I don’t sleep.
Not after Prague. Not after the blood. Not after the way I stood between Solene’s blade and Vaelen—again—like my body had already chosen him long before my mind could catch up. The fire has burned low again, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor, the same shadows that have watched me rage, weep, kiss him, and finally—choose him. His arm is still around me, heavy and warm, his chest a solid wall against my back. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, strong, alive—and the rhythm of his breath, slow and even. He’s asleep. Finally.
But I’m not.
The bond hums beneath my skin, no longer a curse, no longer a weapon—but a living thing, pulsing with something I can’t name. Something warm. Something real. But it’s also heavy. Thick. Like a fever has taken root in my blood, spreading through my veins, tightening in my core. The mark on my spine flares with every heartbeat, a dull throb, a constant reminder of what I’ve done—what I’ve let him do. I told myself it was the ritual. The Blood Moon. The magic. But the truth is, I didn’t just submit. I participated. I moaned. I clawed his back. I screamed his name. I let him mark me.
And I’d do it again.
The thought doesn’t terrify me anymore.
It thrills me.
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 claiming, of the way he thrust inside me until I came apart, of the way the bond sang not with magic, not with politics, but with something deeper. Something real.
The satchel is gone.
Stolen.
By Solene.
But we have something stronger now.
Truth.
And allies.
Elias is here. Alive. Not dead. Not gone. And he’s standing with us. Not just for me. Not just for the bond. But for the future. For the world Solene wants to twist into her own image of purity and control.
A soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I whisper, not moving.
“Dain,” the voice says, low. “Lyria has requested an audience. Says it’s urgent.”
I stiffen. My fingers tighten around the hilt of the silver dagger tucked beneath my pillow. Lyria. Vaelen’s ex-lover. The woman who once wore his ring, who whispered in the halls that he moaned her name in his sleep, who claimed he’d never look at me the way he looked at her.
And now she wants to talk?
“She’s lying,” I say. “It’s a trap.”
“Maybe,” Dain says. “Or maybe she’s finally seen the truth. Like Valenir did.”
I glance at Vaelen. He’s still asleep, his breathing even, his fangs retracted. But the air around him hums with restrained power, like a storm waiting to break. I know he’s not truly asleep. Not with me so close. Not with the bond thrumming between us like a live wire.
“Let her in,” I say. “But keep the guards close. And tell her—no weapons. No magic. Or she doesn’t walk out.”
Dain hesitates. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “She wants to play games? Fine. Let’s play.”
---
Lyria arrives ten minutes later.
She’s dressed in black silk, her hair loose, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. No ring. No bite marks. No scent of Vaelen on her skin. Just jasmine and poison.
She steps into the chamber like she owns it. Like she still has a claim.
“Cascade,” she says, voice smooth. “You look… well.”
“So do you,” I say, sitting up, pulling the robe tighter around me. “For someone who’s about to lie through her teeth.”
She smirks. “Straight to the point. I’ve always admired that about you.”
“Save it,” I say. “Why are you here?”
She glances at Vaelen. He hasn’t moved. Still pretending to sleep. But I feel it—the shift in his energy, the way his hand tightens around mine beneath the sheets.
“I know what Solene’s planning,” Lyria says. “She’s not just trying to break the bond. She’s going to use the satchel to frame Vaelen. To make it look like he orchestrated the entire thing. The fake deaths. The manipulation. The assassination attempts. She’ll twist the evidence so it points to him.”
“And you care why?” I ask. “You’ve spent the last decade trying to tear us apart.”
“I wanted him,” she says, voice low. “But not like this. Not broken. Not destroyed. I wanted him to choose me. Not be forced into it by some cursed bond.”
“And now?”
“Now I see what she’s doing,” Lyria says. “She’s not saving anyone. She’s building a war. And she’ll use you both as kindling.”
I study her. Her eyes. Her posture. The way her fingers twitch at her sides. She’s nervous. Not afraid. But… uncertain. Like she’s stepping into a fire and doesn’t know if she’ll burn or walk through unscathed.
“You’re lying,” I say. “Or at least, you’re not telling the whole truth.”
She doesn’t deny it. Just looks at me. “Then test me. Blood magic. Truth-seeing. Do whatever you need to. But listen. She’s going to poison him.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Solene has a venom,” Lyria says. “Ancient. Fae-made. It doesn’t kill. It corrupts. Twists the mind. Makes the victim believe the ones they love are their enemies. She’s going to slip it into his wine at the next Council meeting. Make him attack you. Make him look like a monster.”
I want to laugh. Want to call her a liar. But the bond—
It flares.
A jolt of heat spirals through me, tightening in my core. Not arousal. Not fear.
Truth.
She’s not lying.
“Why tell me?” I ask. “Why not just let it happen?”
She looks at Vaelen. Really looks. “Because I’ve seen what love looks like when it’s real. When it’s not about control. Not about power. Not about winning. And I don’t want to watch it be destroyed by a woman who’s too afraid to let go of the past.”
I don’t answer.
But I believe her.
---
When she leaves, I turn to Vaelen.
“You were awake the whole time,” I say.
He opens his eyes. Crimson. Ancient. Knowing.
“Of course,” he says, sitting up. “I wasn’t going to let her near you alone.”
“And you believe her?”
“I believe you,” he says. “And you believe her.”
I press my fingers to my temple. “She’s right. The bond flared. She wasn’t lying.”
He rises from the bed, pulls on a black coat, fastens it at the throat. “Then we stop it. Before she can poison me. Before she can turn the Council against us.”
“How?” I ask. “We can’t just accuse her without proof.”
“Then we make her give us proof,” he says. “We let her try.”
I frown. “You want to let her poison you?”
“Not poison me,” he says. “Poison the wine. I won’t drink it. But I’ll let her think I did. Let her think she’s won. Then, when she reveals her ‘proof’—when she claims I attacked you in a rage—we’ll expose her. With blood-memory. With Elias. With the truth.”
My breath hitches.
It’s risky. Dangerous. One misstep, and the Council will believe she’s right. That the bond has corrupted me. That he’s a monster.
But it’s the only way.
“Then we prepare,” I say. “We warn the Council. We station guards. We make sure the wine is monitored.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you?”
“I’ll be ready,” I say. “If she tries to hurt you, I’ll be the one standing between her and your heart.”
He steps closer, cups my face in his hands. “You already are.”
---
The Council chamber is packed.
Twelve thrones rise in a circle, each one carved from a different species’ sacred stone. Mareth sits at the center, silver-haired, eyes like frozen mercury. To his right, Lyria—no longer smirking, no longer confident. Just watching. Waiting.
And to his left—
Solene.
She’s seated like a queen, her cloak lined with wolf fur, her eyes sharp with ambition. But there’s something different. A stillness. A quiet. A lie beneath the surface.
She sees me.
And for the first time—
She smiles.
“Prince Vaelen,” Mareth says, voice echoing through the chamber. “And Miss Cascade. You requested this emergency session?”
“We did,” Vaelen says, stepping forward. “To expose the final act of a traitor in your midst.”
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
Solene doesn’t flinch. Just watches him. “More accusations? How predictable.”
“This isn’t an accusation,” I say, stepping forward. “It’s a warning. You’re going to poison him. Tonight. At the feast. You’ve laced the wine with fae venom. The kind that twists the mind. Makes the victim see their lover as an enemy.”
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Solene laughs. Cold. Sharp. “And who told you this? Your bond? Your magic? Or your paranoia?”
“Lyria,” I say.
Another ripple. Lyria sits straighter, but doesn’t speak.
“Ah,” Solene says. “The spurned lover. How convenient.”
“Then let’s test it,” I say, pulling the vial from my belt. “Blood of memory. Show me the truth.”
I press the tip of my dagger to my palm. Blood wells. I let three drops fall onto the vial.
“Sanguis memoriæ, ostende mihi veritatem.”
The air shimmers. The vial glows. And then—
Light.
A vision unfolds above us—Solene, in the old archives, mixing a dark liquid into a silver chalice. “Tonight,” she whispers. “When he drinks, he’ll see her as the enemy. He’ll attack her. And the Council will see the truth—the bond is a corruption.”
The chamber erupts.
“Fake!” Solene shouts. “Projection magic!”
“No,” Mareth says, rising. “That’s blood-memory. Unforgeable.”
Solene’s face is stone. “Even if it’s real, it proves nothing. I was testing a theory. For the good of the Council.”
“By poisoning the prince?” Vaelen says. “By trying to make me attack the woman I love?”
“You don’t love her,” Solene says. “The bond makes you think you do.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “The bond doesn’t make me love him. It makes me see him. Really see him. The man who let me hate him to keep me alive. The man who’s loved me for centuries.”
She doesn’t answer.
But her hand flies to her dagger.
“Guards!” Mareth shouts.
But she’s fast.
She lunges—not at me.
At Vaelen.
Her blade flashes—silver, cursed, dripping with venom.
And I move.
Not thinking.
Not hesitating.
I step in front of him.
The blade sinks into my side—just below the ribs, deep, twisting.
But I don’t fall.
I can’t.
Because he’s behind me.
And I’m all that’s between him and death.
“Cascade—!”
His voice. Raw. Desperate. Shattered.
I turn. Slowly. Painfully. Blood drips from my side, pooling at my feet. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My vision blurs.
But I’m still standing.
And Solene—
She’s frozen.
Because Vaelen is there—his hand around her throat, his fangs bared, his eyes glowing crimson.
“You don’t get to touch her,” he growls. “Not again. Not ever.”
He throws her back. She hits the ground, the blade skittering away.
And then—
Silence.
Just the drip of blood. The low hum of the wards. The pounding of my heart.
And him.
His arms around me. Pulling me close. Supporting my weight. His body warm against my back, his breath hot on my neck.
“You idiot,” he whispers. “You idiot. Why would you do that?”
I try to speak. Can’t.
The venom is spreading. My knees buckle. I fall to one knee, then the other. My vision blurs. My hands clench the stone.
And then—
He’s there.
His arms around me. Lifting me. Carrying me.
Not like a prisoner.
Not like a burden.
Like something precious.
Like something hers.
---
The world comes back in fragments.
Firelight.
Stone walls.
The scent of moon-bloom and iron and something sweet, something his.
And him.
He’s beside me—kneeling on the floor, his hands pressing to the wound in my side, his magic flaring, his breath coming fast. Blood drips from his fingertip, smeared across the blade of his dagger. He whispers the words—“Sanguis pura, sanguis vera”—and the magic flows into me, slow, steady, agonizing.
The venom burns. My body rebels. My muscles spasm.
But I don’t pull away.
Because he’s here.
Because his hands are on me.
Because the bond—
It sings.
Not with pain.
Not with fear.
With need.
“You’re not supposed to do this,” I rasp. “Blood magic… it takes from you.”
“Shut up,” he says, not looking at me. “You took a poisoned blade for me. The least I can do is keep you from dying.”
“And if it kills you?” I ask.
“Then it kills me,” he says, voice flat. “But I’d rather die saving you than live knowing I let you die.”
My breath hitches.
He doesn’t see it. Doesn’t feel it. But I do.
Because those words—
They’re the truth.
And the truth is more dangerous than any blade.
Minutes pass. Hours. I don’t know. The venom retreats, slow, grudging, but it’s leaving. My strength returns. My magic stabilizes.
And then—
He stops.
His hand falls away. His breath comes fast. His face is pale. His lips are colorless.
“You’re drained,” I say, sitting up slowly. “You gave too much.”
“I gave enough,” he says, wiping his hand on his trousers. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
“And you?” I ask. “Are you alive?”
He glares at me. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” I say, reaching for him. “I’m asking.”
He doesn’t pull away.
My hand frames his face. My thumb brushes his cheek. His skin is cold. His breath hitches.
“You could’ve died,” I say, voice rough. “Because of me.”
“And you did,” he says. “Because of me. So I’d say we’re even.”
“We’re not,” I say. “Because I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand. I’d take every blade meant for you. I’d burn in every fire. I’d bleed in every war. Just to keep you alive.”
He stares at me. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” I say. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. Not because of fate. Because of you. The man who let me hate him to keep me alive. The man who’s loved me for centuries. The man who’s standing here, naked, vulnerable, and still waiting for me to choose him.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
I rise onto my knees.
And I kiss him.
Not fierce. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips part beneath mine. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a tidal wave of magic and emotion that throws us both back onto the floor.
But this time—
I don’t fight it.
I let it in.
I let him in.
And when we break apart, breathless, trembling, his forehead resting against mine, I whisper the words I never thought I’d say:
“I believe you.”
He closes his eyes, as if the words are a physical pain.
Then he opens them.
And for the first time—
I see it.
Not just hunger.
Not just possession.
Hope.
“Then stay with me,” he says. “Not because of the Council. Not because of the bond. But because you want to.”
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.
“I want to,” I whisper.
And the bond—
It sings.
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.