The silence in the library after Selene’s exit is thick enough to choke on. It clings to the shelves, pools in the corners, presses against my skin like a second layer of magic. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. My fingers are still curled around the grimoire—*Coven Laws & Bloodline Curses, Vol. III*—but I’m not seeing the words. All I see is the bite on his chest. The way his skin pulled taut over the old punctures. The way Selene’s voice dripped with triumph when she called me *sister*.
And the way Kaelen didn’t deny it.
“You should’ve told me,” I say again, quieter this time, the anger giving way to something colder, sharper—betrayal. It’s not just the scar. It’s the omission. The way he let her stand there, weaving her lies like silk, while he said nothing. Like I wasn’t worth the truth unless cornered.
“I was going to,” he says, voice rough. “In my own time.”
“Your time,” I repeat, turning to face him. “Not mine. Never mine.”
He takes a step forward, boots silent on the stone. The bond hums between us, low and insistent, a constant reminder that we’re tethered, whether I want to be or not. His eyes—gold, fierce, unreadable—lock onto mine. “I told you about the Heartstone. About the bond. That’s the truth that matters.”
“No,” I say, slamming the book shut. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the stillness. “The truth that matters is whether I can trust you. And right now, I don’t.”
He flinches. Just slightly. A flicker in his jaw, a tightening around his eyes. But he doesn’t back down. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to survive the next seven days.”
“And then what?” I challenge. “You mark me, bind me, and expect me to play the obedient queen while you carry ghosts in your skin?”
“I expect you to *live*,” he snaps. “To stop seeing enemies in every shadow and start seeing allies. Selene is not your rival. She’s a parasite. She latched onto me when I was weak, when the Heartstone first began to fail, and she’s been feeding on that weakness ever since.”
“And the bite?”
“A blood exchange,” he says, voice hard. “A political ritual. It granted her House temporary alliance with mine. It meant nothing.”
“Then why keep it?” I press. “Why not heal it? Why let it scar?”
“Because it reminds me,” he says, stepping closer. Heat radiates off him, searing through the space between us. “It reminds me not to make the same mistake twice. Not to use someone for power and call it love.”
My breath catches.
That’s not what I expected.
Not denial. Not deflection. But… regret.
For a heartbeat, the anger wavers. The bond pulses, not with hunger this time, but with something softer—something like understanding.
Then I crush it.
I can’t afford softness. Not here. Not with him.
“You should’ve told me anyway,” I say, backing away. “Not because I needed your *regret*, but because I needed the truth. And you withheld it.”
“And if I’d told you,” he says, voice dropping, “would you have believed me? Or would you have used it as another reason to hate me?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
I probably would have.
He exhales, slow, controlled. “You’re not just fighting the bond, Amber. You’re fighting everything. Your past. Your fear. Your mother’s fate. But this—” he gestures between us “—isn’t just about vengeance. It’s about survival. For both of us.”
“Then prove it,” I say. “Not with words. With action.”
“And what action do you want?”
“Let me investigate,” I say. “Let me find the truth about the curse. Not what you *think* it is. Not what the Council says. The real truth. The origin. The loophole. The way out.”
He studies me, eyes narrowed. “And if I do? What then?”
“Then maybe,” I say, voice low, “I’ll start believing you’re not just another monster wearing a crown.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods once. “You have until dusk. No weapons. No magic beyond what’s necessary to read. And you don’t leave this wing.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll lock you in your chamber and mark you myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
He turns and walks away, boots echoing against the stone. The library door clicks shut behind him.
I wait. Count to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I exhale.
And get to work.
—
The Blackfang Palace library isn’t just a room. It’s a labyrinth—seven levels of ancient knowledge, guarded by enchanted wards and patrolled by Enforcers on silent rotation. The lower levels are for current records, treaties, battle strategies. The upper levels—where I am now—house the oldest, most dangerous texts: forbidden rituals, bloodline histories, curse archives.
And, hopefully, the truth.
I move fast, fingers skimming spines, eyes scanning titles. *The Binding of Souls*. *Heartstone Origins*. *Wolf King Bloodline: The Stormborn Curse*. *Crimson Thorn: A History of Servitude*. Each book is heavier than the last, bound in leather or bone, some still stained with old blood.
I pull down *The Binding of Souls* first. The pages are brittle, the ink faded, but the diagrams are clear—interlocking runes, blood oaths, soul chains. One illustration shows a witch, hands bound, kneeling before a throne, her magic being siphoned into a black stone. The Heartstone.
My mother.
I flip faster. More diagrams. More rituals. Then, halfway through, a passage catches my eye:
“The Crimson Thorn witches were bound not by choice, but by deception. The first Wolf King, seeking eternal power, forged a pact with a vampire elder—Lord Vexis of House Nocturne. In exchange for the witch’s magic, Vexis provided the blood magic necessary to bind her soul to the Heartstone. But the curse was flawed. It required not just the witch’s power, but the Alpha’s life force to stabilize. Thus, the bond was born—not of fate, but of necessity. The Alpha and the witch are bound not by destiny, but by survival.”
My breath stops.
This changes everything.
The curse wasn’t just about enslaving my bloodline. It was a trap. A weapon. The first Wolf King didn’t want a mate. He wanted a battery. And he needed another battery to keep it running—himself.
Kaelen wasn’t lying.
He’s just as trapped as I am.
I flip to the next page, heart pounding. There’s a footnote:
“The bond can only be broken if both parties consent—and if the original pact is undone. To do so, one must spill the blood of the pact-maker upon the Heartstone, speak the true name of the curse, and offer a lie as sacrifice.”
My fingers tremble.
A lie as sacrifice.
That’s the loophole.
But who is the pact-maker? Vexis? The first Wolf King?
I need more.
I shove the book aside and grab *Heartstone Origins*. The cover is scorched, the pages warped, but the text is legible. It details the construction of the Heartstone—how it was forged from black obsidian and powered by blood magic. There’s a list of contributors: the first Alpha, the Crimson Thorn witch, a Fae seer… and Lord Vexis, Blood Elder of House Nocturne.
So he was involved.
But was he the one who cast the final spell?
I need the ritual itself.
I search faster. *Wolf King Bloodline*. *Crimson Thorn*. *Vampire Blood Pacts*. Nothing. Then, in the back of *Coven Laws & Bloodline Curses*, I find it—a single page, torn and reattached, the ink nearly faded:
“The Curse of the Bound Witch: A Ritual of Eternal Servitude.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
I read.
The ritual is vile. It requires the witch’s blood, the Alpha’s heartblood, and a spoken vow of eternal obedience. The caster must be of both vampire and witch blood—a hybrid. And the name of the caster is written in a language I don’t recognize. But beneath it, in smaller script:
“Performed by Lord Vexis, with aid of the first Wolf King. Witnessed by Maeve of the Unseelie Court.”
Maeve.
The Fae seer.
She was there.
She knows the truth.
I slam the book shut, heart racing. I have it. The origin. The flaw. The way out.
But I need Vexis’s blood. Or his name. Or proof.
And I need to know if Kaelen knew any of this.
Did he lie? Or was he just as deceived?
I don’t have time to wonder.
Because the door creaks open.
I freeze.
Boots on stone. Slow. Deliberate.
I don’t turn. Don’t breathe. Just slide the book back onto the shelf and step deeper into the shadows between two towering bookcases.
He appears a moment later.
Kaelen.
Of course.
He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t demand to know what I’m doing. He just walks in, hands behind his back, eyes scanning the shelves like he’s looking for something specific.
Then he stops.
Turns.
Looks straight at me.
“You’ve been here too long,” he says. “I told you—until dusk.”
“And it’s not dusk yet,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m still within the rules.”
“You’re skirting them.”
“And you’re spying on me.”
“I’m supervising.”
“Same thing.”
He steps closer. The bond hums, a low thrum beneath my skin. His scent—pine, smoke, iron—wraps around me, thick and intoxicating. “What did you find?”
“Nothing you don’t already know,” I say.
“Liar.”
“Prove it.”
He smiles. Cold. Dangerous. “I don’t need to. I can feel it. Your pulse. Your breath. The way your magic spikes when you lie. The bond tells me everything.”
My stomach tightens.
He’s right.
The bond *does* betray me.
“Then you already know what I found,” I say. “So why ask?”
“Because I want to hear you say it,” he says, stepping closer. “I want to hear you admit that I didn’t lie to you. That the curse binds us both. That we’re not enemies. We’re—”
“Prisoners,” I finish. “I know.”
He stops. Eyes narrow. “You read it.”
“The curse was forged by Vexis and the first Wolf King,” I say. “A vampire-witch hybrid ritual. Maeve witnessed it. The bond can only be broken if both parties consent—and if a lie is offered as sacrifice.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t deny it. Just nods slowly. “And?”
“And I want to know,” I say, stepping closer, “if you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That the curse was never just about my bloodline. That it was about you too.”
He exhales. “I suspected. But I didn’t know for sure. Not until the Heartstone started failing. Not until I began to feel it—this slow drain, this weakness. I searched the archives. Found the same texts you did. Realized the truth.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Because I didn’t trust you,” he says, voice low. “You came here to destroy the Heartstone. To kill me. How could I tell you the truth when I thought you’d use it to finish the job?”
“And now?”
“Now I’m starting to wonder,” he says, stepping closer, “if you’re not just here to destroy me. But to save me.”
My breath hitches.
The bond surges.
Heat floods my body. My skin tingles. My pulse roars in my ears.
He’s so close now. Inches away. His hand lifts, not touching me, but hovering near my face. His thumb brushes the air just above my cheek.
“You don’t have to fight me, Amber,” he murmurs. “You could stand with me.”
“And become your queen?” I whisper.
“And become my equal.”
I look up at him. His eyes are gold, fierce, hungry. Not just for power. For *me*.
And for the first time, I don’t look away.
“You don’t get to choose that for me,” I say, voice trembling. “Not yet.”
“Then choose it for yourself,” he says. “Prove you’re not just here to break the curse. Prove you’re here to build something new.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll give you everything,” he says. “My trust. My power. My name.”
“And your heart?”
He hesitates.
Then, slowly, he touches my cheek.
Just once.
A single, searing point of contact.
“That,” he says, voice rough, “was never mine to give.”
And then he turns and walks away.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
My skin burns where he touched me.
The bond hums, louder than ever.
And for the first time, I wonder—
Maybe I don’t want to break it.
Maybe I want to break *free*.
But not alone.
Not without him.