The silence after the ritual was worse than any battle.
Not the absence of sound—no, the chamber still hummed with residual magic, the sigils on the floor pulsing faintly, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blood. Not the lack of movement—Silas had left, the guards had withdrawn, the Council’s summons had been delivered and dismissed. It was the silence *between us* that cut deeper than any blade.
Avalon hadn’t looked at me since we left the Obsidian Spire.
She walked beside me through the corridors of Shadowveil Court, her boots clicking against the stone, her spine straight, her expression unreadable. But I could feel her. Not just through the bond—though it pulsed between us like a live wire, tense, aching, *alive*—but through something older. Something primal.
She was trembling.
Not from fear. Not from cold.
From *need*.
And gods help me, so was I.
The ritual had been a test. A demonstration. A performance for the Council, meant to prove the strength of our bond, the legitimacy of our union. But it had become something else. Something darker. Something *real*.
We had fallen. We had kissed. We had bled. We had *fed*.
And then—
Silas had walked in.
And just like that, the moment had shattered. The heat had cooled. The hunger had been buried beneath layers of protocol, duty, survival.
But it was still there.
Burning.
Waiting.
I stopped outside my chambers, the guards stepping back, their eyes down. The torchlight flickered across the silver runes on my coat, casting long shadows across the stone. Avalon stopped beside me, her silver-lavender eyes fixed on the door, her hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at her thigh.
“Go inside,” I said, my voice rough. “Rest. I’ll send someone with food.”
She didn’t move. Just stood there, rigid, her breath unsteady. “You’re not coming in?”
“I have business to attend to.”
“More Council meetings? More lies?”
I turned, my eyes silver, the mark in my iris glowing faintly. “Survival, Avalon. Not lies. *Survival.*”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And what about us? What about the kiss? The truth? The *choice*?”
My chest tightened.
Not from anger.
From *truth*.
She wanted answers. She wanted clarity. She wanted me to say the words I’d been fighting since the moment she’d walked into my ancestral temple with a dagger and a death wish.
But I couldn’t.
Not here. Not now. Not in the hallway, where every word could be overheard, where every gesture could be twisted into a weapon.
“That’s not something we discuss in hallways,” I said, my voice low.
Her breath hitched.
And then—
She reached for me.
Not to fight. Not to challenge.
To *touch*.
Her fingers brushed the edge of my coat, her palm flattening against the fabric just above my heart. The bond flared—hot, undeniable—and I stilled, my breath catching in my throat. Her eyes searched mine, wide, unguarded, *vulnerable*.
“Then when?” she whispered. “When do we stop pretending? When do we stop fighting? When do we stop *hurting*?”
I didn’t answer. Just covered her hand with mine, pressing it harder against my chest, letting her feel the steady, unnatural beat beneath the silk. Letting her feel the truth she already knew.
I was not unfeeling.
I was not unbreakable.
I was *hers*.
And she was mine.
“When you’re ready,” I said, my voice rough. “When you stop fearing what you feel.”
She didn’t pull away. Just stood there, her hand against my heart, her breath mingling with mine, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat.
And then—
She stepped back.
“I’ll be ready,” she said, her voice steady. “But not today.”
She turned and walked into my chambers, the door clicking shut behind her.
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.
I stood there for a long moment, my hand still pressed to my chest, the echo of her touch burning through the fabric. The bond pulsed—dull, distant, like a thread stretched too thin. But it was still there. Still *alive*.
And so was she.
That was enough.
I turned and strode down the corridor, my boots echoing like a death knell. The guards fell into step behind me, silent, obedient. The Court was quiet—too quiet. The servants moved with their heads down, the vampires watched with their golden or silver eyes, the werewolves tensed at the scent of tension in the air.
They knew.
They could feel it—the shift, the crack in the armor, the unraveling of control.
I was not the same man who had stood in the ancestral temple and declared, *“Then you’ll die with me.”*
I was something else now.
Something *weaker*.
Something *stronger*.
I reached the war room—a vast chamber of black marble and silver flame, the walls lined with maps of the Veil, the floor carved with sigils of power. Silas was already there, standing by the obsidian table, his golden wolf eyes sharp, his stance relaxed but ready.
“My lord,” he said, bowing slightly. “You wanted to see me.”
“I did.” I crossed the room, my coat flaring behind me, the silver runes glowing faintly in the dim light. “What do you know about Vexis’s message?”
“It was delivered by raven,” Silas said. “Sealed with black wax. The Council intercepted it before it reached you.”
“And the contents?”
He hesitated. “It’s a warning. He knows about the bond. He knows about Avalon’s bloodline. He’s calling her out.”
“By name?”
“Yes.” Silas met my gaze. “He says she’s not just a hybrid. He says she’s the key. The only one who can break the Blood Oath.”
My breath caught.
Not from shock.
From *recognition*.
Elara had said the same thing.
And now Vexis.
And now the Council.
And now *me*.
“He’s lying,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.
“Or he’s telling the truth,” Silas said. “And he wants her to believe it. To use it. To *break* you.”
I didn’t answer. Just walked to the window, staring out at the moonlit spires of Shadowveil Court. The air was cold, the scent of winter pine sharp in my nose. The bond pulsed—dull, distant, like a thread stretched too thin.
“She’s not ready,” I said.
“She’s stronger than you think,” Silas said. “She’s been fighting her whole life. She’s not afraid of the truth.”
“She’s afraid of *me*,” I said, turning. “She’s afraid of what she feels. Of what the bond means. Of what happens if she lets herself *want* me.”
Silas didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze, his expression steady. “And what about you? Are you afraid of what happens if she *does*?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I was.
Not of her power. Not of her bloodline. Not of the Oath.
Of *love*.
Of losing control. Of being vulnerable. Of being used.
Of being *weak*.
“She’s not like her,” Silas said, stepping closer. “She’s not like the witch who betrayed you.”
“I know,” I said, my voice rough. “But that doesn’t make it easier.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded, his golden eyes sharp. “Then stop treating her like a pawn. Stop hiding behind duty. Stop pretending you don’t feel it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then she’ll walk away,” he said. “And you’ll lose her. And the bond. And the truce. And the war that’s coming.”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, my chest rising and falling too fast.
And then—
“Leave me,” I said. “I need to think.”
He bowed and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stood there for a long moment, my hands braced on the obsidian table, my breath unsteady. The bond pulsed—dull, distant, like a thread stretched too thin. But it was still there. Still *alive*.
And so was she.
That was enough.
I straightened, my coat flaring behind me, the silver runes glowing faintly in the dim light. I turned and strode back through the corridors, my boots echoing against the stone. The guards followed, silent, obedient. The Court was still quiet—too quiet. But I could feel it—the tension, the anticipation, the *inevitability*.
They knew.
They could feel it—the shift, the crack in the armor, the unraveling of control.
I was not the same man.
And I didn’t want to be.
I reached my chambers and stopped, my hand on the door. The bond pulsed—hot, immediate—and I knew she was awake. Knew she was waiting. Knew she was *choosing*.
I opened the door.
She was by the window, her back to me, her dark waves spilling over one shoulder. The Blood Oath ledger lay on the vanity, untouched, unopened. The dagger was still at her thigh. The vial of balm sat beside it, its contents still.
She didn’t turn. Just stood there, rigid, her breath unsteady.
“You came back,” she said, her voice low.
“I said I would.”
She turned then, her silver-lavender eyes sharp, her jaw clenched. “Why? Because the bond demands it? Because the Council expects it? Or because you actually *want* to be here?”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped inside, closing the door behind me. “All of it. None of it. I don’t know.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
Instead, she crossed the room, stepping out of her boots, unbuttoning her tunic. The dagger slid into the hidden sheath beneath the folds of her gown. The ledger lay on the vanity, untouched, unopened. The vial of balm sat beside it, its contents still.
“Then figure it out,” she said, climbing onto the bed, keeping to the far edge, as far from me as possible.
I didn’t argue. Just stripped off my coat, folding it over the chair with precise, deliberate movements. Then my boots. Then my gloves. Then my shirt.
And there it was.
The mark.
On my chest. A crescent pierced by a thorn. The same as hers. But darker. Deeper. *Older*.
She saw me looking.
“It appeared the night of the ritual,” I said, my voice low. “When you tasted my blood. When the visions came.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know how,” I said, climbing onto the bed, lying on my back on the opposite edge, my hands clasped over my chest. “I didn’t want you to think it meant something… more.”
“And does it?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned his head, his eyes meeting mine. Silver. Burning. *Wanting*.
The bond flared—hot, insistent. My breath caught. My skin burned.
And then—
Sleep took me.
Not peacefully. Not quietly.
But in a storm of visions.
Avalon’s hand on my waist in the dark. Her lips on my neck. A child’s laughter—*silver-lavender eyes staring up at me.*
War. Blood. Fire. The Grey Coven burning. The Lupine Clans howling in rage. The Winter Court frozen in betrayal.
And then—
Me.
Standing over Avalon’s body, a dagger in my hand, her blood on my lips, my face streaked with tears.
I had killed her.
I woke gasping, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. The mark on my chest *burned*, not with pain—but with *fire*. The bond flared, white-hot, and I turned—
Avalon was watching me.
Her eyes were silver-lavender, wide, unguarded. Her hand was on my chest—just resting there, her palm flat against the mark, her fingers curled slightly, as if she’d reached for me in her sleep and hadn’t realized it.
“You had the vision again,” she said, her voice rough.
“The child,” I whispered. “The one with silver-lavender eyes. That was—”
“Ours,” she said. “In one possible future.”
“And the other? The one where I kill you?”
“Also possible,” she said. “But not inevitable.”
“Then how do we stop it?”
“By choosing,” she said. “By fighting. By *trusting*.”
I didn’t answer. Just lay there, my body rigid, my breath shallow. Her thumb moved—just slightly—brushing against the edge of the mark, a slow, unconscious caress. And gods help me, it sent a jolt of something dark and dangerous through me.
Desire.
It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper. It was the sudden, overwhelming awareness of *her*—her thoughts, her hunger, the cold, controlled fury beneath her calm. I could feel the way her breath caught, the way her fangs dropped just slightly, the way her grip tightened for a fraction of a second before she forced it back under control.
She felt it too.
Our eyes locked. The connection deepened, a current of magic and something darker, something primal, surging between us.
“You feel it,” I murmured. “Don’t lie.”
She tried to pull away. Her muscles screamed in protest, not from resistance, but from *need*. Her body didn’t want to leave. It wanted to step closer. To press against me. To feel my hands on her, my mouth on her neck, my fangs breaking skin—
I wrenched my arm free.
The separation was like a blade to the chest. I staggered back, gasping, my palm flying to the mark on my chest. It burned, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. My breath came in ragged bursts, my skin still tingling where she’d touched me.
Avalon didn’t move. Just watched me, her expression unreadable. But her chest rose and fell too fast. Her jaw was clenched. And for the first time, I saw it—
She was fighting it too.
“This bond,” I panted, “is a curse. It means nothing.”
“It means everything,” she said. “To the Council. To the truce. To the war that’s coming if you don’t play your part.”
“And what part is that? Your obedient little mate?” I spat. “Your political puppet?”
“For now,” she said, stepping closer, “you’re my prisoner. But if you want to live, you’ll pretend to be my salvation.”
She reached for me again.
This time, I didn’t flinch. I stood my ground, my fingers twitching toward the dagger. But she didn’t touch me. She stopped inches away, her breath warm against my skin. Her voice dropped, low, intimate, meant only for me.
“You’ll wear the dress I’ve chosen. You’ll smile when I take your hand. You’ll let me touch you in front of the Council, and you’ll *not* pull away.”
“Or what?” I challenged. “You’ll lock me in a cell? Kill me?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll let the bond do it for me.”
She turned and walked away, her boots echoing down the hall.
And for the first time, I understood.
This wasn’t just about revenge.
This was about survival.