I don’t sleep.
Not after the ritual test. Not after the spark. Not after the way my body arched toward him, the way my fingers tightened in his, the way my lips parted like I was begging for a kiss that never came.
I lie in the guest chamber they’ve given me—smaller than Kael’s, but still opulent, all black stone and velvet drapes, a hearth burning with cold blue flames. The air smells of sandalwood and something darker, more primal. My rune glows faintly beneath my collar, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The bond hums, a low, insistent thrum beneath my skin, like the tide pulling at the shore.
And it’s not just the bond.
It’s *him*.
Kael.
His voice. His hands. The way he looked at me—like he could see every lie, every fear, every *want* I’ve buried for years. The way he didn’t push. Didn’t force. Just stood there, chest to chest, breath to breath, waiting for me to break.
And I almost did.
I almost kissed him.
I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. The silk is cool, but my skin is too hot. My blood too fast. My thoughts too loud. I came here to destroy him. To sever the contract. To free my bloodline.
And instead?
I’m unraveling.
One spark at a time.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. Try to *think*. But all I see is his face. His fangs. The way his breath trembled when our lips were inches apart. The way his voice dropped when he said, *“You felt it.”*
I did.
I *did* feel it.
The heat. The pull. The *need*.
And it wasn’t just magic.
It was *me*.
I wanted to close that last inch. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to feel his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, his fangs at my throat—not to claim, not to feed, but to *connect*.
And that terrifies me.
Because if I want him, then I’ve already lost.
A knock at the door.
“Ambassador Tide,” a servant’s voice. “The Sovereign requests your presence in the receiving hall. The Fae delegation has arrived.”
I sit up. “Now?”
“Immediately, ma’am.”
I exhale, long and slow. Of course. No rest. No time to think. No time to *feel*. Just another performance, another lie, another step deeper into the game I never meant to play.
I dress quickly—black trousers, a fitted tunic, boots. Practical. Ready. I run a hand through my hair, smooth it back. My rune flares as I move, reacting to the magic in the air, to the bond stretching between me and Kael. I can feel him—his presence, his power, his *hunger*—like a second heartbeat.
I open the door.
The servant waits—vampire, pale, eyes downcast. “This way, Ambassador.”
I follow.
The corridors are quieter than usual, the torches dim, the guards fewer. The court feels… tense. Like the air before a storm. Whispers follow me.
There she is.
The human who stood so close to the Sovereign.
Did you see the magic? The spark?
She’s marked. Truly marked.
I keep my head high. My spine straight. But inside, I’m coiled tight. The bond hums, louder now, responding to the proximity, to the anticipation. Every step toward Kael makes it flare. Every glance from the courtiers makes me feel exposed, *claimed*.
We reach the receiving hall.
It’s a grand chamber—vaulted ceilings carved with serpents and thorns, walls lined with ancient weapons and tapestries. A fire burns in the hearth, though the flames are black, licking at the air like living smoke. Kael stands at the center, back to me, silhouette sharp against the firelight. He’s in full regalia—black coat, silver embroidery, the sigil of the Midnight Court etched into the fabric. His hands are clasped behind his back. Still. Cold. *Lethal*.
And in front of him?
Her.
Lira.
The Fae ambassador. Pale skin. Sharp features. A smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. She wears a black silk shirt—*his* shirt—unbuttoned just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her collarbones, the pale skin of her throat. And on her neck?
A bite mark.
Fresh. Red. *Real*.
My breath catches.
No. It can’t be. Not after what he said. Not after the way he looked at me, the way he held my hands, the way he *wanted* me.
But there it is.
Proof.
And she sees me.
Her smirk widens. She turns, slow, deliberate, letting the firelight catch the mark, letting me *see* it. Then she reaches up, fingers brushing the wound, and lets out a soft, satisfied sigh.
“Three nights,” she says, voice like honey and poison. “He was *insatiable*.”
The bond *screams*.
Heat tears through me—white-hot, unstoppable. My rune blazes. My vision swims. My chest tightens, like something is clawing its way out. I stumble, clutching my ribs, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Jealousy.
Not just emotion.
Not just pain.
It’s *magic*.
The bond is reacting. Punishing me. Because I *feel*. Because I *care*.
Kael turns.
His eyes lock onto mine. Red. Sharp. *Knowing*.
“Tide,” he says, voice calm. “You’re late.”
I force my breathing under control. Force my spine straight. Force my voice steady. “Apologies, Sovereign. I wasn’t aware we had guests.”
Lira laughs. “Oh, we’re more than guests. Aren’t we, Kael?” She steps closer to him, her hand sliding down the front of his coat. “We’re *intimate*.”
My stomach drops.
Kael doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “Lira has just informed me that she and I shared a… *private* evening. Three nights ago.”
“And more,” she purrs. “You were so *needy* after that blood ritual with your little human. You needed *real* comfort. *Real* release.”
My hands clench at my sides. My nails bite into my palms. The bond flares again, hotter this time. Pain lances through my chest. My skin burns. My blood sings.
She’s lying.
She has to be.
But the mark—
“The mark is real,” Kael says, as if reading my thoughts. “But the story is not.”
Lira’s smile doesn’t waver. “You bit me, Kael. In front of witnesses. You called me *yours*. You drank from me until I screamed.”
“I bit you,” he says, stepping away from her. “To stop you from spreading lies. To silence you. Not to claim. Not to feed. And certainly not to *f*ck*.”
The room stills.
Lira’s mask slips—just for a second. Shock. Then fury. She turns on me, eyes blazing. “You think he’d choose *you*? A half-breed witch with a stolen identity? He’s used women like you before. Discarded them. Forgotten them. You’re nothing but a contract placeholder.”
“And you’re a pawn,” I say, voice cold. “Malrik’s little puppet. You wear his lies like jewelry. That mark? It’s not a claim. It’s a *brand*. He owns you.”
Her hand flies.
I catch it—fast, reflexive. My grip tightens. Her eyes widen. I lean in, close enough to whisper.
“Touch me again,” I say, voice low, dangerous, “and I’ll break every finger.”
She yanks her hand back. “You’re nothing,” she spits. “Just a tool. A weapon. And when he’s done with you, he’ll toss you aside like the rest.”
“Enough,” Kael says, stepping between us. “Lira, you’ve made your point. Now leave.”
“Or what?” she demands. “You’ll deny me again? Tell them you never wanted me?”
“I’ll tell them the truth,” he says. “That you’re desperate. That you’ll do anything for attention. That you’ve never been near my bed. And that the only reason I bit you was to *stop* you.”
She glares. “You’ll regret this.”
“I doubt it.”
She turns on her heel and storms out, the door slamming behind her.
Silence.
The fire crackles. The bond hums. My chest still aches. My skin still burns.
Kael turns to me. “You believed her.”
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
“You felt it,” he says. “The bond. The pain. The jealousy. You *cared*.”
“It was magic,” I whisper. “Not emotion.”
“Magic *is* emotion.” He steps closer. “And you wanted to rip her throat out. Not because she lied. But because she touched me. Because she *claimed* me. Because you *hate* that she might have had me first.”
My breath hitches.
“Admit it,” he says, voice low. “You’re jealous.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care who you f*ck.”
“Liar.” He reaches out, fingers brushing my jaw. “Your pulse jumps. Your skin flushes. Your hands are still clenched. You’re *trembling*.”
I step back. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why?” He follows. “Because you like it? Because it makes you weak? Because it makes you *want*?”
“I don’t want you.”
“You do.” He tilts his head. “And you’re not fooling anyone. Not me. Not the bond. Not *yourself*.”
I turn away. “I came here to destroy you.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, “you’re still here.”
—
Later, I walk the corridors, trying to burn off the rage, the pain, the *need*.
The bond hums, quieter now, but still present. Still *alive*. I can feel him—his presence, his power, his *hunger*—like a second heartbeat. But I don’t go to him. I don’t seek him out. I just walk. Fast. Hard. Like if I move fast enough, I can outrun the truth.
But I can’t.
Because the truth is—
I *am* jealous.
I *do* care.
And I *don’t* want her hands on him.
I turn a corner—and freeze.
There she is.
Lira.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk on her lips. “You’re easy to read, little envoy.”
“I’m not your plaything,” I say, voice cold.
“No,” she agrees. “You’re his. But not for long. He gets bored. He moves on. And when he does, you’ll be nothing but a memory.”
“And you?” I ask. “What are you? His ex? His toy? His *whore*?”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “I’m the only one who’s ever made him *feel*. The only one who’s ever made him *lose control*. You think that spark in the ritual chamber was passion? It was *pity*. He feels sorry for you. A half-breed witch with a dead mother and a stolen key. He’s using you to stabilize his power. Nothing more.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She steps closer. “Then why hasn’t he bitten you? Why hasn’t he claimed you? Why hasn’t he *f*cked* you? If he wanted you, he would have taken you by now. But he hasn’t. Because you’re not *enough*.”
My breath hitches.
“He likes it when I scream his name,” she whispers. “He likes it when I beg. He likes it when I *bleed* for him. Do you think you could do that? Do you think you could make him *feel* like I do?”
“Get out of my way,” I say, voice shaking.
“Or what?” She smiles. “You’ll tell him? You’ll cry? You’ll run back to your gilded cage and pretend this never happened?”
I don’t answer.
Just push past her.
But her voice follows me, soft, sharp, *poisonous*.
“He’s used me like that too. You’re just the latest.”
—
I don’t go to my room.
I don’t go to his.
I go to the garden.
The Midnight Garden—a hidden courtyard of black roses and silver vines, bathed in moonlight. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The air smells of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. I sit on the stone bench, my rune glowing faintly, my mind racing.
I don’t hear him come.
But I feel him.
The bond flares. Heat floods my veins. My skin tightens. I turn—and there he is.
Kael.
Standing beneath the archway, shirt unbuttoned, eyes like frozen fire.
“You’re predictable,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply.
He walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his lips.
“You came to think,” he says.
“You came to stop me.”
“No.” He stops in front of me. “I came to *watch* you.”
My breath hitches.
He reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek. Just a touch. Just a spark.
And then—
He pulls me up, spins me, and pins me against the stone wall, his body pressing mine, his hands caging me in.
“You’re mine,” he growls, fangs grazing my throat. “And you’re *never* leaving.”
I don’t fight.
I don’t run.
I *lean* into him.
And the bond?
It *burns*.