The first time I see Lysandra Voss, she’s wearing Kael’s shirt.
It’s early morning—too early, if the dull throb behind my eyes is anything to go by. The fever from the bond hasn’t fully receded; it hums beneath my skin like a dying fire, flaring every time I think about him. About *us*. About the way my blood still sings from our blood-oath, the way my body betrays me with every breath. I spent the night in the Archives, buried in scrolls, searching for proof that Kael’s story is a lie. That he didn’t “save” me. That he wasn’t some tragic hero sacrificing his name to protect a child.
But the records don’t lie.
Not like people do.
Every land deed, every decree, every sealed tribunal order confirms it: the day after my mother’s death, Kael claimed her territories under emergency clause. He declared her a traitor to the supernatural balance. He cited “evidence” of her alliance with rogue Fae—evidence that was never produced, never verified. And then, silence. No trial. No appeal. Just erasure.
And me?
I was gone. Vanished. Presumed dead.
Just like he said.
I don’t know what hurts more—the truth, or the fact that I *want* to believe him.
I drag myself back to our chambers just before dawn, my boots heavy on the stone, my mind a storm of doubt and fury. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to feel the bond pull tighter the second I step into the same room. But I need clothes. My current ones are stained with ink and dust, and the Council convenes again today to discuss the first joint security measures. I won’t face them looking like a fugitive.
The door to our chambers is ajar.
That’s the first warning.
Kael never leaves doors open. He’s control incarnate—every gesture calculated, every space claimed. If the door’s open, it’s intentional. A message.
I push it wider, stepping inside.
And freeze.
There, in the center of the sitting room, lounging on the obsidian chaise like she owns it, is a woman.
She’s pale as moonlight, her hair a cascade of silver-blonde silk, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. She’s draped in a long, open robe of black velvet, but beneath it—
Kael’s shirt.
Not just any shirt. The one he wore yesterday. The one with the high collar, the silver-threaded cuffs. The one that still carries his scent—cold stone and storm—now tangled with something cloying, floral, *wrong*.
She’s not wearing anything underneath.
My wolf snarls inside me, claws scraping against bone. My vision tunnels. The sigil on my wrist flares—red, hot, *angry*—and the bond *screams*, a raw, jagged pulse of jealousy so sharp it feels like a blade in my chest.
She turns, slow, deliberate, and smiles.
“Ah,” she says, voice like honey laced with poison. “The hybrid arrives. How… *quaint*.”
I don’t answer. I don’t move. I just stare at the shirt. At the way it hangs loose on her frame, the top buttons undone, revealing the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. At the way the fabric brushes her thighs when she shifts.
“You must be Jasmine,” she continues, stretching like a cat. “The lost heir. The fated mate. The *scandal*.”
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, voice low.
“Lysandra Voss,” she says, not offering a hand. “Vampire noble. Old friend of Kael’s. And—” She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “—the last woman he spent the night with.”
The bond *roars*.
Fire surges through me—molten, blinding. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My fingers curl into fists. I can feel him in my blood, his presence distant but *there*, and the thought of him touching her, kissing her, *being inside her*—
“You’re lying,” I say, but my voice wavers.
She laughs—soft, mocking. “Am I? Then why is his shirt on my skin? Why does his scent still linger between my thighs?”
I lunge.
Not thinking. Not strategizing. Just *moving*. My body shifts before my mind can catch up—claws slicing through the air, fangs bared, a snarl ripping from my throat. I don’t care about the consequences. I don’t care about the bond, the treaty, the war. I want to rip her apart. I want to tear that shirt from her body and burn it to ash.
She doesn’t flinch.
She just smiles.
And then—
Strong arms wrap around me from behind, hauling me back. My feet leave the ground. I thrash, snarling, clawing at the air, but the grip is iron, unbreakable.
Kael.
He’s behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath hot against my neck. “Enough,” he growls, voice low, dangerous. “*Enough*.”
“Let me go!” I scream, kicking, twisting. “I’ll kill her! I’ll—”
“No, you won’t,” he says, holding me tighter. “Because you’re not a monster. And she’s not worth it.”
I turn my head, glaring at him over my shoulder. His jaw is clenched, his eyes storm-gray and unreadable. But I can feel it—his pulse, racing. His scent, sharp with tension. His *arousal*, low and dark, curling through the bond like smoke.
He’s turned on.
By this. By me. By the fight.
“You slept with her,” I hiss.
“No,” he says, voice firm. “I didn’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because she stole it,” he says. “She’s been trying to provoke you since the moment you walked into the Court. This?” He gestures at Lysandra with disdain. “This is a performance. A lie. She wants you to lose control. So the Council can justify locking you up. Or worse.”
I look at Lysandra.
She’s still smiling. Still lounging. But her eyes—cold, calculating—flicker with something else. *Frustration.*
Because it’s working.
I *am* losing control.
And she knows it.
Kael turns me in his arms, forcing me to face him. His hands grip my shoulders, his thumbs brushing the pulse point at my neck. “Look at me,” he says. “*Look at me*.”
I do.
And the world narrows to his eyes, to the storm in them, to the way his breath hitches when I meet his gaze.
“I haven’t touched her,” he says, voice low, meant only for me. “Not in years. Not since—” He stops. Swallows. “Not since I started dreaming of you.”
My breath catches.
The sigil burns.
“You don’t believe me,” he says.
“Why should I?” I whisper. “You’ve lied before. You let them call my mother a traitor. You let me believe you killed her. You—”
“I protected you,” he says, cutting me off. “And I’d do it again. But I won’t apologize for surviving. And I won’t let her—” He jerks his head toward Lysandra. “—use your rage to destroy you.”
I want to argue. I want to scream that he doesn’t get to decide what destroys me. That *he’s* the one tearing me apart, piece by piece, with every touch, every word, every *lie*.
But the bond hums.
And for the first time, I wonder—
Is it possible he’s telling the truth?
Lysandra rises, smoothing her robe. “How touching,” she says. “The fated mates, baring their souls. Truly, it’s *adorable*.” She steps closer, her gaze locked on Kael. “But you should know, darling—last night wasn’t just about the shirt.”
Kael tenses. “Get out.”
“Oh, I’ll go,” she says, brushing past us, her scent—floral, cloying—clinging to the air. “But not before I tell her how you moaned my name when you bit me. How your fangs sank deep, how you *came*—”
“*Liar!*” I scream, lunging again.
Kael holds me back, his arms like steel. “She’s nothing,” he says, voice rough. “A pawn. A distraction. Don’t give her the power.”
“Then why does she have your shirt?” I demand.
“Because she stole it from my chambers,” he says. “And because Malrik wants you to break. He’s using her to drive a wedge between us. And you’re letting him.”
I stop struggling.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Lysandra reaches the door, but she doesn’t leave. She turns, one hand on the frame, a slow, venomous smile spreading across her lips.
“He bites harder when he’s angry,” she says, voice low, taunting. “Ask me how I know.”
And then she’s gone.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Kael slowly releases me, but he doesn’t step away. He stays close, his presence a wall between me and the door, as if he thinks I’ll run. Or attack again.
Maybe I will.
“You should have told me about her,” I say, voice hollow.
“And say what?” he asks. “That she’s been obsessed with me for decades? That she sees you as a threat? That she’ll do anything to break us apart?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Because now I feel like an idiot. Like I just played right into her hands.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “You reacted. You’re human. You’re hybrid. You’re *alive*. And she wanted to make you look weak. But you’re not.”
I turn away, pressing my palms to my eyes. “I hate this. I hate the bond. I hate how it makes me feel—how it makes me *want*—”
“You think I don’t?” he says, stepping closer. “You think I don’t lie awake every night, burning for you? That I don’t dream of your mouth, your skin, the way you arch into my touch? You think I don’t *ache*?”
I freeze.
Because he’s not just talking about desire.
He’s talking about *need*.
The same need clawing at my ribs. The same hunger that makes me want to rip off his clothes and ride him until neither of us can breathe.
“Then why don’t you?” I whisper. “If you want me so much, why don’t you just take me? Isn’t that what vampires do? Claim what they want?”
He steps closer, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Because I don’t want a conquest,” he says, voice raw. “I want *you*. All of you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. I want the woman who fights, who rages, who *lives*. I want the one who cuts me with a child’s dagger and says, *‘If I die, you die too.’*”
My breath hitches.
“I want the woman who came here to destroy me,” he says. “Because she’s the only one who’s ever seen me. The only one who’s ever *known* me.”
“And what if I never stop hating you?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Then I’ll spend every day proving you wrong,” he says. “Until you can’t hate me anymore. Until you can’t imagine a world without me.”
I want to pull away. I want to tell him he’s arrogant, that he doesn’t know me, that he can’t fix twenty years of pain with pretty words.
But the sigil burns.
And the bond *screams*.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What if he’s not lying?
What if, beneath all the blood and betrayal, there’s a truth I’ve been too afraid to see?
“I need to go,” I say, stepping back. “I can’t… I can’t be near you right now.”
He doesn’t stop me.
Just watches as I turn, as I walk to the bedroom, as I grab fresh clothes and head for the bathing chamber.
But just before I close the door, I hear him.
“She’s not the one I dream of,” he says, voice so low I almost miss it. “It’s always been you, Jasmine. Even when you were a child. Even when you hated me. Even when you tried to kill me.”
“It’s always been you.”
The water is scalding.
I stand under the spray, letting it burn my skin, trying to wash away the scent of her, the image of that shirt, the sound of her voice. But it’s no use. The bond is still there. Kael is still there. And the truth—sharp, terrible, inescapable—is this:
I’m not jealous because I think he slept with her.
I’m jealous because I *wish* it were me.
I wish it were my body beneath his shirt. My name on his lips. My blood on his fangs.
I wish it were me he moaned for in the dark.
The sigil glows beneath the steam, pulsing with every heartbeat. I press my palm to the tile, letting the heat ground me.
I came here to destroy him.
But the man I thought I hated?
He’s the only one who’s ever tried to save me.
And the woman I thought I was?
She’s already falling for him.
The worst part?
I don’t want to stop.