The note burned in her hand like a brand.
She didn’t crumple it. Didn’t tear it. Just stood in the dim corridor, the torchlight flickering across her face, her silver-lavender eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not fear. Not even jealousy—though the bond flared with it, hot and insistent, reacting to the scent of jasmine, to the lie written in Mira’s looping script.
No.
This was worse.
It was *doubt*.
And it gutted me.
“You knew,” she whispered, her voice low, raw. “You knew she’d been here. That she’d left this.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did she get into my chambers? How did she slip this into my pocket without anyone seeing?”
I stepped closer, my boots silent on the stone. The bond pulsed between us, a live wire, thrumming with tension. I could feel her—her breath, her pulse, the way her fingers trembled around the vellum. I could feel the weight of the claiming mark on her hip, hidden beneath my coat, glowing like a secret. A truth. A *lie*.
“Mira has spies,” I said. “Servants. Guards. Even some of my own lieutenants owe her favors. She’s been weaving her web for years.”
“And you let her?”
“I *knew*,” I corrected, my voice rough. “I didn’t stop her because I needed to see how deep her reach was. Because if I moved too soon, she’d vanish. And the Dark Council with her.”
She turned away, her shoulders rigid. “So I’m just bait in your game.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. I reached for her, but she flinched. The bond flared—hot, painful—and I dropped my hand. “You’re not bait. You’re not a pawn. You’re *mine*.”
“And what does that mean?” she snapped, whirling back to face me. “That I belong to you? That I have to believe every word you say, even when another woman’s blood is on your coat? Even when her *scent* is in your bed?”
“She was never in my bed.”
“Then why does her perfume linger in the sheets?”
“Because she *wanted* you to smell it,” I said, stepping closer, forcing her back against the wall. My hands braced on either side of her, caging her in. The bond screamed—fire racing through my veins, my fangs dropping without permission. “She wanted you to doubt me. To hate me. To push me away.”
“And is it working?”
“No,” I said, my voice low, raw. “Because I *know* you. I know the way your breath hitches when I touch you. The way your pulse jumps when I say your name. The way your body remembers mine, even when your mind fights it.” I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And I know you *felt* it when I tore open her gown. When I proved she was lying. You *believed* me.”
She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“You believed me,” I repeated. “And that terrifies you.”
Her eyes snapped open. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“Then tell me this—” She shoved against my chest, but I didn’t move. “—if the bond is so powerful, why haven’t you claimed me? Why haven’t you *taken* what’s yours?”
The question hit me like a blade.
Not because it was unexpected.
Because it was *true*.
The bond demanded completion. Every night, every touch, every breath between us fed it, stoked it, made it *hungrier*. And I—Prince of House Nocturne, heir to the Vampire Throne, enforcer of blood pacts—had done nothing.
I hadn’t kissed her beyond the ritual. Hadn’t touched her beyond necessity. Hadn’t taken her to my bed, even when she slept beside me, her body warm, her scent driving me feral.
And not because I didn’t *want* to.
But because I *did*.
Because the moment I crossed that line, the moment I claimed her in truth, the bond would be unbreakable. And so would I.
And I couldn’t afford to be weak.
Not with Vexis circling. Not with the Council watching. Not with war looming.
“Because I won’t force you,” I said, my voice rough. “Not like this. Not when you’re questioning every word I say, every move I make.”
“And if I *wanted* you to?”
The bond *exploded*.
Fire ripped through my veins, my breath catching in my throat. My hands clenched against the wall, my fangs aching, my body coiled like a spring. She saw it—the way my chest rose and fell too fast, the way my eyes darkened, the way my control frayed at the edges.
And she *smiled*.
Not warm. Not kind.
A predator’s smile.
“You want me to,” she said, stepping forward, her hips brushing mine. “You *crave* me. I can feel it in the bond. In your breath. In the way your hands are shaking.”
“Don’t play this game,” I growled.
“Or what?” She tilted her head, her lips brushing my jaw. “You’ll punish me? Lock me in a cell? Kill me?”
“No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’ll *claim* you. And once I do, there’s no going back.”
She didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze, her breath warm against my skin. “Then prove it.”
I didn’t move. Just stood there, caging her in, my body a wall of heat and silence. The bond flared—hot, insistent, *hungry*—but I fought it. Fought the need, the want, the *desire* that had been building since the moment she walked into my ancestral temple.
Because this wasn’t about possession.
It wasn’t about dominance.
It was about *trust*.
And she didn’t trust me.
Not yet.
“You want proof I didn’t touch her?” I said, my voice low, rough. “Let me show you how I touch what’s mine.”
And then—
I kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tender. A *claim*. A *challenge*. My lips crashed against hers, hard and demanding, my hand fisted in her hair, holding her still. She gasped—soft, surprised—but didn’t pull away. Her hands flew to my chest, not to push, but to *hold on*. Her body arched into mine, her breath mingling with mine, the bond *screaming* between us.
Fire.
That was the only word for it. Fire in my blood, fire in my bones, fire in the space between us. I could taste her—mint and iron and something wild—and for one reckless second, I forgot why I was doing this. Forgot Mira. Forgot the Council. Forgot everything but the way her lips felt beneath mine.
And then—
I felt it.
Her hips shifted. Just slightly. Just enough.
And the bond *exploded*.
Not with magic.
With *need*.
She wanted me. Not as a weapon. Not as a lie. But as *hers*.
And gods help me, I wanted to give her everything.
My hand slid down her back, over the curve of her hip, beneath the edge of my coat, tracing the line of her thigh. She gasped, her fingers tightening on my shirt, her body pressing closer. The mark on her hip *burned*, not with pain—but with *fire*. The claiming sigil, the lie, the truth—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was *this*. Her. Mine. Now.
And then—
A voice.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
We broke apart like we’d been struck.
Silas stood in the corridor, his golden wolf eyes wide, his expression unreadable. Behind him, two guards, their weapons drawn. The bond flared—hot, insistent, *angry*—but I didn’t move. Just stepped back, putting space between us, my chest rising and falling too fast.
Avalon didn’t look at me. Just straightened my coat around her, her breath unsteady, her lips swollen from the kiss. The mark on her collarbone pulsed, faint but alive.
“The Council wants you,” Silas said, his voice careful. “Now.”
“Why?” I demanded, my voice rough.
“Lord Vexis has sent a message.”
The name landed like a death sentence.
Avalon’s breath caught. “Vexis?”
“He claims to have information about your mother’s execution,” Silas said. “About the Blood Oath.”
I turned to her. Saw the war in her eyes—the grief, the rage, the *need* to know the truth. And beneath it all, the fear. Not of Vexis. Not of the Council.
Of *me*.
“You don’t have to go,” I said, my voice low. “I can send someone in your place.”
“No,” she said, stepping forward. “I need to hear it.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
She didn’t argue. Just nodded, her hand brushing the hidden sheath at her thigh. The dagger. Still there. Still ready.
Good.
We followed Silas through the corridors, the guards trailing behind. The bond hummed between us—tense, aching, alive—but neither of us spoke. The weight of what had just happened—the kiss, the almost-claiming, the interruption—was too heavy for words.
And then—
The Obsidian Spire loomed ahead, its jagged peak piercing the moonlit sky. The air grew colder as we approached, the scent of sacred iron sharp in my nose. The guards at the gate bowed as we passed, their eyes flicking to Avalon with suspicion, with awe.
The Council was already assembled—seven figures in a semicircle, their faces half-hidden in shadow. Lady Isolde sat at the center, her silver hair coiled like a crown, her eyes sharp. To her right, the High Priestess of the Grey Coven, her face veiled, her hands stained with ritual ink. The others—Alpha, Summer Fae, Winter Court, Rogue Witches, Human Accord—remained silent, watching.
And then—
The hybrid seat.
Still empty.
But not for long.
“Prince Kael,” Lady Isolde said, her voice echoing through the chamber. “You bring your fated mate. Explain.”
“We’re here for Vexis’s message,” I said, my voice cold. “Not for your games.”
“The message is for *her*,” the High Priestess said, her voice like smoke. “And it comes with a price.”
“What price?” Avalon demanded.
“A blood oath,” Lady Isolde said. “Swear loyalty to the Council, and you may hear it.”
Avalon’s breath caught. “You want me to swear an oath? After what your kind did to my mother?”
“It’s the only way,” the High Priestess said. “Unless you’d rather walk away in ignorance.”
I turned to her. Saw the war in her eyes—the need to know, the fear of betrayal, the *doubt* that still lingered. And I knew—
She would do it.
Not for the Council.
Not for me.
But for the truth.
“I swear,” she said, her voice steady. “On my blood. On my life. On the memory of my mother.”
The High Priestess stepped forward, a silver dagger in her hand. “Then bleed.”
Avalon held out her hand, palm up. The scar across her left palm—the mark of the Blood Oath—tingled, but didn’t glow. The blade bit into her skin, a sharp sting, and blood welled, red and bright against the pale flesh.
“The oath is sealed,” the High Priestess intoned. “Now, hear the message.”
A scroll appeared in the air, unrolling with a whisper of magic. Vexis’s voice filled the chamber—cold, mocking, laced with venom.
“Avalon of the Grey Coven. Daughter of Lyra. I was the one who ordered your mother’s death. Not for rebellion. Not for breaking the Oath.”
“But for loving me.”
The chamber went silent.
Avalon staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth. “No.”
“She was mine,” Vexis continued. “Before she was ever yours. And when she chose you over me, I made sure she paid the price.”
“The Blood Oath was never about control.”
“It was about revenge.”
The scroll burned to ash.
Silence.
And then—
Avalon turned to me, her eyes wide, her breath ragged. “You *knew*.”
“I suspected,” I said. “But I didn’t know for certain.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to become his weapon,” I said. “He wants you to hate me. To blame me. To destroy the bond so he can take the throne.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at me, her chest rising and falling too fast.
And then—
She turned and walked out.
I didn’t follow.
Not yet.
Because I knew—
She needed time.
She needed space.
She needed to *choose*.
And when she did—
I would be waiting.
That night, I found her in the moon garden.
The silver vines twisted like living things, the air thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. She stood beneath the willow tree, her back to me, her head bowed. The bond pulsed—dull, distant, like a thread stretched too thin.
I didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, my boots silent on the stone. The moonlight caught the silver runes on my coat, casting long shadows across the ground.
“You came here to kill me,” I said, my voice low. “Now you know the truth. My father didn’t execute your mother. Vexis did. Not for rebellion. For love.”
She didn’t turn. Just stood there, her shoulders rigid.
“And the Blood Oath?” she whispered.
“A lie,” I said. “A weapon. Not a curse. Not a binding. Just a tool to control you.”
“Then why did the bond activate?”
“Because it’s not about the Oath,” I said. “It’s about *us*. About the blood in your veins. The magic in your bones. The fact that you’re not just a hybrid.”
She turned, her eyes searching mine. “Then what am I?”
“You’re the key,” I said. “The only one who can break the Oath. Not with a dagger. Not with blood. But with *truth*.”
She didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, her breath catching.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not to fight.
Not to push.
To *touch*.
Her hand cupped my face, her thumb brushing my cheekbone. The bond flared—hot, undeniable. My breath hitched. My eyes fluttered shut.
“You want me to believe you,” she said.
“I want you to believe *us*,” I said.
And then—
She kissed me.
Not angry. Not desperate.
But *true*.