The guest chamber is cold. Not in temperature—there’s a fire crackling in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls—but in essence. It’s untouched, unclaimed, a hollow shell meant for bodies, not souls. The bed is made with military precision, the curtains drawn tight, the air thick with dust and disuse. It’s the perfect place to hide.
Too bad I don’t know how to stop feeling.
I sit on the floor, back pressed to the door, arms wrapped around my knees, my breath still uneven, my skin still humming with the ghost of Kaelen’s touch. The mark on my wrist pulses, warm and insistent, a constant reminder that I’m not free. That I’m bound. That I *felt* something—something I wasn’t supposed to feel.
Desire.
Not just the bond’s cruel mimicry of it. Not just magic reacting to proximity. But real, raw, *human* want. The kind that coils low in the belly, that makes the breath catch, that makes the heart race for reasons beyond survival.
I press my palms hard against my thighs, grounding myself. Control. You have to stay in control. Mira’s voice echoes in my skull, steady as stone. But even her voice feels distant now, drowned out by the echo of Kaelen’s growl, the heat of his hands, the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world worth breaking for.
I didn’t come here to fall in love.
I came here to kill.
And yet.
And yet.
I think of my mother’s letter. The way she sacrificed herself to protect him. The way she wrote, “Protect her. She is your only hope.” She didn’t send me here to destroy him. She sent me here to *save* him. To finish what she started.
And I’ve spent my life hating the wrong man.
The thought is a blade to the chest. It doesn’t just cut—it twists. Because if I was wrong about him, what else have I been wrong about? My mission. My rage. My purpose. All of it, built on a lie.
And now—
Now I don’t know who I am.
The Thorned Blood doesn’t break.
But I’m not sure I’m her anymore.
A knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Rowan.”
Kaelen’s voice.
Low. Smooth. Commanding.
And edged with something I’ve never heard before.
Worry.
I don’t answer. I don’t move.
“I know you’re in there.”
Still silence.
“Open the door.”
“Go away.”
“You don’t get to hide from me.”
“I don’t get to hide? You don’t get to *chase* me.”
He doesn’t reply. But I hear the soft click of the lock disengaging—magic, not force. The door swings open, and he steps inside, silhouetted by the dim light from the hall. He’s still in his shirt, the fabric open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars that cross his skin like a map of battles fought and survived. His hair is slightly tousled, his golden eyes burning.
“You walked away,” he says, closing the door behind him.
“And you followed.”
“You’re mine. I don’t let what’s mine run.”
“I’m not your *property*.”
“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “You’re my consort. My equal. My *enemy*.” He stops just inches from me. “And you don’t get to use me like that and walk away.”
“I didn’t *use* you.”
“You did.” He crouches in front of me, his hands braced on his knees. “You touched me. You teased me. You made me feel—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
“Feel what?” I challenge, lifting my chin. “Desire? Arousal? Weakness?”
“*Need*,” he growls. “You made me *need* you. And then you left.”
My breath catches.
Because that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Not that I wanted him. But that *he* wanted *me*. That he *needed* me. That for the first time since I arrived, the power wasn’t mine.
It was his.
And I gave it to him.
“You don’t get to do that,” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“Make me want you back.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his golden eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches out, his fingers brushing the mark on my wrist. The touch is electric. My magic stirs—vines twitching beneath my skin, eager, restless.
“The bond doesn’t lie,” he says. “It only reflects truth.”
“Then why does it feel like a curse?”
“Because you’re fighting it.”
“I’m not fighting it. I’m fighting *you*.”
“And what happens,” he murmurs, leaning in, “when you stop?”
Before I can answer, a sharp knock echoes through the chamber.
We both turn.
The door opens, and Cassien steps in—Kaelen’s lieutenant, captain of the Night Guard, a vampire with the cold precision of a blade and the quiet loyalty of a shadow. His expression is grim.
“My lord,” he says, bowing slightly. “The Council requests your presence. Immediately.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. “What for?”
“High Councilor Vex has filed a formal accusation. She claims Rowan is a spy. That she infiltrated the court under false pretenses. That her presence here is a threat to the stability of the alliance.”
My breath stops.
Lyria.
Of course.
Humiliated in the Archives. Exposed as a liar. Stripped of her claim. She wouldn’t let that go.
She’s striking back.
Kaelen stands, his expression unreadable. “And the Council believes her?”
“They’re convening now. They want proof of Rowan’s loyalty. Or they’ll have her executed for treason.”
“They can’t do that,” I snap, standing. “The bond protects me.”
“The bond protects you from *me*,” Kaelen says, turning to me. “Not from them. Not from politics.”
“Then prove I’m not a spy.”
“How?”
“You know I’m not.”
“I know what the bond tells me. But the Council wants *evidence*. They want a public display of loyalty. Of submission.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I have to be. If I don’t act, they’ll take you from me. And I won’t survive that.”
My heart stutters.
“You won’t survive it?”
“The bond,” he says. “If you die, I die. Not immediately. But slowly. Painfully. A vampire king doesn’t live long without his consort. The magic won’t allow it.”
I stare at him.
He’s not lying.
He’s not bluffing.
He *needs* me.
And not just because of the bond.
Because of *me*.
But I don’t have time to process it. Cassien clears his throat.
“They’re waiting, my lord.”
Kaelen nods. “Prepare the dungeon.”
My stomach drops. “The *dungeon*?”
“It’s the only way,” he says, his voice cold now, detached. “They need to see you punished. Controlled. Bound.”
“You’re going to *chain* me?”
“I’m going to save your life.”
“By humiliating me?”
“By playing the part they expect.” He steps closer, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Trust me.”
And then he’s gone—striding out of the chamber, Cassien following behind him.
I don’t move.
Not at first.
Because I don’t know what to feel.
Rage. Betrayal. Fear. Or something worse.
Hope.
Because he said *trust me*.
And for the first time—
I think I might.
The dungeon is beneath the Obsidian Court, a labyrinth of stone and iron, lit by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. The air is thick with the scent of old blood, damp stone, and magic—ancient spells etched into the walls to contain the strongest prisoners.
I walk between two Night Guards, my hands bound in silver chains that burn against my skin. The mark on my wrist pulses, a constant, insistent pressure. I don’t resist. Not yet. I play the part—head down, shoulders slumped, the perfect picture of defeat.
But inside, I’m calculating.
The layout. The guards. The exits. The magic in the walls. I could break free. I could unleash my vines, tear through the chains, take them all down. But I don’t.
Because Kaelen said *trust me*.
And I want to.
Worse—I *need* to.
We reach the central chamber—a circular cell with a high ceiling, the floor carved with containment runes. The Council is already there, seated in a semicircle, their expressions cold, their eyes sharp. Lyria sits at the center, her mercury gown shifting, her pale lavender eyes gleaming with triumph.
And Kaelen stands before them, his expression unreadable, his golden eyes burning.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” Lyria announces, her voice echoing through the chamber. “You stand accused of espionage, treason, and deception. How do you plead?”
I lift my head, meeting her gaze. “I’m not guilty.”
“Then why,” she asks, “did you infiltrate the court with a dagger? Why did you attempt to assassinate the Vampire King?”
“Because I believed he killed my mother.”
“And now?”
“Now I know the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That she died protecting him. That she was betrayed by someone in my bloodline.”
Laughter ripples through the Council.
“A convenient story,” Lyria says. “One that absolves you of your crime. But we need proof. And until we have it, you are a threat.” She turns to Kaelen. “As her consort, you are responsible for her actions. And if you cannot control her, you are unfit to rule.”
Kaelen doesn’t react. Just steps forward, his voice calm, commanding. “Then I will control her.”
He raises his hand.
The chains around my wrists glow, then dissolve into smoke. But before I can move, new ones erupt from the floor—living shadow, like the ones from the Blood Claim—wrapping around my wrists, my ankles, my waist, yanking me to my knees.
The Council watches. Silent. Satisfied.
“She is bound,” Kaelen says. “And she will remain so until her loyalty is proven.”
“And if it isn’t?” Lyria asks.
“Then I will execute her myself.”
The words hit like a blade to the gut.
He’s lying. He has to be. He wouldn’t—
But he meets my gaze.
And in his eyes—gold, molten, endless—I see it.
Not cruelty.
Not anger.
But something worse.
Sorrow.
He’s doing this to save me.
And I have to play my part.
So I lower my head.
And I let them think I’ve broken.
The Council leaves. One by one, they rise, bow slightly to Kaelen, and file out of the chamber. Lyria lingers, her eyes narrowing as she studies me on my knees, bound in shadow.
“Enjoy your time in the dark,” she whispers. “It’s the last peace you’ll know.”
Then she’s gone.
The door clangs shut.
And I’m alone.
The chains don’t hurt. Not physically. But the weight of them—the weight of the lie, of the performance, of the truth I can’t speak—presses down on me like a stone. I stay on my knees, head down, breathing slow, steady, fighting the wave of emotion that threatens to drown me.
Rage. Grief. Fear. And beneath it all—
Want.
For him.
Because he’s the only one who sees me. The only one who knows the truth. The only one who’s fighting for me, even when it looks like he’s destroying me.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
I don’t look up.
The chains dissolve.
“I’m not your jailer,” Kaelen says, his voice quiet, meant only for me. “But I’m not your savior either.”
I lift my head.
He’s standing over me, his golden eyes burning, his expression unreadable.
“Then what are you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
He just holds out his hand.
And I take it.