I don’t sleep.
Not after the archives. Not after the truth. Not after Vaelen’s hands on me, his breath in my ear, the way my body *betrayed* me—again—when all I wanted was to hate him. Three nights since the blood ritual. Three nights of lying in his bed while he sleeps on the floor like some cursed knight, watching me with those crimson eyes that see too much. The bond hums between us, a live wire beneath my skin, pulsing with every breath, every heartbeat, every time I remember the way he touched me.
And I remember. Constantly.
His thumb on my hip. The heat of his palm through my tunic. The low growl in his chest when I moaned. The way his fangs grazed my neck, not biting, but *promising*—
I press my hands to my face. Stop.
I came here to destroy him. Not to crave him.
But the truth has changed everything.
Elias is dead. Murdered by Solene. Framed on Vaelen. And I—blind, furious, obedient—I almost finished her work for her. I almost shattered the bond, ignited the war, died in the process. If the ritual hadn’t shown us the visions, if the blood hadn’t whispered Elias’s last words, I’d still be chasing a ghost. Still believing the lies.
And now?
Now I have proof. Files. Autopsy reports. Transcripts. All tucked into the satchel hidden beneath the floorboard near the hearth. But proof isn’t enough. Not yet. Solene is still out there. Still powerful. Still *dangerous*. And she has allies—someone in the Council, someone Vaelen doesn’t know. A redacted vampire. A whisper in the dark.
I need more.
And I need to stop reacting to him like a starving woman at a feast.
I stand, pacing. The fire has burned low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Vaelen hasn’t moved. He’s still on the floor, wrapped in his cloak, back to me. But I know he’s awake. I can feel him—the rhythm of his breath, the tension in his shoulders, the way the bond *pulls* toward him, like gravity.
“You’re thinking loudly,” he says, voice rough with sleep—or lack of it.
“You’re not sleeping,” I counter.
“Neither are you.”
I stop pacing. “I can’t. Not with everything unraveling.”
He turns his head, just slightly. His profile is sharp in the dim light—high cheekbones, strong jaw, lips that kissed me like they were claiming my soul. “Then stop fighting it.”
“Stop fighting *what*?”
“The bond. The truth. *Me*.”
I glare at his back. “You’re impossible.”
He chuckles, low and dark. “And you’re beautiful when you’re furious.”
My breath hitches. I hate that he says things like that. I hate that it *works*. That a single sentence can make my skin flush, my core tighten, my traitorous body *lean* toward him.
I turn away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t play this game. You don’t get to charm me after pinning me to a bookshelf.”
“I wasn’t charming you,” he says, sitting up slowly. “I was reminding you of what’s real.”
He stands, stretches, the movement fluid and predatory. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the faint trail of dark hair leading down his chest. My mouth goes dry.
Stop looking.
He walks to the hearth, crouches, adds a log to the fire. The flames leap higher, casting flickering light across his face. “You have the files. You know the truth. So what’s next?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Confront her? Expose her to the Council?”
“And say what?” he asks, standing. “That a blood ritual showed you visions? That the bond whispered your brother’s last words? They’ll call you mad. Or worse—manipulated.”
“Then we find the redacted vampire,” I say. “The one in the transcripts. If we can prove she’s working with someone inside the Council, we can force a hearing.”
He nods. “I’ve already started. Dain is tracking blood signatures, financial trails. 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 formal dinner. Elders from all four species. It’ll be… tense.”
“And?”
“And you’ll need to play the dutiful fiancée. Smile. Nod. Pretend you don’t want to slit my throat.”
I glance at him. “That’ll be easy.”
He smirks. “Liar.”
I turn away, but not before I see it—the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a real smile. Gods, it’s infuriating. And maddening. And *hot*.
I crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my chin. “Goodnight, monster.”
“Sweet dreams, little witch,” he murmurs.
And for the first time, I don’t hate the nickname.
---
The dining hall is a cathedral of power—vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of ancient wars, chandeliers made of fused bone and moonstone, tables carved from black oak and inlaid with silver. Twelve seats for the Elders. Two more at the head—ours.
Vaelen and I enter together, side by side, our steps synchronized. I wear a gown of deep violet, silk that clings to my curves, sleeves that fall just past my elbows, revealing the faint scar on my wrist from a blood ritual years ago. My hair is half-up, pinned with silver thorns. My mask is gone. No glamour. Just me. Just *us*.
The room falls silent as we approach.
Whispers ripple through the crowd. There they are. The bonded ones. The peacekeepers. The monsters.
I keep my chin high. My spine straight. My expression neutral. Vaelen’s hand rests lightly on the small of my back—possessive, protective, *claiming*. The bond flares at the contact, heat spiraling up my spine, pooling low in my belly. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.
We reach our seats. He pulls mine out for me. I sit. He takes his place beside me, close enough that our thighs brush beneath the table. The contact sends a jolt through me. I shift, trying to create space, but he leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Or they’ll know you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying,” I whisper back. “I just don’t like you touching me.”
“Liar,” he says, and this time, there’s no humor in it. Just heat. Just *truth*.
I don’t answer.
The meal begins—courses of rare meats, enchanted wines, bread baked with moon-dust. Conversations hum around us, tense and careful. Politics. Alliances. The failed assassination. War.
Then—
She enters.
Lyria.
Fae. Silver-haired. Eyes like frozen lakes. Dressed in a gown of liquid mercury that shifts with every step, revealing glimpses of pale skin, a curve of breast, the dip of her waist. She moves like smoke, gliding through the room, every eye turning to her.
And on her finger—
A ring.
Black onyx, set in silver, shaped like a raven in flight.
Vaelen’s ring.
My breath stops.
She smiles as she approaches, her gaze locked on Vaelen. “My prince,” she purrs, stopping beside him. “I didn’t know you’d be dining with… company.”
Her eyes flick to me. Cold. Calculating. Mocking.
Vaelen doesn’t stand. Doesn’t acknowledge the ring. “Lyria. This is unexpected.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” she says, trailing a finger down his arm. “Thought I’d say hello.”
The bond *screams*.
Heat floods my body. My skin burns. My core clenches, slick with sudden, unwanted arousal. Jealousy—sharp and acidic—twists in my gut. I clench my fists under the table, nails biting into my palms.
She feels it. Of course she does. Fae are masters of pleasure, of scent, of *desire*. She leans down, her lips brushing my ear.
“He never bites *me* like that,” she whispers, voice a velvet purr. “But I’ve heard the sounds you make when he touches you. The way you *beg*.”
My breath hitches.
“He’s never looked at me the way he looks at you,” she continues. “Like you’re the only thing keeping him from burning alive.”
I turn my head, glaring at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiles. “Don’t lie, little witch. The bond screams it. You *want* him. You *crave* him. And he—” she glances at Vaelen “—he’s *obsessed*.”
“Leave,” Vaelen says, voice low, dangerous.
She straightens, still smiling. “Of course, my prince. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your… *bonding*.”
She turns to go, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek—slow, deliberate, *public*.
And then she’s gone.
The room is silent. Every eye is on us.
My chest burns. My throat tightens. The bond flares, a surge of heat and need and *pain*—because I know it’s true. I *do* want him. I *do* crave him. And the sight of her touching him, the thought of her in his bed, the *ring*—
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
“I need air,” I say, voice tight.
“Cascade—”
“Don’t,” I snap, and I walk away, fast, before I do something stupid—like cry, or scream, or throw myself at him.
I reach the garden—moonlit, quiet, roses blooming with thorns that bleed when touched. I press my hands to the stone wall, breathing hard, trying to steady myself. The bond aches, a physical pain in my chest, my spine, my core. It wants him. It *needs* him.
And I—
I want him too.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” a voice says behind me.
I turn.
Vaelen stands there, silhouetted by the moonlight, his expression unreadable. “Not me. Not the Council. Not *her*.”
“I don’t care what she thinks,” I lie.
“You care,” he says, stepping closer. “You care that she wore my ring. That she kissed me. That she knows things about me—about *us*—that you don’t.”
“I don’t *want* to know,” I whisper.
“Yes, you do.”
He reaches for me. I step back.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Why?” he asks, voice rough. “Because you’re afraid of what you’ll feel? Because you’re afraid you’ll *like* it?”
“I *hate* this,” I say, tears burning my eyes. “I hate that my body betrays me. That I *want* you. That the bond makes me weak.”
“You’re not weak,” he says, closing the distance. “You’re *alive*. For the first time in ten years, you’re feeling something real.”
“I don’t want real,” I whisper. “I want control.”
“Then take it,” he says, stepping into my space. “Take *me*.”
His hands frame my face. His thumbs brush my cheeks. His eyes burn into mine. “You want proof I’m yours? Then *claim* me. Bite me. Mark me. Make me scream your name.”
My breath hitches.
“Or are you too afraid?” he taunts.
I glare at him. “You don’t get to manipulate me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m giving you a choice. For the first time, I’m giving you *power*.”
And then—
He leans in.
His lips hover over mine. “Choose me,” he whispers. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. But because you *want* to.”
My heart hammers.
My body burns.
The bond screams.
And for the first time—
I don’t fight it.
I rise onto my toes.
And I kiss him.
Not soft. Not gentle. *Fierce.* A collision of lips and teeth and need. He groans, hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a tidal wave of magic and desire that throws us both into the wall.
His body presses against mine. Hard. Unyielding. *Mine.*
His fangs graze my lip. I bite back, drawing blood. He growls, tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me, *claiming* me.
And then—
A sound.
Footsteps.
We break apart, breathing hard.
Lyria stands at the garden entrance, one hand on her hip, the other holding a glass of wine. She’s smiling.
“Well,” she says, voice dripping with mockery. “I see the rumors are true.”
My stomach drops.
She turns, walks away, swaying her hips like she’s won.
And in the silence that follows—
I realize—
I just gave her exactly what she wanted.
A scandal.
A weapon.
And the first crack in my armor.