The hour before dawn was the longest of my life.
It crawled through the Obsidian Spire like a dying breath, thick with silence and the scent of blood-oath incense burning low in the braziers. The Council had adjourned, their verdict suspended but not overturned. Cordelia was still sentenced to die. The vote would be called again at sunrise. And if it went the same way—
She would be gone.
And I would burn the world for her.
I stood in the suite, pacing the length of the room, my boots silent on the cold marble. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Elara slept in the adjoining chamber, curled beneath black silk, my mother’s grimoire clutched to her chest. She was safe. For now. But Cordelia—
I could feel her.
Not through the bond—though it pulsed between us, steady, watchful. But through something deeper. Something *real*.
She was afraid.
Not of death.
Of what it would do to me.
She’d looked at me in the chamber—really looked at me—and seen the truth: that I would not survive her loss. That if she died, I would tear the Accord apart with my bare hands. And still, she’d told me to protect Elara. To leave her. To walk away.
As if I could.
As if my blood didn’t scream her name with every beat of my heart.
I turned to the window, watching the sky lighten to steel gray over Geneva. The city below was still wrapped in fog, the lake a mirror of shadow and mist. But I wasn’t seeing it. I was seeing *her*—bound in silver chains, bruised, defiant, alive. I was seeing the way her breath had caught when she saw me. The way her eyes had searched mine, not for hope, but for *permission*.
Permission to die.
And I had refused it.
With every fiber of my being.
---
The prison was beneath the spire—deep, dark, warded with iron and ancient runes. No sunlight. No magic. Just cold stone, iron bars, and the scent of blood and despair. Only the Council’s enforcers had access. Only the Speaker’s key could open the inner cells.
But I didn’t need a key.
I had blood.
And I had rage.
I moved through the spire like shadow, my coat blending with the darkness, my footsteps silent. The guards didn’t see me. Didn’t hear me. By the time they realized I was there, it was too late.
The first two—vampire thralls, loyal to Malrik—fell before they could draw their blades. A twist of the neck. A silenced snap. Their bodies crumpled to the floor, their blood pooling on the stone.
The third tried to run.
I caught him at the stairwell, my hand closing around his throat, lifting him off the ground. His eyes bulged, his fangs bared in panic.
“Where is she?” I asked, my voice low, deadly.
He didn’t answer.
So I showed him.
I reached into his veins with Blood Dominion, felt the pulse of his heart, the flow of his magic, and *twisted*. Just enough to make him scream. Just enough to make him talk.
“C-cell seven,” he gasped. “B-below the main level. Warded with silver.”
“The key?”
“O-on the Speaker’s belt.”
I exhaled.
Then crushed his windpipe.
He fell.
Dead.
I took his coat—black, plain, unmarked—and slipped it on. Adjusted the collar. Smoothed my hair. And then I walked.
Down the stairs. Through the iron gate. Into the belly of the spire.
---
The lower cells were colder than I remembered, the air thick with the scent of decay and old magic. Runes pulsed faintly on the walls, their light dim, their power waning. The enforcers on duty—two werewolves and a fae noble—stood at the end of the hall, their backs to me, their voices low.
“…heard he’s coming,” the werewolf said. “Duskbane. They say he’ll tear the spire apart if they execute her.”
“Let him try,” the fae sneered. “The wards will hold. The chains will hold. And when she dies, the bond breaks. He’ll be nothing.”
“You don’t know him,” the other werewolf said, quieter. “I’ve seen him in battle. He doesn’t lose. Not even when he’s broken.”
I stepped forward.
“Then you’re right,” I said, my voice calm, controlled. “He doesn’t lose.”
They turned.
And then they died.
The fae reached for her dagger, but I was faster. My hand closed around her throat, lifting her off the ground. Her eyes widened, her glamour flickering, but I didn’t hesitate. I snapped her neck and dropped her.
The first werewolf lunged, fangs bared, claws out.
I sidestepped, drove my elbow into his spine, then slashed across his throat with the dagger I’d taken from the thrall. He fell, howling, blood black on the stone.
The second—older, stronger—shifted mid-attack, his body twisting into a massive wolf, his jaws snapping for my throat.
I didn’t flinch.
I *pulled*.
Blood Dominion—my power, my curse, my *gift*.
I reached into his veins, felt the pulse of his heart, the flow of his magic, and *stopped* it.
He collapsed.
Dead.
I stepped over his body, moving down the hall. The cells were silent. Empty. Until I reached the last one.
Cell seven.
The door was iron, warded with silver. A small slit for food. No windows. No light.
And inside—
Her.
Cordelia.
She sat on the stone bench, her back against the wall, her wrists bound with silver chains that glowed faintly in the dark. Her face was bruised, her lip split, her storm-gray eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep. I could feel her—her pulse, her breath, her magic—humming through the bond like a second heartbeat.
“Cordelia,” I said, my voice low.
Her eyes opened.
And for the first time in hours, I saw her.
Not the warrior. Not the avenger.
The woman.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
“No,” I agreed. “But I am.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “They’ll kill you.”
“Let them try,” I said, stepping closer. I reached into my coat, pulling out the key I’d taken from the Speaker’s belt—stolen while he’d slept, his aura flickering with guilt and fear. I slid it into the lock.
It turned.
The door hissed open.
She didn’t move. Just watched me, her eyes searching mine. “You got Elara out?”
“She’s safe,” I said. “Because of you. Because your mother’s wards held. Because *you* prepared for this.”
She smiled—soft, real, *hers*. “Then I did my job.”
“No,” I said, stepping inside. “You did *ours*.”
She looked down at her chains. “These won’t come off. Silver burns. Iron binds. And the Council’s magic is stronger than yours.”
“Not stronger,” I said, kneeling in front of her. “Just different.”
And then I did the one thing I’d sworn I’d never do.
I bit her.
Not on the neck. Not in passion.
On the wrist.
Right over the silver chain.
My fangs pierced her skin, drawing blood—hers and mine—and the moment our blood mixed, the bond *exploded*.
Fire. Need. *Hunger*.
The silver chain hissed, its magic unraveling, its glow fading. The iron binding her wrists cracked, then shattered. And she gasped—into my mouth, into the bond, into the fire that burned between us.
“You idiot,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’ll be exposed. Hunted. *Killed*.”
“Then let them come,” I said, lifting her into my arms. “I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
She didn’t argue.
Just wrapped her arms around my neck, her head resting on my shoulder, her breath warm against my skin.
And I carried her out.
---
The escape was chaos.
Alarms blared. Runes flared crimson. Enforcers poured into the corridors, blades drawn, magic crackling in the air. But I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. I moved like shadow, Cordelia in my arms, her body trembling, her breath unsteady.
The first group—three vampire thralls—attacked from the left.
I dropped to one knee, shielding her with my body, and *pulled*.
Blood Dominion.
I reached into their veins, felt the pulse of their hearts, and *stopped* them.
They fell.
Dead.
The second—two werewolves, mid-shift—came from the right.
I didn’t hesitate.
I lunged, driving my dagger into the first’s chest, then kicked the second back into the wall. He howled, lunging again, but I was faster. My fangs found his throat. I tore it out.
He fell.
Dead.
The third—Kaelen.
My Beta. My most trusted warrior.
He stood at the end of the hall, his sword drawn, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to Cordelia in my arms, then back to me.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I’m making a choice.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his dark eyes assessing. “If you leave, they’ll declare war. The Accord collapses. Innocents die.”
“Then let it burn,” I said. “Because I will not let them take her.”
He exhaled.
Then lowered his sword.
“Go,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
I didn’t thank him.
Just nodded.
And ran.
---
The outer tunnels were narrow, winding, hidden beneath the spire’s foundations. No light. No air. Just damp stone and the scent of old magic. I carried her through the darkness, my boots silent on the stone, her breath warm against my neck.
And then—
A pulse.
From above.
Not magic.
Explosions.
The spire was under attack.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just ran faster, deeper into the tunnels, until I found the exit—a rusted iron grate, hidden beneath a pile of rubble.
I kicked it open.
Cold night air rushed in, sharp with the scent of rain and blood. We were in the woods, just beyond the spire’s outer wards. The city was a blur of light and shadow in the distance. And above—
Fire.
The spire’s upper levels were burning, black smoke rising into the sky. Explosions rocked the stone, sending debris crashing to the ground. Fae gliders circled like vultures, their wings shimmering with glamour.
Nyx.
She’d started the war.
And I didn’t care.
I stepped out, holding Cordelia close, her body trembling, her breath unsteady. The bond hummed between us, warm, alive, *real*. But she was weak. Bleeding. The silver had burned her. The chains had drained her.
“We need to go,” I said. “Now.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “You saved me.”
“I’ll always save you,” I said. “Even if it destroys me.”
She smiled—soft, real, *hers*. “Then let it.”
And then she fainted.
---
I carried her to the safe house—a hidden cabin in the Black Forest, warded with old magic, stocked with bloodwine and healing salves. I laid her on the bed, stripping off her torn gown, my fingers brushing the fresh wounds on her wrists, the bruise on her cheek.
And then I did the one thing I’d sworn I’d never do.
I licked her wound closed.
Not on the wrist. Not in passion.
On the lip.
Where the guard had struck her.
My tongue traced the cut, sealing it with vampire saliva, my fangs grazing her skin. She moaned—soft, deep, *intimate*—and I didn’t stop. Just kept going, my mouth moving to her neck, to the bite mark I’d left weeks ago, to the Duskbane sigil on her wrist.
And when she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, I pulled back.
“You’re safe,” I said. “You’re alive.”
She looked up at me, her breath unsteady, her fingers brushing the blood on my lips. “Why?”
“Because I can’t live without hating you,” I said. “And if you die, I lose the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
And pulled me down.
---
Later, as the fire crackled in the hearth, as the storm raged beyond the windows, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of her cloak—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
She’d kept it.
Again.
And this time—
She hadn’t destroyed it.
She’d *studied* it.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that she wasn’t losing.
She was *winning*.
And if she thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
She didn’t know me at all.
But I knew her.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.