The first rule of vengeance: never let them see your rage.
I stand at the edge of the Midnight Court’s masquerade, a glass of blood-wine in my hand, my smile perfectly in place. Around me, vampires swirl in silk and shadow, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Werewolves loom near the pillars, muscles coiled, eyes tracking every movement. Fae flit through the air like living illusions, their glamour twisting scent and sound. And me? I’m just another diplomat in a silver mask, here to honor the Moonstone Accord.
That’s the lie they believe.
The truth is, I came here to bury him.
Prince Vaelen Duskbane. The vampire who ordered my brother’s death. The monster who let my mother burn for crimes she didn’t commit. Ten years I’ve waited. Ten years I’ve trained, bled, and bartered my soul in the black markets of Prague to get close to this moment. And now, finally, I’m inside the heart of his empire—where the air smells like iron and old magic, and every shadow hides a knife.
I adjust the high collar of my gown, fingers brushing the hidden blade sewn into the seam. My fae blood hums beneath my skin, restless. The witch’s mark on my spine—a crescent of tangled thorns—itches, as if it knows what’s coming. But I ignore it. That part of me is sealed. Buried. Just like the bond that was ripped from me before I could even breathe.
I don’t believe in fate. I believe in justice.
And tonight, I start collecting.
I glide through the crowd, my steps silent, my glamour weaving a soft haze around me—just enough to blur my edges, make me forgettable. A servant passes, tray of goblets in hand. I take another glass, my eyes scanning the room. The Council Elders are gathered near the dais, their voices low, their expressions tense. There’s been tension all week. The failed assassination on Elder Mareth has everyone on edge. Rumors say war is coming. That the treaty is crumbling.
Good.
Let it burn.
Then I see him.
He’s standing in the arched doorway to the west wing, half in shadow, half in candlelight. Tall. Impossibly still. Dressed in black that drinks the light. His mask is simple—obsidian, carved with the Duskbane crest—but it doesn’t hide the sharp line of his jaw, the cruel curve of his mouth. His hair is ink-dark, falling just past his temples. And his eyes—
They’re open.
No glamour. No veil. Just raw, ancient power, glowing like embers in the dark.
And he’s holding a man by the throat.
One servant—human, trembling—dangles in his grip, feet kicking weakly. Blood streaks down the prince’s wrist, dripping onto the marble floor. A single fang glints as he speaks, voice too low to hear. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snaps the man’s neck.
No one moves.
No one dare move.
He drops the body. It hits the floor with a soft, wet thud. Two guards step forward, drag it away without a word. The music doesn’t stop. The dancers don’t pause. It’s as if nothing happened.
And then—
He turns.
His gaze cuts across the room like a blade.
And lands on me.
The world stops.
My breath hitches. My heart slams against my ribs. Every nerve in my body ignites. Heat floods my veins, burning through my skin, pooling low in my belly. My mark—long dormant, sealed by blood oaths and spells—flares, a white-hot brand across my spine. I gasp, fingers clutching the glass so hard it cracks.
It’s him.
The bond.
It’s alive.
They told me it was broken. That the alliance was void before I was born. That the mate bond between a Duskbane and a half-fae witch was impossible, unnatural, forbidden. And for ten years, I believed them.
But this—this is no lie.
This is primal. This is hunger. A deep, aching pull in my chest, a need so fierce it makes my knees weak. My skin burns where he hasn’t even touched me. My blood sings with his name, though I’ve never spoken it.
Vaelen.
His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare, as if he’s tasting the air. Smelling me. And then—just for a second—his pupils dilate, his breath stutters. He feels it too.
Recognition.
Claiming.
Mine.
I don’t wait. I turn. I walk. Fast. Calm. Diplomatic. No running. No panic. I slip through the crowd, past the fountain, into the east corridor. My pulse hammers in my throat. My skin still burns. I press a hand to my spine, feeling the mark pulse like a second heartbeat.
This changes nothing.
He killed my brother. He let my mother die. The bond doesn’t absolve him. It doesn’t erase the blood on his hands.
But it complicates things.
I reach a secluded alcove, press my back against the cold stone. Breathe. Just breathe. I close my eyes, reach for my magic. Blood is power. A drop from my fingertip, smeared across my palm. I whisper the words, feel the spell coil in my chest—
“Veritas oculi.”
Truth-seeing.
My vision sharpens. Scents deepen. And I smell it—beneath the perfume and wine and blood—him. Vaelen. Like midnight and iron and something wild, something ancient. It wraps around me, pulls me under. My breath trembles. My body responds—hips shifting, thighs pressing together, a slow, aching throb between my legs.
I clench my fist. No.
This is magic. Biology. A cursed relic of a failed alliance. It doesn’t mean anything.
I won’t let it mean anything.
But then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Boots on marble.
I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” his voice says. Low. Smooth. Dangerous. “This wing is restricted.”
I turn. He’s ten feet away, arms crossed, head tilted. Watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s decided to solve.
“And you’re not supposed to be murdering servants in the middle of a diplomatic event,” I say, voice steady. “But here we are.”
He smiles. Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s grin. “He was leaking information to the Blood Markets. Traitors don’t get second chances.”
“And yet, you’re still breathing,” I say. “Must be nice, being above the law.”
He takes a step forward. “You’re not like the others. No fear. No flattery. Just… fire.”
Another step.
“You smell like home.”
My breath catches. The mark on my spine flares again, a searing line of heat. I take a step back. “I’m not your home. I’m not your anything.”
“Aren’t you?” He’s close now. Too close. I can feel the heat of him, the pulse in his throat. His eyes drop to my lips. “The bond says otherwise.”
“The bond is a lie,” I whisper. “It was severed. It doesn’t exist.”
He laughs, low and dark. “It just woke up, little witch. Screaming your name.”
My chest tightens. I want to slap him. I want to kiss him. I want to kill him.
And then—
The gong sounds.
Three deep, echoing chimes. The signal for an emergency Council session.
We both turn toward the main hall.
“Duty calls,” he says, voice rough. “But this isn’t over.”
He brushes past me. His hand grazes my waist.
Fire explodes in my veins.
I gasp. Stumble. Press a hand to the wall to steady myself. My skin burns where he touched me. My breath comes fast. My core aches, wet and heavy with need.
And the mark—
It’s alive.
I follow him back to the hall, my steps unsteady. The Council has gathered on the dais. Elders from each species—vampire, werewolf, fae, witch—sit in tense silence. The air is thick with magic and suspicion.
Then Elder Mareth rises.
“We are on the brink of war,” he says, voice echoing. “The assassination attempt was no accident. It was a message. And if we do not act, blood will spill in the streets.”
He pauses. Looks directly at me. Then at Vaelen.
“The Moonstone Accord demands unity. And there is one union that was promised long ago—one that could stabilize the balance.”
My stomach drops.
No.
“Prince Vaelen Duskbane,” Mareth says. “And Cascade of the Thornline. You were bound by blood before birth. That bond was severed by war. But the magic remains. And tonight, it has reawakened.”
The room goes silent.
Every eye turns to us.
“By Council decree,” Mareth continues, “you will publicly rekindle your engagement by dawn. You will complete the bonding ritual. You will share a bed for seven nights. If you fail, if you refuse, the treaty is void—and war begins at sunrise.”
I can’t breathe.
“You cannot force this,” I say, voice sharp. “The bond is broken. It has no power.”
“It has plenty of power,” Mareth snaps. “We all felt it when you two locked eyes. The magic is alive. And it will be used—for peace, or for war. The choice is yours.”
Vaelen steps forward. Calm. Controlled. His voice cuts through the silence.
“I accept.”
I whirl on him. “You what?”
He meets my gaze. Those crimson eyes burn into mine. “If it keeps the peace, then yes. I’ll play the dutiful fiancé.”
“You don’t get to decide this for me,” I hiss.
“You don’t have a choice,” he says, stepping closer. “War means death. Thousands of lives. Is your vengeance worth that blood?”
My hands curl into fists. He’s right. And that makes me hate him more.
“Then I’ll do it,” I say, voice low. “But don’t think this means anything. I’m not your mate. I’m not your lover. I’m here to watch you burn.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Then burn with me, little witch.”
The gong sounds again. The decree is sealed.
And as I stand there, surrounded by enemies, I realize—
I came here to destroy him.
But the bond has other plans.
And so does he.
Marked by Moonlight
The first time Cascade sees him, he’s standing in shadow, one hand around a servant’s throat—blood glistening on his fangs, crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dark. She doesn’t flinch. She’s seen worse. She’s done worse. But then he turns, and the air between them snaps, a jolt of primal recognition tearing through her bones. Her pulse races. Her skin burns. And deep in her core, the dormant mark on her spine—a relic of a bond severed before birth—awakens, searing with heat.
They were promised as mates at birth, a political union meant to unite fae and vampire. But the alliance collapsed when her mother was executed for treason—on Vaelen’s father’s orders. Now, ten years later, Cascade returns under the guise of a peace envoy, armed with forged documents and a heart full of vengeance. She will prove Vaelen killed her brother. She will dismantle the treaty. And she will walk away.
But the Supernatural Council has other plans.
A failed assassination attempt on the Council Elder forces an emergency decree: Cascade and Vaelen must publicly rekindle their engagement to prevent war. One week. One ritual. One shared bed. If they fail, their factions go to war—and thousands will die.
Trapped in forced proximity, every touch is torture. Every glance, a spark. When Vaelen finds her sneaking into his archives, he doesn’t punish her—he pins her to the wall, his fangs grazing her neck as he growls, “You want to destroy me, little witch? Then do it with your hands on my skin.”
But as secrets unravel, so does the truth: her brother’s death wasn’t his doing. And the real enemy is still watching… waiting for them to fall into each other’s arms—so they can be destroyed together.