I don’t sleep either.
Not when she’s near. Not when the bond thrums in my veins like a second heartbeat, wild and untamed, pulling me toward her with a force I haven’t felt in centuries. The moment our eyes met at the masquerade, something ancient roared to life inside me—something deeper than hunger, older than memory. The bond wasn’t broken. It was *dormant*. Waiting. And now that it’s awake, it refuses to be ignored.
I stand at the window of my private chambers, shirtless, the cool night air brushing against my scars—silver whip marks from a trial I barely survived, a punishment meant for *her* mother. I run a hand over the ridges, the old pain a dull echo compared to the fire burning in my chest. I should be focused. There’s a traitor in the Council. The Moonstone Accord is crumbling. War is at our doorstep.
And yet—
All I can think about is *her*.
Cascade.
The woman who walked into my court with vengeance in her eyes and fire in her blood. The woman who tasted my lies before I even spoke them. The woman whose body *arched* into mine when I brushed her hip—just a touch, barely there, and she *moaned*.
Gods, that sound.
It’s carved into my bones.
I close my eyes, and I see her—pressed against the wall, wrists pinned, breath stuttering, lips parted. Her scent—wild magic and iron and something sweet, like moon-bloom nectar—wrapped around me, pulled me under. My fangs ached. My cock hardened. My soul *recognized* her.
And then she called me a monster.
She’s not wrong. I’ve done monstrous things. I’ve killed without mercy. I’ve ruled with fear. But never without reason. Never without purpose.
And never for pleasure.
Not until her.
I exhale sharply, turning from the window. The east wing is silent. No guards. No servants. Just the hum of old magic in the stones, the whisper of wind through the towers. She’s in there somewhere—probably plotting my downfall, or picking another lock. I should’ve had her watched. I should’ve locked her in the dungeon.
But I didn’t.
Because I *wanted* her to find the dossier.
Because I wanted her to see the truth—that her mother saved me. That I owe her everything. That I’ve spent the last decade searching for the truth about her brother, while she believed the lies fed to her by the very woman who raised her.
Solene.
I don’t trust her. Never have. She taught me blood magic when I was young, showed me how to command veins, how to stop a heart with a thought. But there was always something… *off* about her. A hunger beneath the calm. A cruelty behind the smile.
And now she’s used Cascade as a weapon.
Well, let her come.
Let her try to break us.
The bond won’t allow it.
A knock at the door.
Dain.
“They’re ready,” he says, voice low. “The Council chamber. The ritual begins at dawn.”
I nod, pulling on a black shirt, leaving it unbuttoned at the top. “Has she been moved?”
“Not yet. She’s still in the study.”
“Good. Let her read. Let her doubt.”
Dain hesitates. “You’re playing a dangerous game, my prince. If she refuses the ritual—”
“She won’t.”
“And if she tries to run?”
I turn to him, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “Then I’ll chase her. Across continents. Through fire. I’ll drag her back by her hair if I have to.”
Dain doesn’t flinch. He’s seen me like this before—possessive, obsessive, *ruled* by the bond. He’s the only one who knows how deep it runs. How it’s been killing me, slowly, for years, every time I felt her absence like a missing limb.
“She hates you,” he says.
“She’ll stop.”
He exhales. “Just don’t forget who you’re fighting for. The treaty. The peace. Not just the bond.”
I clench my jaw. “I haven’t forgotten.”
But the truth is—
I don’t care about the treaty.
Not really.
I care about *her*.
And if the Council wants peace, they’ll get it. But they’ll also get *us*—bound, claimed, *unbreakable*.
I follow Dain through the halls, boots silent on the stone. The castle is alive with tension—guards at every corner, witches murmuring spells, werewolves pacing like caged beasts. The failed assassination on Elder Mareth has everyone on edge. Whispers of war ripple through the corridors. And now, this—our forced engagement, a political farce meant to hold the balance.
But it won’t be a farce.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
The Council chamber is a vast, circular hall, domed ceiling painted with constellations that shift with the moon’s phase. Twelve thrones rise in a ring, each carved from a different material—obsidian, silver, oak, bone—representing the four species and their elders. The air hums with power, thick with unspoken threats.
Cascade is already there.
She stands at the center, dressed in a gown of midnight blue, her hair loose, her mask gone. No glamour. No pretense. Just raw, defiant beauty. Her eyes lock onto mine the moment I enter, and the bond *screams*, a surge of heat flooding my veins, tightening my chest, making my fangs press against my gums.
She feels it too.
I can see it in the way her breath hitches, in the way her fingers curl into fists, in the way her spine straightens—as if she’s fighting the urge to run to me.
Good.
Let her fight.
Let her burn.
Elder Mareth rises, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The Moonstone Accord demands unity. To prove that unity, the ancient bond between Prince Vaelen Duskbane and Cascade of the Thornline must be rekindled—not in secret, but in truth. The blood-sharing ritual will bind them publicly, sealing their engagement in magic and law.”
A hush falls.
A servant steps forward, holding a silver chalice between two velvet cushions. Inside, a single drop of blood glistens—mine, drawn at dawn. The ritual is simple: we each add a drop of blood to the chalice, then drink from each other’s lips, sealing the bond with a kiss.
Symbolic.
But the magic is real.
And the bond—already screaming for union—will use it to deepen its hold.
Mareth gestures to Cascade. “You first.”
She doesn’t move.
“I didn’t agree to this,” she says, voice sharp. “You can’t force magic.”
“We’re not forcing magic,” Mareth says. “We’re *awakening* it. The bond is already active. This ritual merely honors it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then war begins at sunrise.”
Her eyes flick to me. Cold. Furious. Accusing.
I hold her gaze. “Do it, little witch. For the peace. For the thousands who’ll die if you don’t.”
She glares at me. “You don’t get to play the hero.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m playing the monster who’ll do *anything* to keep you alive.”
She flinches.
But she steps forward.
She takes the silver dagger from the servant, presses the tip to her fingertip. A drop of blood falls into the chalice—crimson, shimmering with fae magic. Then she hands the dagger to me.
Our fingers brush.
Fire explodes in my veins.
She gasps. I growl. The bond *roars*, a primal demand for more. My fangs lengthen. My pulse hammers. My cock strains against my trousers.
But I don’t move.
I cut my finger. Add my blood.
The chalice glows—red and blue swirling together, magic intertwining.
Mareth raises his hand. “Now, the kiss. The exchange. The binding.”
I step toward her.
She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t run. Just stands there, breathing fast, eyes blazing.
“You don’t have to like it,” I murmur, close enough to feel her breath on my lips. “But you *will* feel it.”
She lifts her chin. “Then make it quick.”
I smile. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, it won’t be quick.”
And then I kiss her.
Her lips are soft. Warm. *Mine*.
The moment they part, the magic *explodes*—a shockwave of heat and light that throws us both back, gasping. The chalice shatters. The bond *screams*, a tidal wave of sensation crashing through me—her fear, her rage, her *arousal*, thick and sweet and undeniable.
I grab her, pull her against me, kiss her again—deeper, hungrier, *claiming*. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting her, branding her. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, not pushing me away. Her body arches into mine, soft and desperate.
And then—
She *bites* me.
Sharp. Sudden. A flash of pain—and pleasure—ripping through my lip. Blood fills my mouth. Hers. Mine. Mixed.
I groan, gripping her hips, pressing her against me. My cock is hard, aching, *begging* to be inside her. The bond flares, white-hot, a surge of magic that sends visions crashing through my mind—
A boy’s voice. Young. Afraid.
“Vaelen… protect her. No matter what.”
My brother. Elias.
And then—darkness. A hand. A needle. Blood on silver.
Solene.
I break the kiss, staggering back, blood on my lip, heart pounding.
Cascade stumbles, her hand flying to her head. “What—what was that?”
“The bond,” I rasp. “It’s showing us things. Memories.”
She looks at me, eyes wide. “I saw him too. Elias. He said—”
“Protect you,” I finish. “He said it to me. The night he died.”
Her breath hitches. “You… you knew him?”
“He was my brother,” I say, voice raw. “Not by blood. By oath. By bond. We were raised together. Trained together. Fought together.”
“Then who—”
“Solene,” I say. “She killed him. To break the alliance. To break *us*.”
She stares at me. “She told me *you* did.”
“And you believed her?”
“She raised me!”
“And she used you,” I say, stepping closer. “She fed you lies. Sent you here to destroy me. To *die* trying.”
She shakes her head. “No. It can’t be—”
“Look at the blood,” I say, pointing to the shattered chalice. “Our magic—it’s merging. The bond is showing us the truth. *She* is the enemy.”
She looks down. The blood on the floor—red and blue—is still swirling, forming shapes, symbols. A raven. A thorn. A witch’s hand holding a needle.
And then—
A whisper, from the shadows.
“Don’t trust Solene.”
Her breath stops.
“That was—Elias,” she whispers.
I nod. “The bond remembers. And it’s not done.”
She looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it.
Doubt.
Not of me.
Of *her*.
The room is silent. The Council watches. The magic hums.
And between us—
The bond burns.
Hot.
Real.
Mine.
I reach for her hand. “Stay with me. Fight with me. Let me protect you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t speak.
But her fingers—trembling, uncertain—curl around mine.
And the bond—
It *sings*.