies her reflection. The shirt hangs loose on her, barely covering her thighs, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal the curve of her breasts, the smooth line of her collarbone.
And on her neck—
A scar.
Small. Faint. But unmistakable.
A bite mark.
My breath stops.
She turns, sensing me. A slow, venomous smile spreads across her lips.
“Oh,” she says, voice dripping with mock surprise. “If it isn’t the Blood Consort. Did you come to borrow something? Or just to gawk?”
I don’t answer. I don’t move.
My magic surges—vines bursting from my skin, curling around my arms, my fists. The air crackles with power.
She doesn’t flinch. Just steps closer, swaying her hips, the shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. “You should be thanking me, you know. Kaelen was… tense after your little performance last night. All that pent-up frustration. All that desire.” She leans in, whispering, “I was happy to help him… relieve it.”
“Liar,” I hiss.
“Am I?” She lifts her chin, exposing the scar. “He marked me, Rowan. Years ago. Before you were even born. He bit me. Claimed me. And then he cast me aside like trash.” Her eyes flash. “But I’m still here. And I’ll be here when you’re gone.”
“He doesn’t want you.”
“Doesn’t he?” She runs a hand down her body, lingering on her thigh. “Then why did he let me wear his shirt? Why did he let me into his chambers? Why did he—”
I don’t let her finish.
I lunge.
My magic explodes—thorned vines erupting from the floor, the shelves, the walls, lashing out like whips, wrapping around her wrists, her waist, yanking her back. She screams, but I don’t stop. The vines lift her, pinning her against the mirror, cracking the glass, thorns digging into her skin, drawing thin lines of blood.
“You don’t belong here,” I snarl, stepping forward. “You don’t belong to him.”
She laughs, breathless, blood trickling down her neck. “You think this is about belonging? This is about power. And you—” she spits the word, “—are weak. A half-breed. A mistake. You’ll never be enough for him. Never be enough for this court.”
“Then why is he still looking at me?” I whisper.
Her smile falters.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Kaelen.
He steps into the aisle, his golden eyes burning, his expression unreadable. His gaze flicks to Lyria—pinned, bleeding, half-naked in his shirt—then to me.
To the vines.
To my hands, clenched in fists, trembling with rage.
“Let her go,” he says, voice low.
“She was wearing your shirt,” I say, voice shaking. “She said you—”
“I don’t care what she said.” He steps closer. “Let. Her. Go.”
I don’t move.
“Rowan,” he says, softer now. “Let her go.”
The vines loosen. Retract. Lyria collapses to the floor, gasping, clutching her arms where the thorns cut her.
Kaelen doesn’t look at her. He steps forward, closing the distance between us. His hand lands on my shoulder—firm, warm, grounding.
“She means nothing,” he says, voice quiet, meant only for me. “But you? You’re shaking.”
I look up at him.
And for the first time—
I don’t see the monster.
I see the man who loved my mother.
The man who let her die to protect him.
The man who’s been carrying her secret for centuries.
And I realize—
I’m not the only one who’s been betrayed.
“She’s lying,” I whisper.
He nods. “I know.”
“Then why—”
“Politics,” he says. “She’s a Councilor. I couldn’t refuse her entry. But I didn’t let her wear my shirt. She stole it.”
My breath hitches.
“And the mark?”
“Fake,” he says. “A glamour. She’s been trying to claim me for years.”
I look down at Lyria, still on the floor, glaring up at us. Humiliated. Furious.
And I feel it—
Not triumph.
Not satisfaction.
But something else.
Pity.
Because she’s been fighting for a man who never wanted her.
Just like I was.
Kaelen’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “You should go,” he says to her. “Before I decide you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
She stands, straightening the shirt with as much dignity as she can muster. “This isn’t over,” she says, voice trembling with rage. “The Council will hear about this.”
“Let them,” Kaelen says. “I’ll tell them the truth. That you broke into my chambers. That you wore my clothes without permission. That you lied about being marked.”
Her face pales.
And then she’s gone—storming out of the Archives, the door slamming behind her.
Silence.
Then—
“You read it, didn’t you?” Kaelen asks, his voice softer now.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He steps closer, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my wrist, his fingers brushing the mark. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how. Because I didn’t know if you’d believe me. Because I didn’t want you to see her as a martyr. I wanted you to see her as your mother.”
Tears burn my eyes again.
“She died for you,” I whisper.
“And I’ve lived with that every day since.”
I look up at him—really look at him.
And for the first time—I see him.
Not as my enemy.
Not as my captor.
But as a man who loved my mother.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
Could learn to love me.
The thought terrifies me more than any blade.