I don’t sleep.
Not here. Not in his chambers. Not with the guards outside the door, their presence a constant reminder that I’m not free—just protected. Just trapped. Just his. The fire has burned low again, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor, the same shadows that danced like grasping hands the first night I was brought here. The same shadows that have watched me pace, weep, rage, and finally—kiss him.
I press my fingers to the bite on my shoulder. It still burns. Still throbs. Still thinks. The crescent-shaped mark pulses faintly beneath my skin, a silent echo of the Blood Moon Ritual, of the way he claimed me, of the way I let him. I told myself it was the magic. The bond. The ritual’s compulsion. But the truth is—
I wanted it.
I wanted him.
And that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my bare feet cold against the stone. The satchel of stolen files is hidden beneath the floorboard near the hearth—untouched, unburned, left for me. Vaelen could have taken them. Could have destroyed them. Could have locked me away without proof, without power, without purpose.
But he didn’t.
He left them.
As if he knew I’d come back.
As if he knew I’d stay.
As if he’s already won.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Reach for my magic. Blood is power. A drop from my fingertip, smeared across my palm. I whisper the words—“Sanguis silentium”—and the wards on the door dim, just for a moment. Not enough to open it. Not enough to escape.
But enough to listen.
I press my ear to the cold stone, focusing. The guards are close—two of them, stationed just outside. Their voices are low, careful, but I can hear them.
“He’s not sleeping,” one says. “I saw him in the study. Pacing. Like a caged beast.”
“He hasn’t slept since the ritual,” the other replies. “The bond’s getting stronger. You can feel it. It’s like the castle’s alive with it.”
“And her?”
“She’s quiet. Too quiet. You’d think she’d be screaming by now.”
“She’s not like other prisoners,” the first says. “She’s not afraid of him. She’s afraid of herself.”
I pull back, my chest tight.
They’re right.
I’m not afraid of Vaelen.
I’m afraid of what I feel when he’s near. Of the way my body betrays me. Of the way the bond screams for him, for union, for more.
I stand, pacing. Back and forth. The robe slips off one shoulder, the mark on my spine pulsing with every step. I need information. Not visions. Not feelings. Not whispers from the dead.
I need facts.
And I know where to find them.
The Council archives are off-limits. The Midnight Archives are guarded. But there’s another way—another path to the truth.
Eavesdropping.
Not with my ears.
With my magic.
I reach for the satchel beneath the floorboard, pull out a small vial of crimson liquid—blood of the third lineage, stolen from a vampire informant in Prague. Not strong enough to trigger wards, but perfect for a different kind of magic. I uncork it, let a single drop fall onto my palm. Then I press my hand to the door, close my eyes, and whisper the incantation:
“Aures sanguinis, audite silentium.”
Blood of the ears, hear the silence.
The magic flares—a cold rush through my veins, a sharpening of my senses. My hearing expands, stretches beyond the door, down the hall, into the corridors beyond. I can hear footsteps. Whispers. The rustle of parchment. The drip of water in distant pipes.
And then—
Voices.
From the east wing.
Low. Secretive. Familiar.
I focus. Pull the sound closer.
“—already suspect her,” a woman says. Fae. Silver-tongued. Lyria.
“Good,” a deeper voice replies. Male. Smooth. Controlled. “Let them suspect. Let them watch. The more they focus on her, the less they see us.”
My breath stops.
I know that voice.
But it can’t be.
It can’t be.
“The bond is strong,” Lyria continues. “Stronger than we thought. The Blood Moon Ritual—it nearly broke her resistance.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the man says. “She’s still vulnerable. Still angry. Still herself. And as long as she is, she’s a weapon. A distraction.”
“And Vaelen?” Lyria asks. “He’s obsessed. He barely sleeps. He watches her like she’s the only thing keeping him from burning alive.”
“Then we let him burn,” the man says. “Let him think he’s won. Let him believe the bond is unbreakable. And when they’re at their weakest—when they’re most consumed by each other—we strike.”
“And the redacted vampire?” Lyria asks. “Will he be ready?”
“He’s already in place,” the man says. “Waiting. Watching. When the time comes, he’ll move. And the war will begin.”
“And Solene?”
“She’s preparing the final spell. The one that will sever the bond. The one that will make them destroy each other.”
My blood runs cold.
It’s true.
It’s all true.
They’re working together. Lyria. The redacted vampire. Solene.
And the man—
His voice—
I know it.
But it can’t be.
It can’t be.
I push harder, straining to catch his next words. But the magic fades, the connection snaps, and the voices vanish into silence.
I stagger back, my hand flying to my head. The room spins. My vision blurs. Blood magic takes its toll—especially when used to eavesdrop on secrets meant to stay hidden. I press my palms to the floor, breathing through the dizziness.
But I have what I need.
Lyria is working with someone. A male vampire. A high-ranking one. And he’s in league with Solene. They’re using me. Using the bond. Using my anger, my doubt, my desire—to weaken us. To break the bond. To start the war.
And the redacted vampire—
He’s here.
Inside the castle.
Watching.
Waiting.
I need to find him.
But how?
The satchel of files has no name. No face. Just a redaction—identity redacted. A blank where a name should be. A void where a traitor should stand.
Unless—
Unless I can force the truth out.
I rise, moving to the hearth. Pull out the satchel again. Flip through the files. The autopsy report. The surveillance logs. The transcripts.
And then—
I see it.
A signature. Faint. Smudged. But there.
At the bottom of a Council decree—approved by Elder Mareth.
But not just Mareth.
Beneath it—another hand. A single initial. V.
Not Vaelen.
He wouldn’t sign Council decrees. Not without a full title. Not without a flourish.
This is different.
Smaller. Neater. Hidden.
V.
Could it be him?
The redacted vampire?
One of the twelve Elders?
My breath hitches.
If it is—then he’s not just a traitor.
He’s in the Council.
He’s in power.
And he’s been pulling the strings from the beginning.
A knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Who is it?”
No answer.
Then—
The lock turns.
The door opens.
Vaelen steps inside.
He’s not wearing his shirt. His chest is bare—hard planes of muscle, scars crisscrossing his skin like a map of pain. His eyes glow crimson in the dim light. His fangs are bared. And the bond—
It screams.
Heat floods my body. My skin burns. My core clenches, slick with sudden, unwanted arousal. The mark on my spine flares, a white-hot brand. I stumble back, hit the wall, press my palms to the cold stone.
He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks. We’re alone.
“You’re thinking again,” he says, voice rough. “I can feel it. The bond—it hums when you’re planning something.”
“You don’t get to feel me,” I snap. “You don’t get to know what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, stepping closer. “I know you. You’re not here to destroy me anymore. You’re here to find the truth. And I’m not stopping you.”
“Then why lock me up?” I ask. “Why the guards? Why the cage?”
“Because the Council is watching,” he says. “Because if you’d run, if you’d been captured, if you’d died—they’d have won. And I can’t lose you. Not to them. Not to her.”
“Lyria?” I ask. “You know she’s working with someone.”
He stops. Nods. “I suspected. Dain has been tracking blood signatures, financial trails. But it’s slow. Whoever it is, they’re careful.”
“What if he’s not just careful?” I say. “What if he’s in the Council?”
Vaelen’s eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”
I pull out the file, point to the initial. “V. Beneath Mareth’s signature. On a decree that cleared Solene of all charges ten years ago. The same decree that sealed my mother’s fate. The same decree that allowed Elias’s death to be ruled an accident.”
He takes the file, studies it. His jaw clenches. “It could be anyone. A clerk. A scribe. A junior advisor.”
“Or it could be an Elder,” I say. “One who’s been hiding in plain sight. One who’s been feeding Solene information. One who’s been waiting for the bond to wake up—so he can break it.”
He looks at me. Really looks. “You’re good at this.”
“I had a good teacher,” I say, voice bitter. “Until I realized she was the enemy.”
He reaches for me. I don’t pull away.
His hand frames my face. His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
“Then let me out,” I say. “Let me move. Let me fight.”
“No,” he says. “Not yet. Not until we know who we’re up against.”
“Then help me find him,” I say. “Use your network. Your spies. Your blood magic. Find the vampire with the initial V.”
He hesitates. Then nods. “I’ll have Dain run the records. But it’ll take time.”
“Time we don’t have,” I mutter.
“No,” he agrees. “We don’t.”
We stand in silence, the fire crackling between us. The bond hums, restless. I can feel his heat, his presence, the way his gaze lingers on me. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
“You should rest,” he says finally. “Tomorrow, the Council hosts a private meeting. Elders only. No attendants. No records. But I’ll be there. And I’ll watch. I’ll listen. I’ll find him.”
“And if you do?”
“Then we act,” he says. “Together.”
I look at him—really look.
At the man who kept his promise.
At the man who let me hate him to keep me alive.
At the man who’s loved me for centuries.
And I know—
This isn’t vengeance.
This isn’t duty.
This is truth.
“Then stay with me,” I say, voice soft. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because you want to.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. Real.
And for the first time—
He doesn’t sleep on the floor.
He lies beside me.
Close.
Our thighs brush.
The bond screams.
But this time—
Neither of us pulls away.
---
The next morning, he’s gone before I wake.
The bed is cold. The fire is out. The guards are still outside, silent, watchful. I rise, pull on black trousers and a fitted tunic—clothes left for me, soft leather, designed for movement. I tuck the silver dagger into my boot. My lockpick goes back into my hair.
And the satchel—
I leave it hidden.
For now.
I pace. Back and forth. The mark on my spine pulses with every step. The bond hums, restless, hungry. I can feel him—his presence, his heat, his watchfulness. He’s in the Council chamber. Listening. Watching. Searching.
And I—
I’m here.
Waiting.
Trapped.
But not powerless.
A knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Dain,” the voice says. “The prince sent me. With news.”
My stomach drops.
I open the door.
Dain stands there, expression neutral, but his eyes flick to my shoulder, to the faint outline of the bite beneath the fabric. His jaw tightens.
“He found him,” Dain says. “The vampire with the initial V.”
My breath stops.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
Dain hesitates. Then—
“Elder Valenir. Of the Northern Coven. He’s been on the Council for over two centuries. Quiet. Unassuming. But powerful. And—”
He pauses.
“—he’s Vaelen’s uncle.”
My blood runs cold.
Not just a traitor.
Not just an Elder.
Family.
And he’s been watching. Waiting. Pulling the strings from the beginning.
“Vaelen knows?” I ask.
Dain nods. “He’s in the chamber now. Confronting him. But he sent me to warn you. Valenir knows you’re close. He’ll come for you. He’ll try to break the bond. To turn you against him.”
“Then I’ll be ready,” I say, gripping the dagger in my boot.
Dain studies me. Then nods. “He flinches when you’re in danger. That’s why I follow him.”
He turns to go.
“Dain,” I say.
He pauses.
“Tell him—” I hesitate. “Tell him I believe him.”
Dain doesn’t smile. But something in his eyes softens.
“I will,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
I close the door. Lean against it. My heart hammers. My breath comes fast.
Valenir.
He’s the redacted vampire.
He’s in the Council.
And he’s coming for me.
But this time—
This time, I’m not running.
This time, I’m not hiding.
This time—
I’m ready to fight.
And the bond—
It sings.