The ballroom fades behind me, its music dissolving into the hush of the corridor like blood into water. My heart hasn’t slowed. It hammers against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the pulse of the mark on my wrist. I press my palm to it, grounding, but the heat beneath my skin won’t subside. It’s not just the bond. It’s *him*. His voice in my ear. His hands on me. The way he looked at me—like he could see every lie I’ve ever told, every secret I’ve buried, and still wanted me anyway.
I came here to kill him.
And now I danced with him like a lover.
Like a consort.
I lean against the cold marble wall, closing my eyes. The air is still thick with the scent of him—dark wine, storm-laced iron—mixed with the faint, lingering perfume of the ballroom: crushed roses and vampire glamour. My skin tingles where his fingers touched me, where his breath grazed my neck. My magic hums, restless, coiled tight beneath my flesh, as if it’s still reaching for him, still craving the connection.
I didn’t plan for this.
I didn’t plan for any of it.
Not the Blood Claim. Not the 72-hour ultimatum. Not Lyria’s lies. Not my mother’s letter. And certainly not the way my body responds to Kaelen like a traitor to my own mission.
But I’m not helpless.
I’m not weak.
The Thorned Blood doesn’t break.
We adapt.
And if I can’t kill him—
Then I’ll use him.
I push off the wall, straightening my spine. The gown still clings to me, the slit up the side revealing a flash of thigh with every step. My braid has loosened, strands of hair framing my face. I look like a queen. A weapon. A woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
Good.
Because tonight, I’m going to make him burn.
I don’t return to the chambers. Not yet. I know he’ll be there eventually, but I need space. I need to think. To plan. To turn this twisted game into something I can control.
I find myself in the Hall of Whispers—a long, narrow corridor lined with mirrors that don’t reflect truth, but desire. Fae magic, old and dangerous. I avoid them, keeping to the shadows, but one catches my eye as I pass.
It doesn’t show me.
It shows *us*.
Kaelen and me, pressed together in the ballroom, his hand on my back, my head tilted back, lips parted. But the image shifts—our clothes gone, skin to skin, his fangs at my throat, my fingers tangled in his hair, my body arched beneath his. Heat floods my face. I look away, but the image lingers in my mind, vivid, undeniable.
I clench my fists.
No.
I won’t be used. Not by magic. Not by the bond. Not by *him*.
If he wants a performance, I’ll give him one.
And this time, I’ll be the one in control.
I return to the chambers slowly, deliberately. The door is ajar. Light spills into the hall. He’s already here.
Of course he is.
I push the door open, stepping inside.
Kaelen stands by the fireplace, his back to me, one hand braced on the mantle. His coat is gone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms, the faint scars that mark a life of war. The firelight dances across his skin, gilding the sharp angles of his profile. He doesn’t turn.
“You left,” he says, voice low.
“I needed air,” I reply, closing the door behind me.
“You needed to run.”
“I don’t run.”
He turns then, golden eyes locking onto mine. “You do. From me. From the bond. From what you feel.”
“I feel nothing.”
He laughs—low, dark, the sound curling around me like smoke. “Liar.”
I step forward, letting the gown sway with my movement. “You think you know me? You think you can read me like one of your ancient tomes?”
“I know your body betrays you.”
“And yours?” I challenge, stopping just inches from him. “Doesn’t it burn when I’m near? Doesn’t your blood sing when I touch you?”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t get to ask that.”
“Why not?” I lift my hand, letting my fingers trail down the front of his shirt, slow, deliberate. “We’re bound, aren’t we? Connected. Isn’t that what the bond is? A link between blood, magic, desire?”
His breath hitches.
“Or is it just you?” I continue, stepping closer, my body brushing his. “Is it only me who feels this? This heat? This ache?”
“Rowan—”
“Answer me.” My fingers find the first button of his shirt. I undo it. Then the next. His skin is warm beneath my touch, the muscle of his chest taut, his breathing uneven. “Or are you too afraid to admit it?”
“Afraid?” He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then let go,” I whisper.
He hesitates.
And then—
He releases me.
I smile. Slow. Dangerous.
My fingers return to his shirt, undoing the rest of the buttons, pushing the fabric open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars that cross his skin like a map of battles fought and survived. My breath catches. He’s beautiful in a way that hurts—ruthless, powerful, marked by centuries of war.
And he’s mine.
At least for tonight.
My hands slide over his chest, tracing the scars, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms. His breath comes faster now, shallow, controlled, but I can feel the tension in him, the way his body responds to my touch, the way his scent shifts—darker, richer, edged with something warm and musky that makes my mouth go dry.
Desire.
His.
And mine.
“You’re trembling,” I murmur, lifting my gaze to his.
“So are you,” he growls.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
“Why?” I step closer, pressing my body to his, my hands sliding up to his shoulders. “Because you want me? Because your blood sings for mine? Because the bond—” I press my palm to his chest, right over his heart, “—is screaming for us to finish what we started?”
His hand lands on my waist, fingers digging into my hip. “You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what?” I tilt my head, letting my lips brush the column of his throat. “Touch you? Tease you? Make you feel something other than control?”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“Then burn with me.”
His grip tightens. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I want to see you lose control. I want to see the Vampire King break. I want to know that I—Rowan of the Thorned Blood—can make you beg.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing.
Then—
He moves.
Fast. Relentless. One hand fists in my hair, the other wraps around my waist, hauling me against him. Our mouths crash together—hard, desperate, teeth and tongue and hunger. I gasp into the kiss, my magic surging, vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his neck, binding us together.
He doesn’t stop.
He deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming, conquering. His fangs graze my lip, sharp, dangerous, and a jolt of heat crashes through me, so intense I whimper, my body arching against his.
“You want me to beg?” he growls against my mouth. “Then make me.”
And then he’s moving, backing me toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine. The door swings open, the firelight spilling into the room, casting long shadows across the bed draped in velvet the color of dried blood.
My back hits the wall beside the doorframe. He pins me there, one hand still in my hair, the other sliding down, over my hip, my thigh, lifting my leg to wrap around his waist. The slit in my gown parts, revealing my bare skin, and his fingers brush the inside of my thigh, slow, deliberate, igniting a fire that spreads low, deep, dangerous.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “For me.”
“Liar,” I breathe, but my hips arch into his touch, betraying me.
He smiles—dark, knowing. “Liar.”
His fingers slide higher, beneath the fabric of my gown, tracing the edge of my panties. I gasp, my head falling back against the wall. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping my pulse point, and I feel it—the bond flaring, the magic surging, the heat building to a fever pitch.
This is it.
This is what the Council wants.
What the bond demands.
What my body has been screaming for since the moment I first touched him with that blade.
And I want it.
Gods help me, I *want* it.
But not like this.
Not as his conquest.
Not as his surrender.
I press my hands to his chest, shoving him back—just enough to break the contact, to catch my breath, to regain control.
He doesn’t fight. Just watches me, golden eyes burning, his chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers still tangled in my hair, his other hand resting on my thigh, possessive, demanding.
“What?” he growls. “You don’t want this?”
“I want you to *want* me,” I say, voice shaking. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because your body responds to mine. But because you can’t imagine your life without me. Because you’d burn the world down to keep me.”
He stares at me.
And for the first time—
I see it.
Doubt.
Not in me.
In *him*.
“You think I don’t?” he whispers.
“Prove it.”
“Rowan—”
“I don’t belong to you,” I say, stepping back, pulling free of his grip. The vines retract, my magic receding, but the heat between us doesn’t fade. It lingers, thick, electric, like the air before a storm. “Not yet. And I won’t—until you admit that you’re just as lost as I am.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
I turn, walking toward the door.
“Rowan.”
I stop, but I don’t look back.
“You don’t get to tease me and walk away,” he says, voice low, rough.
I glance over my shoulder. “Then stop letting me.”
And then I’m gone—into the hall, the door clicking shut behind me.
I don’t run.
I don’t breathe.
I just walk, one foot in front of the other, my heart hammering, my body aching with the loss of contact, with the unsated heat, with the knowledge that I just walked away from the one thing I’ve been fighting for—since the moment I arrived.
Not his death.
But his surrender.
I find a guest chamber—empty, untouched—and lock the door behind me. I sink to the floor, pressing my back to the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The mark on my wrist burns. My skin still hums with the memory of his touch. My thighs still clench with the echo of his fingers.
I press my palms to my eyes, fighting the wave of emotion—rage, grief, desire, fear—that crashes through me.
I came here to kill him.
And now I’m in love with him.
The thought terrifies me more than any blade.
But worse—
I think he’s in love with me too.
And if that’s true—
Then I’ve already won.
And lost.
All at once.