The first lie I tell is with my breath.
I step into the Midnight Court with measured strides, each heel click echoing like a heartbeat against obsidian floors. The air is thick—cloying with incense, old magic, and the metallic tang of blood just beneath the surface. I inhale slowly, deliberately, and let the scent of jasmine oil rise from my skin, masking the wolf musk that clings to my bones. A lie. A performance. I am not Jasmine Vale, daughter of a murdered queen and a vanished alpha. I am Lady Selene, a minor witch-lord from the northern covens, come to witness the treaty signing that will bind the species in fragile peace.
My silver mask covers half my face, etched with stolen sigils that hum faintly against my temples. They burn when I lie. Right now, they’re silent. I haven’t said a word.
The throne room is a cathedral of shadows. Arched ceilings loom above, carved with ancient runes that pulse in time with the lunar eclipse outside. Moonlight bleeds through stained glass, painting the floor in fractured hues of violet and silver. Vampires stand like statues in tailored black, their eyes sharp, their stillness predatory. Werewolves crowd the edges—broad-shouldered, restless, the scent of wet earth and fur clinging to them. Witches drift like smoke, their fingers twitching with restrained power.
And at the center, on a throne of blackened bone and thorned iron, sits *him*.
Kael D’Arenthe.
The Midnight King.
My mother’s killer.
He’s taller than I remember. Not that I have much to go on—just the memory of a child, frozen in horror as a blade slid across her mother’s throat. But I know his face. I’ve studied it for years in stolen portraits, in whispered legends. High cheekbones, jawline carved from stone, lips that look soft until you see the fangs beneath. His hair is ink-black, falling just past his collar, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—are the color of storm clouds before lightning strikes.
They find me.
And for a single, breathless second, I swear he *knows*.
I force my spine straighter. My pulse steady. I am not the girl who watched her mother die. I am not the hybrid orphan who survived on the edges of every world, never belonging to any. I am vengeance wrapped in silk and sigils, and I have come to burn his empire to the ground.
The High Oracle begins the ritual. Her voice is a low chant, rising like smoke. The treaty is written on vellum soaked in moonlight and blood—three species bound by magic, not trust. The representatives step forward: a vampire elder, a werewolf alpha, a witch matron. And then me.
“Lady Selene of the North,” the Oracle intones. “Do you come in peace?”
“I do,” I say, and the sigils on my mask flare—once, faintly. A half-truth. I came for peace. Just not the kind they think.
She doesn’t comment. Maybe she doesn’t care. Or maybe she knows, too.
We form a circle. The vellum is placed on a stone altar, pulsing with dormant magic. The ritual requires touch—a joining of hands to seal the bond. I take the witch matron’s hand on one side, cold and papery. On the other—
His.
Kael.
His fingers close around mine, and the world *shatters*.
Fire erupts beneath my skin. Not pain—no, worse. *Recognition*. My blood sings, my bones hum, and every nerve ending screams as if waking from a two-decade slumber. My pulse roars in my ears. My vision blurs. And then—
Memories that aren’t mine.
A forest bathed in moonlight. A boy with storm-gray eyes, reaching for me. *“You’re safe,”* he whispers. *“I’ll always keep you safe.”*
A hand in mine, small and warm. Laughter. A promise.
Then—blood. So much blood. My mother, falling. Kael’s face twisted in grief, not triumph. His voice, raw: *“I tried to stop it. I tried—”*
The blade. The whisper. *“For the peace of all realms.”*
I wrench my hand back with a gasp, stumbling. My breath comes in ragged bursts. My skin is on fire. I can still feel him—his pulse in my veins, his sorrow in my chest, his *arousal*—a low, dark thrum that echoes between my thighs.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t possible.
Fated bonds are myths. Lies told to control hybrids, to chain us to purebloods. They don’t happen without ritual. Without consent. Without—
“Impossible,” the High Oracle breathes.
Everyone turns.
She’s staring at me, her milky eyes wide. Her hands tremble as she points a gnarled finger at my wrist—where my sigil, hidden beneath my sleeve, *glows* with a deep, pulsing red. And beneath it, etched into my skin like a brand, a mark I’ve never seen before: a crescent moon wrapped in thorned vines.
The mark of the lost heir.
“The lost heir,” the Oracle whispers. “Marked by midnight.”
Silence.
Then—chaos.
Whispers rise like wind through dead leaves. *Hybrid. Heir. Betrayal.* Vampires exchange glances. Werewolves growl low in their throats. Witches mutter spells under their breath, as if I might burst into flame.
And Kael—
He stands.
Slowly. Deliberately. His chair scrapes against stone. His eyes—black now, pupils swallowed by darkness—lock onto mine. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But I feel him. *Everywhere.* In my blood. In my breath. In the way my body *aches* for his touch like a starving thing.
“You,” he says. Just one word. A command. A question. A curse.
I lift my chin. “You don’t know me.”
“I know your scent,” he says, voice low, rough. “Storm and blood. Moonlight and fire. I’ve dreamed of it for twenty years.”
My stomach drops. This is a trap. It has to be. He’s playing me, testing me—
“The bond is real,” the Oracle says, stepping forward. “The magic does not lie. The fated mark has awakened. The lost heir of the Shadow Coven and the Moonborn Clan has returned—and she is bound to the Midnight King.”
“No,” I say, too loud. “That’s not— I didn’t—”
“You felt it,” Kael says. “When I touched you. You felt *us*.”
I did. Gods, I did. And that’s the worst part.
Because for one terrible, traitorous second, when our hands met, I didn’t think of revenge.
I thought of *home*.
“The treaty stands,” the Oracle declares. “But the bond supersedes all. Until it is severed—or consummated—their fates are intertwined. Distance will weaken them. Conflict will burn them. And if one dies…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
I know what happens.
We both do.
Kael takes a step toward me. The room tenses. Vampires shift. Werewolves bare their teeth. But he doesn’t reach for me. Not yet.
“You came here to destroy me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But the magic knew you first. It remembers what you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I snap. “I remember the blade. I remember her blood. I remember *you*.”
His jaw tightens. “Then you also remember the boy who hid you in the trees. The one who told you to run. The one who *failed* to save her.”
I freeze.
That… that wasn’t in the stories.
“Liar,” I whisper.
“Check your sigil,” he says. “It flares when I’m near. When I speak your name. When I think of touching you.”
And it does. I can feel it—warming beneath my sleeve, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
“This changes nothing,” I say, backing away. “I’m still here to expose you. To take back what’s mine.”
“And I,” he says, stepping closer, “am still the king. And you—”
He closes the distance. His hand brushes my wrist, just over the sigil.
Fire.
Heat.
A moan catches in my throat before I can stop it.
His eyes darken further. “You may hate me, Jasmine Vale. But your body knows the truth.”
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear. “And so do I.”
I shove him back. Hard. My wolf snarls beneath my skin, desperate to break free. But I hold it. I *have* to hold it.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
“You’ll beg for it,” he says, not unkindly. “Before this is over, you’ll beg.”
The Oracle raises her hands. “The bond is sealed. Until its purpose is fulfilled, they must remain in proximity. Chambers will be shared. Duties aligned. The Council will watch.”
Shared chambers.
Shared duties.
Shared *bed*.
No. This ruins everything. I can’t sabotage the vote if I’m under his roof. I can’t gather allies if I’m bound to him by magic. I can’t—
“You have no choice,” Kael says, as if reading my thoughts. “The bond will make you weak. Feverish. Hallucinating. You’ll crawl to me within days.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Then we both will.”
He turns, his coat swirling like smoke. “Come, *mate*,” he says, not looking back. “Our quarters await.”
I don’t move.
The weight of every eye in the room presses down on me. The sigil burns. The mark on my wrist throbs. And beneath it all, a terrible, traitorous truth:
My mission is compromised.
My vengeance is at risk.
And the man I swore to destroy…
Is the only one who can save me.
I follow.
Not because I have to.
But because my body *wants* to.
And that—more than any blade, any magic, any oath—
is the most dangerous thing of all.