I don’t sleep.
Not after the ritual. Not after the blood. Not after the visions—Elias’s voice, Vaelen’s truth, the whisper from the shadows that still echoes in my skull like a curse. *Don’t trust Solene.*
Three words.
That’s all it took to crack the foundation of my life.
Solene raised me. Trained me. Held me when I screamed for my mother in the night. She taught me blood magic, how to weave lies into truth, how to kill without remorse. She was my family. My only family.
And now?
Now I don’t know what to believe.
I sit on the edge of the bed in Vaelen’s chambers—*our* chambers, now, according to the Council’s decree—and stare at the silver dagger lying on the nightstand. His. Not mine. I don’t trust myself with it. Not tonight. Not when my hands won’t stop shaking. Not when my body still hums from the kiss, from the blood, from the way he held me like I belonged to him.
I hate that I liked it.
I hate that my skin still burns where his fingers gripped my hips. That my lips tingle from the taste of his blood—iron and fire and something ancient, something *right*. That the mark on my spine pulses in time with my heartbeat, warm and alive, like it’s celebrating.
This isn’t me.
I don’t crave. I don’t surrender. I don’t *doubt*.
But the bond—
It doesn’t care what I want. It only knows what I am: his.
I stand, pacing. The room is vast—black stone, silver veins, a fire burning low in the hearth. The bed is massive, draped in dark silk, untouched. Vaelen sleeps on the floor, wrapped in a cloak, his back to me. He hasn’t touched me. Hasn’t tried. But I feel him—his presence, his heat, his *watchfulness*. He’s awake. I can hear his breath, steady and slow, but I know he’s not sleeping. Not with the bond screaming between us.
I need proof.
Not visions. Not feelings. Not blood-magic whispers from the dead.
I need facts.
And I know where to find them.
The Midnight Archives. The vault beneath the east wing, where every sealed record, every forbidden spell, every political betrayal is stored. If Solene killed Elias, if she framed Vaelen, if she’s been manipulating me for years—then it’s there. In ink. In blood. In truth.
I glance at Vaelen. Still. Silent.
One chance.
I slip out of the robe, 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. Then I 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 enough. I open it. Step into the hall.
The castle is quiet. Too quiet. No guards. No servants. Just the flicker of blue flames in the sconces, casting long shadows that twist like living things. I move fast, silent, hugging the walls. My fae blood hums beneath my skin, enhancing my senses. I can smell the old parchment from the archives, the iron in the stone, the faint trace of Vaelen’s scent—midnight and blood and something wild—still clinging to my skin.
I turn a corner.
Then another.
The air grows colder. The walls narrower. The floor slopes downward. I’m close.
And then—
The door.
Iron. Reinforced. Sealed with a blood-lock and a witch’s sigil. Only a Duskbane or a high-ranking Council member can open it. But I’ve seen this seal before. Studied it. Broke it once, in Prague, for a warlock who wanted to erase his past.
I pull the vial from my sleeve—crimson liquid, third-lineage blood. I smear it on my fingers, press my hand to the sigil.
The magic flares—red and black, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Then fades.
The door clicks open.
I step inside.
The Midnight Archives stretch before me—endless rows of shelves, stacked with scrolls, grimoires, ledgers bound in human skin. The air is thick with dust and old magic, the scent of decay and power. Candles float in the air, flickering with cold blue light, illuminating the titles:
Treaty of the Blood Moon.
Werewolf Uprising: Suppression Records.
Fae Betrayals: List of the Cursed.
Thornline Surveillance: 2148–2176.
My breath catches.
I move fast, scanning the shelves. I need the logs. The surveillance. The *truth*. I find the section—Thornline—marked with a silver raven. I pull out the first ledger. Flip through it.
My mother’s trial. The charges. The execution. And then—
A note, in a different hand.
Subject: Seraphina Thornline. Executed for treason. Final words: “Tell my daughter the bond is real.”
My hands shake.
She knew. She *knew* the bond was still alive. And she wanted me to know.
But Solene told me it was broken. Told me it was a lie. Told me to come here to destroy it.
Why?
I flip to the next file.
My brother.
Subject: Elias Thornline. Last seen entering chambers of Mistress Solene. Cause of death: blood magic overdose. Autopsy report attached.
I pull out the report.
Photographs. His body—pale, lifeless, a needle still in his arm. Blood on the sheets. And a signature at the bottom:
—Mistress Solene, Royal Witch Advisor.
No. No, no, no.
This can’t be real.
But it is.
I flip through more pages. Surveillance logs. Transcripts.
Subject: Solene. Conversation with unknown vampire (identity redacted). “The boy is dead. The bond will break. The war begins.”
Subject: Solene. Letter to Council Elder Mareth. “The Duskbane heir is weak. The Thornline girl will be our weapon.”
My breath comes fast. My vision blurs.
She used me.
She *planned* this.
She killed Elias. Framed Vaelen. Sent me here to finish the job—to ignite the war she’s been building for decades.
And I almost did it.
I almost destroyed the one man who might actually be innocent.
I grab the files—everything on Solene, on Elias, on the bond. I shove them into a leather satchel I find on the shelf. My hands are shaking. My magic churns, reacting to the truth, to the betrayal, to the *rage* boiling in my chest.
And then—
A noise.
Behind me.
I spin.
Vaelen stands in the doorway.
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 need. The mark on my spine flares, a white-hot brand. I stumble back, hit the shelf, papers scattering to the floor.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. “You’re stealing from me again,” he says, voice low. Dangerous.
“I’m taking back what’s mine,” I say, voice shaking. “The truth.”
He steps forward. Slow. Deliberate. “And what does the truth say, little witch?”
“That you didn’t kill my brother.”
“And who did?”
“Solene.”
He stops. Nods. “Took you long enough.”
“You *knew*?”
“I suspected. The bond showed me pieces. But I needed proof. Just like you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?” he asks, stepping closer. “You came here to kill me. You *hate* me.”
“I still do,” I whisper.
“Liar,” he says, closing the distance. “Your body doesn’t hate me. It *burns* for me.”
He grabs my wrist—fast, inhumanly fast—and spins me, pins me against the bookshelf. My back hits the wood, the impact jolting through me. His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. One hand holds both of mine above my head. The other grips my hip, fingers digging into the fabric of my tunic.
Our faces are inches apart.
I can feel his breath on my skin. Warm. Steady. *Hungry*.
And the bond—
It’s *alive*.
Every nerve in my body screams. My skin burns where he touches me. My core throbs, slick with need. My breath hitches. My thighs press together, trying to ease the ache.
His eyes drop to my lips. “You want to destroy me,” he murmurs. “Then do it with your hands on my skin.”
“I *hate* you,” I whisper.
“Liar,” he says. “Your body doesn’t lie. It’s screaming my name.”
He leans in.
His nose brushes my neck. Inhales. “You smell like vengeance. Like fire. Like *mine*.”
I twist, trying to break free. “Let me go.”
“No.”
His grip tightens. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist—soft, deliberate. And the touch—
It *burns*.
Not pain. Not magic. Just—heat. A spark that races up my arm, straight to my core. My breath stutters. My pulse hammers. My body arches toward him, betraying me.
He feels it.
A low sound rumbles in his chest. A growl. A *claim*.
His fangs graze my neck. Not biting. Just—touching. A whisper of danger. A promise.
“You’re not going to kill me,” he says, voice rough. “Because if you did, you’d die with me. The bond would tear you apart.”
“Then break it,” I hiss. “Sever it. Like they did before.”
“I can’t,” he says. “It’s too strong. Too deep. It’s been waiting for you. For *this*.”
“I don’t want this.”
“You do.”
He releases my wrist—just one hand—but keeps me pinned. His fingers trail down my arm, slow, maddening. Then to my waist. His palm flattens against my side, heat searing through the thin fabric.
And then—
His thumb brushes the curve of my hip.
Just a touch. Light. Casual.
But it’s *enough*.
Fire explodes in my veins. My breath hitches. My body *clenches*. A low moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
He freezes.
His eyes snap to mine. Dark. Wild. *Possessive*.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then—
“You feel it too,” he says, voice raw.
I turn my face away. “It’s magic. Biology. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means *everything*,” he growls. “It means you’re mine. Whether you want to be or not.”
I jerk against him. “I’ll *never* be yours.”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then why is your body begging for me?”
I close my eyes. Shame burns through me. He’s right. I can’t deny it. My skin is on fire. My core is slick. My breath comes in shallow gasps.
And the worst part?
I *want* him to touch me more.
He steps back. Releases me.
I sag against the shelf, trembling. My legs barely hold me. My tunic is twisted, my hair a mess. I look like I’ve been ravaged.
He straightens his shirt. Calm. Controlled. Like nothing happened.
But his eyes—
They’re still dark. Still hungry.
“You can keep the files,” he says. “But you’re not leaving my side. Not until we deal with Solene.”
My stomach drops. “You don’t trust me.”
“No,” he says. “But I need you. And the bond needs us *together*.”
I glare at him. “You’re impossible.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
He turns. Walks to the door. Pauses.
“Oh,” he says, glancing back. “And Cascade? Next time you try to steal from me—make sure you’re faster.”
Then he’s gone.
I slide down the shelf, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My skin still burns. My body still aches. The mark on my spine pulses like a second heartbeat.
I open the satchel. Flip through the files again.
Solene’s signature. Elias’s body. The redacted vampire.
Who is he?
Who’s helping her?
And how deep does this go?
I don’t know.
But I do know this—
The bond is real.
Vaelen didn’t kill my brother.
And the real enemy is still out there.
And this time—
I’m not fighting alone.