The moon is still high when the ceremony ends, its silver light pooling on the black stone of the Moonlit Hall like spilled mercury. The fire has died to embers, the Council’s envoys have dispersed into the shadows, and the wards hum faintly around us, sealing the bond in blood and law. I stand beside Kaelen, our hands still clasped, his grip unyielding, my skin crawling where his fingers press into mine.
We’re married.
Not in love. Not in trust. But in name, in blood, in magic. Bound by the Mark of Twin Flames, a sigil that now pulses faintly beneath the ring he slid onto my finger—a band of black iron etched with runes that burn cold against my skin. A symbol of unity. A shackle.
And he’s *smiling*.
Not a real smile. Not warmth. But the slow, predatory curl of lips that says, *I won. You’re mine.*
“Congratulations, mate,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with satisfaction. “You survived your first public lie.”
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, yanking my hand free. The moment our skin separates, a wave of nausea hits me—dull, insistent, like a blade twisting in my gut. Bond sickness. Already.
He notices. Of course he does. His storm-silver eyes flicker with something—amusement? Triumph?—before he schools his face back into that infuriating calm.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says. “Or you’ll learn to touch me more often.”
I glare at him. “I’d rather die.”
“You might,” he says, stepping close, his breath warm against my ear. “If you keep testing me.”
Behind us, the guards move in, silent, efficient, forming a half-circle to escort us back to his chambers. To *our* chambers. The word makes my stomach churn. I don’t look at him as we walk. I don’t speak. I focus on the rhythm of my boots against stone, the cold air on my face, the way my spine still thrums with the aftermath of moonfire. The runes are quiet now, hidden again beneath my high collar, but they’re awake. Alive. And so am I.
More than I’ve been in years.
Because despite everything—the bond, the marriage, the lies—I’m *closer*.
The Blood Codex is real. And Kaelen just confirmed it’s in the vault beneath the Fang Citadel. The only place in the world where Moonblood magic is strong enough to open it is with a bonded Alpha. And right now, I *am* bonded.
I just have to survive long enough to use it.
The moment the chamber door seals behind us, I move. No hesitation. No pretense. I stride past him toward the sitting area, my boots clicking against the stone, my pulse steady, my mind sharp.
“Where are you going?” he asks, voice a low rumble.
“To bed,” I say, not looking back. “Unless you plan to consummate this farce tonight?”
He doesn’t answer. But I feel his gaze on me, heavy, assessing, like a wolf circling prey. I don’t flinch. I reach the low table where the maps and scrolls are scattered, pretending to examine them—border patrols, supply routes, political alliances. Boring. Useless.
But then I see it.
A single parchment, half-hidden beneath a dagger, its edges singed from the bond’s fire. The title, written in archaic script: *Shadowveil Archives – Access Protocols.*
My breath stills.
The Archives. The heart of the Fang’s intelligence. The place where every sealed record, every hidden decree, every *execution order* is stored. If the Blood Codex exists outside the vault, if there’s a copy, a fragment, a clue—it would be there.
And this scroll lists the wards, the guards, the timing of the shifts.
Perfect.
I reach for it.
“Don’t.”
His voice stops me cold. I don’t turn. Don’t react. Just let my hand hover over the parchment, my fingers itching.
“You don’t want to do that,” he says, stepping closer. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” I ask, voice cool. “Afraid I’ll find something?”
“Afraid you’ll get caught. And die.”
I turn then, slow, deliberate. “You’d let me die?”
“I’d let you learn.”
“Like you let my mother learn?”
His jaw clenches. The silver in his eyes flares. “You don’t know what happened that day.”
“I was *there*.”
“You were a child. You saw what they wanted you to see.”
“And what did they want me to see?”
“That she was a traitor.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Then prove it.”
I hold his gaze. “I will. Starting tonight.”
He moves fast. One second he’s across the room, the next he’s in front of me, his hand snapping out to grab my wrist. Not rough. Not gentle. Just *there*. A warning. A threat.
“You go to the Archives,” he says, voice low, “and you’ll be arrested. Tortured. Killed. And I won’t save you.”
“You won’t have to. I won’t get caught.”
“You’re not a thief, Brielle. You’re a witch. A fighter. But the Archives are warded with fae blood magic. You’ll trigger every alarm before you take three steps.”
“Then help me.”
He stills. “What?”
“You know the wards. You know the guards. You could disable them. Just for a few minutes.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you want the truth too.”
“I serve the law.”
“The law is a lie.”
“Then let it burn.”
I yank my arm, but he doesn’t let go. His grip tightens. The bond flares—a jolt of heat, a pulse of magic that races up my arm and straight to my core. My breath hitches. My thighs clench. And I hate that he *feels* it. That he *knows*.
“You want me to betray my father,” he says, voice rough. “To risk my rank. My pack. For *you*?”
“Not for me,” I say. “For justice.”
He laughs. A short, bitter sound. “Justice died with my mother.”
And just like that, I see it—the crack in his armor. The grief. The guilt. The boy who watched his mother silenced, who stood by as my mother burned, who has spent his life obeying a monster because he didn’t know how to be anything else.
“Then be the one to bring it back,” I whisper.
He stares at me. For a heartbeat, I think—*maybe*. Maybe he’ll break. Maybe he’ll help me.
Then his expression hardens.
“Go to bed, Brielle,” he says, releasing my wrist. “Or I’ll put you there myself.”
I don’t move. “You’re afraid.”
“Of you? No.”
“Of the truth.”
He turns away. “Goodnight, *wife*.”
The door to the inner chamber closes behind him. Again. Leaving me alone. Again.
But not powerless.
I wait. Count the minutes. Listen to his breathing shift into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. The fire crackles. The wards hum. The moon climbs higher.
And then I move.
Quiet. Fast. Silent as shadow. I strip off my ceremonial dress, pulling on the dark, close-fitting leathers I stole from the armory yesterday—tight enough to move in, quiet enough to sneak. I tuck a dagger into my boot, another into my sleeve. My hair I bind tight against my skull. My face I leave bare. No glamour. No lies. Just me.
And the runes on my spine.
I press a hand to them, feeling the faint thrum of magic beneath my skin. Moonfire. Forbidden. Deadly. But mine.
I take the *Access Protocols* scroll, roll it tight, and tuck it into my belt. Then I step to the balcony, the cold night air biting at my skin. Below, the fortress sleeps—or pretends to. Patrols move in predictable patterns. Guards change shifts every two hours. The Archives are in the west wing, a separate tower connected by a narrow bridge, its windows dark, its wards pulsing faintly with silver light.
Perfect.
I don’t hesitate. I climb onto the railing, balance for a heartbeat, and leap.
The wind screams in my ears. The drop is sharp, the landing hard—but I roll, absorbing the impact, coming up in a crouch behind a stack of supply crates. No alarms. No shouts. Just silence.
And the bond.
It flares the second I put distance between us—a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest, a wave of dizziness that makes me stagger. I press a hand to my sternum, breathing through it. *Bond sickness*. Already. But I can’t stop. Not now.
I move through the shadows, sticking to the edges, avoiding the torchlight, using the rhythm of the patrols to slip past. The Archives tower looms ahead, its door sealed with a fae ward—a spiral of silver light that hums with ancient power. One touch, and it’ll scream.
But I don’t touch it.
I press my palm to the stone beside it, close my eyes, and *push*.
Moonfire surges through me, not in flames, but in a low, steady pulse. The runes on my spine ignite, not with fire, but with light—a silver glow that spreads through my veins, through my hands, into the stone. The ward flickers. Wavers. And for one breath, one heartbeat, it *opens*.
I slip through.
Inside, the air is cold, still, thick with dust and the scent of old parchment. Rows of shelves stretch into darkness, crammed with scrolls, tomes, sealed records. The silence is absolute. No guards. No magic. Just me.
And the past.
I move fast, scanning the labels—*Tribunal Decrees, Execution Records, Blood Oaths, Hybrid Trials*. My fingers tremble as I pull one free—*Moonblood Purge, 1892*. My mother’s name is there. *Seraphina Moonblood. Charge: Treason. Sentence: Purification by Fire.*
I slam it shut. My vision blurs. Not with tears. Never with tears. With rage.
I keep searching. *Blood Codex. Blood Codex. Blood Codex.*
And then I find it.
Not the Codex itself. But a reference—a marginal note in a ledger: *BC-7. Vault access restricted. Authorization: Alpha Duskbane.*
My breath catches.
It’s real. It exists. And Kaelen’s father *did* have access.
I pull the scroll free, unroll it—more records, more lies, but then—*a sketch*. A sigil. The same one that flared on the contract. The Mark of Twin Flames.
And beneath it, a note: *Fated Bond Protocol – Activation requires dual blood signature. If bond is forged under duress, subject may experience accelerated magical degradation. Recommend immediate dissolution.*
My blood runs cold.
Degradation? Dissolution? Is that what they want? To break the bond? To break *us*?
I hear it then—a footstep. Soft. Deliberate.
I freeze.
Another step. Closer.
I spin, dagger in hand, just as the light flares.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the silver glow of the ward. His eyes are gold. His claws are out. And his voice—low, dangerous, *furious*—cuts through the silence like a blade.
“I told you not to come here.”
I don’t lower the dagger. “And I told you I’d do whatever it takes.”
He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “You think I won’t punish you for this?”
“Go ahead. Arrest me. Torture me. Kill me.” I hold up the scroll. “But this? This proves your father framed mine. And you *knew*.”
“I didn’t.”
“You *suspected*.”
He’s close now. Too close. I can feel the heat of him, the pull of the bond, the way my body *wants* to step into him, to press against him, to *survive*.
But I don’t.
He reaches for my wrist—fast, unrelenting—and I try to pull back, but he’s stronger. Faster. He flips my arm, presses it against the shelf, and with his other hand, he pulls a thin silver chain from his pocket.
A loyalty charm.
“No,” I breathe. “Don’t—”
He wraps it around my wrist, his fingers brushing my pulse, and the moment it clicks shut, the bond *roars*.
Not pain. Not sickness.
Fire.
It surges through me, not from the runes on my spine, but from the charm, from his touch, from the magic binding us tighter, deeper, *closer*. My knees buckle. I gasp. My body arches toward him, helpless, *hungry*.
“This,” he growls, his mouth at my ear, “is what happens when you disobey me. You’ll feel every lie, every secret, every betrayal. And I’ll *know*.”
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“No.” His hand slides to my hip, pulling me against him. “I’m your mate. And you’re *mine*.”
He releases me. Steps back.
And I collapse against the shelf, trembling, breathless, the charm burning cold against my skin.
“Next time,” he says, turning to the door, “I won’t stop at a charm.”
And then he’s gone.
I’m alone.
But not free.
I press my fingers to the charm, feeling the pulse of magic beneath the metal. He’s marked me. Bound me. Not with love. Not with trust. But with power.
And I hate him.
I hate him.
But as I stumble back through the shadows, the bond screaming in my veins, the charm burning like ice, one thought cuts through the pain, the rage, the fear.
I have proof.
And I won’t stop.
Not until the truth burns brighter than the lies.
Not until the world knows what he did.
Not until Kaelen Duskbane has no choice but to stand beside me.
Or burn with me.