The first thing I notice about our chambers is the silence.
Not the absence of sound—there’s the low hum of ancient magic in the walls, the distant echo of footsteps from the lower corridors, the soft crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. No, it’s a deeper silence. The kind that settles between two predators who know they’re caged together, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
Kael doesn’t look at me as he strides in ahead of me, his boots striking the obsidian floor like a death knell. He removes his long coat in one fluid motion, tossing it over the back of a carved chair without breaking stride. His shoulders are broad beneath the dark silk of his shirt, tension coiled in every line of his body. He moves like a man who’s spent centuries controlling every breath, every glance, every thought. And now, for the first time in two hundred years, he can’t control *me*.
Good.
I step inside, letting the heavy door shut behind me with a final, echoing *thud*. The room is vast—high ceilings, arched windows veiled in black velvet, a four-poster bed draped in midnight-blue silk that looks soft enough to drown in. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. There are two doors on the far side—one likely leads to a bathing chamber, the other to a private study. No escape. No privacy. Just us.
And the bond.
It hums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, low and insistent. Every time he moves, I feel it—a pull in my chest, a warmth in my blood, a whisper of *his* presence in my mind. I press a hand to my wrist, where the sigil still glows faintly beneath my sleeve. It flares when he’s near. When he speaks. When he *thinks* of me.
I hate it.
I hate *him*.
“You don’t belong here,” he says suddenly, turning to face me. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it—like steel wrapped in velvet.
I lift my chin. “This is my chamber now. Unless you plan to throw me out the window.”
“Tempting,” he murmurs, but his eyes don’t waver. “But the bond would kill us both before you hit the ground.”
“Then we’d both get what we want.”
He takes a step closer. Just one. But it’s enough to make my breath catch. The scent of him hits me—cold stone and old wine, something dark and smoky, like a fire that never goes out. And beneath it, something warmer. Something that makes my pulse quicken.
“You came here to kill me,” he says. “And now you’re bound to me. How does that feel, Jasmine? To have your vengeance stolen from you?”
“It hasn’t been stolen,” I snap. “Just delayed. I’ll still expose you. I’ll still take back what’s mine.”
“And what is that?” he asks, voice dropping. “Your mother’s throne? The coven that abandoned you? The pack that let you run alone?”
My wolf snarls inside me, claws scraping against bone. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re afraid,” he says, stepping closer. “Afraid that everything you believe—the betrayal, the murder, the lie—is built on a foundation of dust. I know you felt it when I touched you. Not just the bond. The *truth*.”
“The only truth I know,” I say, backing up until my spine hits the door, “is that you held the knife. You spoke the words. You let her die.”
“I *tried* to stop it,” he says, voice rough. “I was too late. But I *tried*.”
“Liar.”
“Check your sigil,” he says again, like it’s some sacred proof. “It reacts to me. To my voice. To my touch. It wouldn’t do that if I were your enemy.”
“Maybe it’s broken,” I spit. “Or maybe it’s just another trap. You’ve had twenty years to manipulate the magic. To weave lies into the very threads of the bond.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “You think I engineered this? That I *wanted* a fated mate who despises me? That I’ve spent two decades waiting for the one woman who could destroy me—literally and figuratively—to walk through my doors?”
“I think you’re capable of anything.”
“And I think,” he says, closing the distance between us in one stride, “that you’re terrified of wanting me.”
He’s so close now I can feel the heat of him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. His eyes—storm-gray, endless—lock onto mine. I don’t look away. I *won’t*.
“You don’t know what I want,” I whisper.
“Your body does.”
And then—his hand brushes mine.
It’s not a grab. Not a pull. Just the lightest graze of his fingers against my knuckles.
And it’s like lightning.
Fire surges through me, molten and bright, rushing up my arm and straight to my core. My breath hitches. My knees weaken. I feel him—his pulse, his hunger, his *need*—flooding into me like a tide. His scent deepens, wrapping around me, pulling me in. And beneath it all, a single, devastating truth: I *want* this. I want *him*.
I slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, shoving past him, putting as much distance between us as the room allows.
He doesn’t follow. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “You’ll have to get used to it. The bond demands proximity. The longer we’re apart, the worse the fever. In a few days, you’ll be hallucinating. In a week, you’ll be weak. In two—”
“I’d rather burn than beg you for relief.”
“Then burn,” he says, coldly. “But know this—you won’t be the only one suffering.”
I turn away, pacing to the window. Outside, the Carpathian Mountains loom under the blood-red moon, jagged and unforgiving. Just like him. Just like this place.
“Why me?” I ask, not looking at him. “If the bond is real, if it’s fated—why me? I’m a hybrid. A half-breed. The Council hates us. The Tribunal would execute us on sight. You’re the Midnight King. You could have any pureblood vampire, any high-ranking witch, any Moonborn alpha’s daughter. Why would the magic choose *me*?”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “Because the magic doesn’t care about bloodlines. It cares about *truth*. About balance. About what was broken—and what can be made whole.”
“Poetic,” I say, turning to face him. “But convenient. You still haven’t answered the question.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping toward the hearth, “the question isn’t *why you*. Maybe it’s *why now*.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, turning to me, “that twenty years ago, something happened. Something the Council buried. Something your mother knew. And when she died, it died with her—until you walked through that door.”
My breath catches. “You’re saying you don’t know what it is?”
“I know pieces,” he says. “Fragments. But not the whole. And neither do you. But the bond? It remembers. It’s pulling us together for a reason.”
“Or it’s just a cruel joke,” I say. “A way to punish me for surviving.”
He studies me, his gaze heavy. “You think you’re the only one who’s paid a price?”
“I think you’ve spent the last two decades ruling an empire built on lies.”
“And I think,” he says, voice low, “that you’ve spent them running from a truth you’re not ready to face.”
I want to scream. I want to shift and tear the room apart. I want to sink my teeth into his throat and taste the lie on his tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the bond thrums between us, steady and unrelenting. And because, despite everything, a part of me *believes* him.
Not the words. Not the story. But the raw, aching grief in his voice when he spoke of failing to save her. The way his fingers trembled when he touched my hand. The way his eyes darkened not with hunger, but with something deeper. Something like *recognition*.
“I need space,” I say, voice tight. “I need to think.”
“There is no space,” he says. “Not from me. Not anymore.”
“Then I’ll make it.”
I turn toward the bedroom door, intent on locking myself away, on finding some corner of this prison where I can breathe without feeling him in my blood—
And then I see it.
On the desk near the study door, a stack of scrolls. Council documents. Treaty drafts. And one, half-unfurled, bearing the seal of the Shadow Coven.
My mother’s seal.
My breath stops.
I move before I think, crossing the room in three strides. I grab the scroll, unrolling it with shaking hands. It’s a land deed. Transferring control of the northern coven territories—*our* territories—to the D’Arenthe bloodline.
Dated the day after her death.
“You stole it,” I whisper, turning to him. “You took everything. Her throne. Her lands. Her legacy.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch. “I protected it.”
“*Protected* it?” I laugh, sharp and broken. “You *took* it. You erased her. You let them call her a traitor—”
“Because if I hadn’t,” he says, stepping toward me, “they would have erased *you*.”
I freeze.
“The Tribunal was coming for you,” he says. “They knew about the bond. They knew you were the heir. They were going to kill you to prevent the union. So I claimed the lands. I buried the truth. I let them believe *I* was the betrayer—so they’d leave you alive.”
“Liar,” I whisper, but my voice wavers.
“Check the sigil,” he says again. “It knows the truth. It knows *me*.”
And it does.
Beneath my sleeve, it burns—hot and bright, pulsing in time with my racing heart. Not with fear.
With *recognition*.
I drop the scroll like it’s on fire.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, backing toward the bedroom. “I don’t believe any of this.”
“Then don’t,” he says, not following. “But when the fever comes—and it *will*—when you’re shaking and weak and screaming for me in the dark… remember that I tried to warn you.”
I slam the bedroom door shut behind me.
The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains. I press my back against the door, breathing hard. My skin is on fire. My blood sings with his presence, even through the walls. The sigil burns. The mark on my wrist throbs.
I roll up my sleeve.
The sigil glows—deep red, pulsing like a heartbeat. And beneath it, the fated mark: crescent moon, thorned vines.
And then, as I watch, the sigil shifts.
Just for a second.
But I see it.
Etched in the glowing lines, hidden in the pattern—
*Kael.*
His name.
Burning in my skin.
I drop my arm like it’s been branded.
No.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But the bond hums. The mark throbs. And the truth—sharp and terrible—cuts through me like a blade:
I came here to destroy him.
But what if I’m the one who’s already been destroyed?
What if the man I swore to kill…
is the only one who ever tried to save me?
I slide down the door, pressing my palms to my eyes.
The room is silent.
But I can still feel him.
Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every unspoken word.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.