The vial burned in my hand like a curse.
Not from heat. Not from magic.
From *truth*.
It sat in the palm of my glove, the glass cold against my skin, the dried blood inside dark as sin, the label etched in delicate script: *“For Power.”* And beneath it, a name that still made my stomach twist—Seraphine.
I’d found it again.
Not in Lysander’s coat this time, but in a hidden compartment of Elara’s grimoire—a false binding, cleverly concealed beneath the spine. As if it had been placed there on purpose. As if someone had *wanted* me to find it.
And now, standing in the dim candlelight of Mira’s safe house, the city of Lyon asleep beyond the shuttered windows, I couldn’t breathe.
Because it wasn’t just a vial.
It was a confession.
And I didn’t know if I was ready to hear it.
---
Elara had gone to sleep hours ago, curled beneath a wool blanket in the back room, the grimoire clutched to her chest like a talisman. Lysander was on watch, a shadow in the doorway, his crimson eyes scanning the streets below, his presence a wall between us and the world. Mira had slipped out—back to her network, gathering intelligence, testing loyalties. And I was alone.
Alone with the vial.
Alone with the memories.
Alone with the *doubt*.
I turned it over in my fingers, the glass catching the candlelight, the dried blood catching my breath. It was old—months, maybe a year. The label was faded, the ink slightly smudged. And the name—Seraphine—was written in a hand I didn’t recognize. Not Lysander’s. Not mine. But someone who knew.
Who knew what?
That he’d given her his blood?
That he’d *shared* with her?
That he’d *wanted* her?
My fingers brushed the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. It still glowed faintly, warm beneath my touch, a brand of fire. The bite mark above my collarbone throbbed—fresh, raw, *real*. Two claims. Two truths. Two men who had marked me.
But only one had saved me.
Only one had carried me through the night.
Only one had looked at me like I was the only light in his darkness.
And yet—
Why this?
Why keep it?
Unless he *wanted* me to find it.
Unless he was testing me.
---
“You’re thinking too loud,” Lysander said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
I didn’t turn. Just kept staring at the vial, my fingers tightening around it. “You knew it was there.”
“No,” he said, stepping into the room. His boots were silent on the stone floor, his coat open, his shirt torn at the shoulder—still bearing the wound from the prison fight. He looked like a king who had survived a war. And maybe he had. “I didn’t know it was in the grimoire. But I knew you’d find it.”
“And you didn’t stop me.”
“Would you have let me?”
I turned then, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his crimson ones. “Why keep it? Why not destroy it? Why not burn it, like you burned everything else that threatened us?”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched me, his expression unreadable. “Because it’s not a threat.”
“It’s *her*,” I said, my voice breaking. “It’s *Seraphine*. The woman who claims she shared your bed. Who wears your mark. Who says you fed her for *power*.”
“She says a lot of things,” he said, stepping closer. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—as he closed the distance. “Most of them lies.”
“And this?” I held up the vial. “This is a lie too?”
“No,” he said. “The blood is real. I *did* give it to her. But not for power. Not for pleasure. Not because I *wanted* her.”
“Then why?”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Because she was dying.”
I froze. “What?”
“Last winter,” he said, his voice low, rough. “She came to me—weak, bleeding, poisoned by a rival in the Shadow Court. She’d been marked for death. And she knew I could save her. Not with magic. Not with medicine. With *blood*.”
“And you gave it to her?”
“I had no choice,” he said. “If she died in my territory, it would have started a war. If I refused, House Nocturne would have used it against me. So I gave her a vial. Just enough to stabilize her. Just enough to keep her alive until she could heal.”
“And the label?”
“She wrote it,” he said. “Not me. She wanted the world to think I’d given it to her willingly. That I’d chosen her. That I’d *wanted* her. So she labeled it. So she could use it as proof.”
My breath caught.
Because it made sense.
Too much sense.
Seraphine had always been a manipulator. A survivor. She’d used her beauty, her lies, her *hunger* to climb the ranks of the Shadow Court. And if she could twist a vial of blood into a weapon—
She would.
But still—
“You could have denied it,” I said. “You could have said no. You could have let her die.”
“And what kind of monster would that make me?” he asked, stepping into my space. His body was a wall, his presence a storm. “You think I don’t carry enough blood on my hands? You think I needed *hers* too?”
My chest tightened.
Not from anger.
From *recognition*.
Because he was right.
He wasn’t the monster I’d painted him to be.
He was a man who had signed an order to save his daughter.
A man who had carried grief like armor.
A man who had given blood to save a life—even one he didn’t care about.
And I—
I had spent months hating him for doing what I would have done in his place.
“And the mark?” I whispered. “On her collarbone. You didn’t bite her?”
“No,” he said. “She glamoured it. Used Fae illusion to make it look real. The Council never checked. No one ever questioned it.”
“And you didn’t correct them?”
“Why?” he asked. “So they could see how weak I was? So they could know I’d been played? No. Let them think what they want. Let them believe she had power over me. It made her useful. It made *me* stronger.”
I stared at him—really stared at him.
Not the vampire lord. Not the ruler. The man.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Not just the truth.
The *weight* of it.
He hadn’t just been playing a game.
He’d been surviving.
And I had walked into the Obsidian Spire, ready to burn it all down, without seeing the fire he’d already lived through.
“Say it again,” I demanded, my voice breaking. “Say it so I can hear it with my own ears.”
He looked at me, his crimson eyes burning with something raw, something *vulnerable*.
“I did not bed Seraphine,” he said, his voice low, rough. “I did not crave her. I did not *want* her. I gave her blood to save her life, not to claim her. And if I had to do it again, I would. Not for her. But because it was the right thing to do.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I *saw* it.
The truth, glowing like a beacon in his aura, pure and unbroken.
He wasn’t lying.
He’d never lied about this.
And I—
I had.
Not with words.
But with silence. With hatred. With the refusal to see him as anything but a killer.
“Now believe me,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because the bond—steady now, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—was no longer a chain.
It was a bridge.
And I was crossing it.
---
The vial sat on the table between us, the candlelight flickering across its surface, the dried blood catching the flame like a warning.
“You can destroy it,” he said, not looking at me. “If it helps. If it makes you feel safer.”
“And if I don’t?”
He turned, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. “Then you keep it. As a reminder. That not everything is as it seems. That even the darkest truths can be twisted into lies. That I am not the man you thought I was.”
“And who are you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, his hand lifting, his fingers brushing the bite mark above my collarbone. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—and I didn’t pull away. Just stood there, my breath unsteady, my pulse screaming.
“I’m the man who would burn the world for you,” he said, his voice rough. “The man who carried you through the night. The man who kissed you in the storm. The man who would die before he let you go.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I did it.
I reached for him.
Not to fight.
Not to push him away.
To *touch*.
My fingers brushed the tear in his shirt, the blood staining his side. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” I said, pushing the shirt aside. The wound was shallow, but it was still bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric. “Let me see it.”
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said.
And then I did the one thing I’d sworn I’d never do.
I pulled his shirt up.
His body was a landscape of muscle and scar—old wounds, battle marks, the jagged line across his abdomen from a werewolf’s claw. But this—this was fresh. New. *Mine*.
“You took a blade for me,” I said, my voice breaking. “In the prison. You didn’t have to.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I did.”
I reached for the salve, pouring it over the wound, my fingers trembling. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, his breath unsteady, his fangs grazing his lower lip.
And then—
My hand slipped.
Just a brush. Just a whisper of contact.
But it was enough.
The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t pull back. Just kept going, my fingers tracing the scar across his abdomen, the curve of his hip, the edge of his trousers.
He didn’t stop me.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
He caught my wrist.
Not to stop me.
To *guide* me.
His hand covered mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—he moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until my palm rested over the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing through the fabric.
My breath caught.
“You want this,” he said, his voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s *us*.”
And then—
He let go.
Just stepped back, leaving my hand where it was, his body still hard, his breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” I breathed.
“But you want me to,” he said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
---
Later, as the fire burned low, as the storm raged beyond the windows, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was *winning*.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.