I don’t sleep.
Not after the ritual. Not after the claiming. Not after the way my body still hums with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the deep, aching fullness of him inside me. The Blood Moon has set, but the bond remains—a live wire beneath my skin, pulsing with every heartbeat, every breath, every time I remember the way he growled my name as he came.
“You’re mine.”
The words echo in my skull, a vow, a curse, a truth I can’t outrun. I press my fingers to the bite on my shoulder—still tender, still warm, still marked. The crescent-shaped wound throbs, a constant reminder of what happened. Of what I let happen. Of what I wanted.
I wasn’t supposed to want it.
I was supposed to destroy him. To expose the lies. To dismantle the treaty and walk away, unscathed, unclaimed, free.
But I didn’t.
I gave in.
I said I was his.
I let him mark me.
And now—
Now I don’t know how to take it back.
The glass walls of the chamber are still fogged, the runes dimmed but not gone. The bed is a wreck—sheets tangled, pillows thrown, the scent of sex and blood and moon-bloom thick in the air. I sit on the edge, wrapped in a black robe, my bare feet cold against the stone. My nightgown is torn, discarded on the floor. A trophy. A relic. A confession.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. Try to think.
But all I feel is him.
His weight on top of me. His fangs in my skin. The way his cock stretched me, filled me, claimed me. The way my body arched, begged, came for him. The way the bond sang, not with magic, not with politics, but with something deeper. Something real.
And I—
I let it happen.
I didn’t fight. I didn’t resist. I participated. I moaned. I clawed his back. I screamed his name.
I begged for more.
A knock at the door.
I tense. “Who is it?”
“Dain,” the voice says. “The prince sent me. To escort you back to your chambers.”
Chambers. Not our chambers. Not his chambers. Mine.
As if we’re not bound. As if we didn’t just claim each other.
“I don’t need an escort,” I say, voice sharp. “I can walk.”
“He insists,” Dain says. “The castle is… restless. After last night.”
My stomach drops.
Of course it is.
The Blood Moon Ritual. The fogged glass. The wards flaring. The sounds—my screams, his growls, the creak of the bed, the pulse of magic. They all heard it. Felt it. Knew it.
I rise, pulling the robe tighter. My legs are weak. My core aches, tender and slick. I move to the door, open it.
Dain stands there—tall, broad-shouldered, expression neutral. But his eyes flick to my shoulder, to the faint outline of the bite beneath the fabric. His jaw tightens.
“He marked you,” he says, voice low.
“It was the ritual,” I say, too quickly. “The bond. It forced us.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps aside. “This way.”
I follow him through the halls, my steps unsteady, my skin still humming. The castle is quiet—too quiet. No servants. No guards. Just the flicker of blue flames in the sconces, casting long shadows that twist like grasping hands. Whispers ripple through the air, but I can’t make out the words. Only the tone. Mocking. Envious. Hungry.
We turn a corner.
And then—
I see her.
Lyria.
She’s emerging from a doorway—one I know too well. Vaelen’s private chambers.
She’s wearing his shirt.
Black. Silken. Buttoned halfway, revealing the pale curve of her breasts, the silver chain around her neck, the faint red mark on her throat—a bite, fresh, glistening.
Her hair is tousled. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are half-lidded, drowsy with satisfaction.
And she’s smiling.
My breath stops.
My chest burns.
The bond screams, a surge of heat and pain tearing through my spine, but it’s nothing compared to the acid twist of jealousy that claws through my gut.
She sees me.
Her smile widens.
She runs a hand through her hair, slow, deliberate, then glances back at the doorway. “Morning, little witch,” she purrs. “Did you sleep well?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
My throat is tight. My hands curl into fists. My vision blurs.
She steps closer, her scent—fae glamour, jasmine, and something sharp, something his—wrapping around me, pulling me under. “He’s… insatiable this morning. Didn’t you know? Vampires need to feed after bonding. And he hates drinking from strangers.”
My breath hitches.
“So he comes to me,” she continues, trailing a finger down her collarbone, over the bite. “Whenever he needs release. Whenever the bond gets… unbearable.”
“Liar,” I whisper.
She laughs, low and velvet. “Ask him. Or better yet—smell the sheets. You’ll find my scent all over his bed. All over him.”
She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. “He never bites me like he bites you. But he does like to taste me. To feel me come on his tongue. To hear me scream his name.”
My stomach heaves.
“And last night?” she whispers. “After he left you? He came straight to me. Said he needed to cleanse the bond. To forget the taste of your blood.”
“You’re lying,” I say, voice breaking.
“Am I?” She steps back, smirking. “Then why hasn’t he denied it? Why hasn’t he come to you? Why is he still in there—” she gestures to the doorway “—letting me wear his shirt, letting me keep his bite?”
She turns, swaying her hips as she walks away, her laughter trailing behind her like poison.
And I—
I stand there.
Shaking.
Burning.
Humiliated.
Dain doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
“Is it true?” I ask, voice raw. “Did he—after last night—did he go to her?”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No.”
Relief floods me—brief, sharp, false.
“But?” I whisper.
“But she’s been in his chambers for the past three mornings,” Dain says. “He allows it. For appearances. To keep the Council from suspecting how deep the bond runs. To protect you.”
“Protect me?” I laugh, sharp and broken. “By letting her wear his shirt? By letting her flaunt his bite? By letting her win?”
“He doesn’t care about her,” Dain says. “He barely tolerates her. But if the Council believes he’s still playing the field, if they think the bond isn’t consuming him, they’re less likely to interfere. Less likely to test it. Less likely to break it.”
“And what about me?” I snap. “What about my pride? My dignity? Do those mean nothing?”
“He’s trying to protect you,” Dain says. “Even if you can’t see it.”
“Then he’s doing a terrible job,” I say, turning away. “Take me to my chambers. Now.”
---
The room feels like a prison.
Black stone. Silver veins. A fire that won’t stay lit. The bed is untouched, the sheets crisp, the pillows fluffed—mocking me with their innocence. I pace, back and forth, my robe slipping off one shoulder, the mark on my spine pulsing with every step.
He didn’t go to her.
He allowed her.
For protection.
As if I need protecting.
As if I’m some fragile thing who can’t handle the truth.
And the bite—
Was it real? Or just another performance? Another lie to keep the Council at bay?
I press my hands to my face. Stop.
I came here to destroy him. Not to care who he sleeps with.
But I do care.
And that’s the problem.
The bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling down to my core. I gasp, pressing a hand to my thigh. My body still aches from him. Still wants him. Even now. Even after her.
I hate that.
I hate him.
I hate me.
A knock at the door.
“Cascade?” Vaelen’s voice. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.
I don’t answer.
“I know you’re in there.”
Still silence.
“Open the door.”
“Go away,” I say, voice tight.
“We need to talk.”
“About what? Your morning tryst? How you let Lyria wear your shirt? Let her keep your bite?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then—
“She’s a pawn. A distraction. Nothing more.”
“Then why let her?” I snap. “Why let her humiliate me? Let her win?”
“Because if the Council thinks I’m still playing the game,” he says, “they won’t push to break the bond. They won’t force another ritual. They won’t—”
“Use me as a weapon,” I finish. “I get it. I’m the fragile little witch who needs protecting. Who can’t handle the truth.”
“You’re not fragile,” he says, voice rough. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. But the Council is ruthless. If they think the bond is weakening you, if they think you’re losing control, they’ll use it against you. Against us.”
“And if they think you’re still bedding Lyria?” I ask. “Doesn’t that make you look weak? Uncommitted?”
“To them, it makes me unpredictable,” he says. “Uncontainable. A man who can’t be tied down. It keeps them off balance. Keeps them from testing the bond.”
I press my hands to the door, my forehead against the cold stone. “You should’ve told me.”
“Would you have believed me?” he asks. “If I’d said, ‘I let Lyria wear my shirt to protect you,’ would you have believed me? Or would you have thought it was another lie? Another manipulation?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
I wouldn’t have believed him.
Not then.
Not until now.
“I don’t like it,” I whisper. “I don’t like seeing her in your shirt. Smelling her on you. Knowing she has your bite.”
“She doesn’t,” he says. “The bite on her neck? A glamour. A show. I’ve never bitten her. Never will.”
My breath hitches.
“The only woman I’ll ever mark,” he says, voice low, “is the one who hates me.”
Tears burn my eyes.
And then—
“Open the door, Cascade.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Two words. Soft. Raw. Human.
I close my eyes. My hand trembles. I reach for the lock.
Click.
The door opens.
He stands there—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks at me—really looks.
And I see it.
Not control.
Not possession.
Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Two words. But they’re enough.
I step back. He follows, closing the door behind him. The bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling through me, but I don’t pull away.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “The games. The lies. I can handle the truth.”
“I know,” he says. “But I can’t lose you. Not to the Council. Not to war. Not to her.”
He reaches for me. I don’t stop him.
His hand frames my face. His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re mine, Cascade. Whether you want to admit it or not. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means letting her wear my shirt. Even if it means you hate me for it.”
My breath hitches.
“But I don’t want you to hate me,” he whispers. “I want you to choose me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. 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.
But before I can speak—
Before I can say the words—
A crash echoes from the hall.
Shouts.
Then—
Guards.
They burst through the door, weapons drawn, faces grim.
“By order of the Council,” their leader says, “Cascade of the Thornline is under arrest for attempted escape. You are to come with us.”
My stomach drops.
Vaelen steps in front of me, his body a wall between me and the guards. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“The Council’s decree is clear,” the guard says. “If she leaves the castle without permission, she is in violation of the treaty. War begins at dawn.”
“I wasn’t leaving,” I say, stepping forward. “I was—”
“You were caught near the east gate,” the guard interrupts. “With a satchel of stolen files. Intent to flee is clear.”
Vaelen turns to me, his eyes blazing. “Is this true?”
I don’t answer.
Because it is.
I was going to leave.
Not to flee.
But to fight.
To find the redacted vampire. To expose Solene. To end this war before it begins.
But they don’t know that.
And now—
Now I’ve given them the excuse they need.
“Take her,” Vaelen says, voice cold.
My breath stops.
“But—”
“Take her,” he repeats, stepping aside. “Lock her in my chambers. Under guard. No visitors. No magic. And if she tries to run again—”
He meets my gaze.
“—kill her.”
The guards grab me. Drag me away.
And as they pull me down the hall, I see it—
Not cruelty.
Not betrayal.
Protection.
He’s not letting them kill me.
He’s not letting them exile me.
He’s keeping me alive.
Even if it means I hate him for it.
And as the door to his chambers slams shut behind me, the guards standing watch outside—
I realize—
I came here to destroy him.
But the bond has other plans.
And so does he.