The mountain pass was silent—too silent.
No birds. No wind. No rustle of pine needles. Just the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the low hum of the bond between us, steady, watchful, *alive*. The Swiss Alps stretched around us, jagged peaks clawing at a sky heavy with storm, the air sharp with the scent of ice and old magic. We’d been traveling for hours, moving fast, staying off the main roads, following the hidden trails that only witches and hunters knew. Lyon was behind us. The lodge was behind us. Safety was a memory.
And Elara—
She was ahead.
In London. At the Charterhouse Academy for Gifted Youth—a school cloaked in Fae glamours, warded by ancient runes, hidden in plain sight behind a crumbling Victorian façade in Hampstead. It was supposed to be safe. Untraceable. The one place Nyx wouldn’t dare strike.
But Mira’s message had changed everything.
Nyx knows about Elara.
Three words. No explanation. No warning. Just the truth, sharp as a blade, and the weight of it had settled in my chest like a stone.
We hadn’t spoken since we left the lodge. Not really. Just exchanged glances, shared silences, the occasional brush of hands as we navigated the icy slopes. Lysander walked ahead, his coat pulled tight, his crimson eyes scanning the shadows, his aura flaring with every flicker of movement. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t stopped. Just kept moving, his body a wall between me and the world, his presence a storm.
And I—
I let him.
Because last night had changed everything.
Not just the sex—the fire, the hunger, the way he’d claimed me, the way I’d *let* him. Not just the bite, deep and red on my neck, a mark no one could deny. But the quiet. The way he’d held me afterward, his arms wrapped around me, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine, his breath warm against my skin. The way he’d looked at me—really looked at me—like I was something sacred, something *his*, not because of magic, but because I’d *chosen* him.
And gods help me, I had.
Not just with my body.
With my heart.
And now—now I was terrified.
Because love was a vulnerability.
And in this world, vulnerabilities got you killed.
---
We reached the extraction point just after dusk—a narrow ravine where the snow had been trampled down by recent passage, the scent of vampire blood and Fae illusion thick in the air. A sleek black glider waited on the ice, its wings folded, its engine humming faintly. Mira stood beside it, her dark eyes sharp, her stance tense, her hand resting on the hilt of a silver dagger.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice low.
“We’re alive,” I said, stepping forward. “That’s what matters.”
She didn’t smile. Just studied me—really studied me—her gaze dropping to the bite mark on my neck, the faint bruise on my collarbone, the way my fingers still trembled when I thought no one was looking. And then she nodded.
“You’ve crossed it,” she said.
“Crossed what?”
“The line,” she said. “Between hate and love. You’re not fighting him anymore. You’re *with* him.”
I didn’t deny it.
Just looked at Lysander—really looked at him—and saw the truth.
Not just the vampire lord. Not the killer. The man.
The one who’d carried me through the night. Who’d kissed me in the storm. Who’d made me his in fire and blood.
And I didn’t regret it.
Just feared it.
“We don’t have time for this,” Lysander said, stepping between us, his presence a wall. “We need to move. Now.”
Mira nodded, opening the glider’s hatch. “Pilot’s already on board. It’ll take us to London in two hours. But we’ll have to fly low—Nyx’s sentries are active. If they spot us, they’ll shoot.”
“Then we don’t get spotted,” I said, climbing in.
The glider was narrow—just enough room for four, if we were close. I took the middle seat, Lysander beside me, his arm a solid weight against my side, his body radiating heat. Mira sat in front, her hands on the controls, her eyes scanning the sky. The engine roared to life, the wings unfolding with a soft hiss, and then we were lifting—up, up, into the storm-wracked sky.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not pain. Not need.
*Fear*.
I gasped, my hand flying to my chest, my breath coming fast. Lysander turned to me instantly, his crimson eyes burning. “What is it?”
“Elara,” I whispered. “She’s in danger. *Now*.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Pilot,” he barked. “Full speed. London. Now.”
---
We touched down on the rooftop of a derelict warehouse in Camden, the glider’s engines cutting out with a soft whine. The city sprawled around us—dark, sprawling, alive with the hum of human life and supernatural undercurrents. The air was thick with the scent of rain, exhaust, and old magic. And beneath it—
Fear.
Elara’s fear.
It hit me like a blade to the spine, sharp and searing, radiating from the bond like a beacon. I didn’t need magic to know she was in trouble. I could *feel* it—her pulse racing, her breath coming fast, her magic flaring in panic.
“She’s at the school,” I said, already moving. “We have to go.”
“We go together,” Lysander said, stepping beside me, his fangs lengthening, his aura flaring crimson. “No risks. No heroics.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped.
“No,” he agreed. “But I get to stand beside you.”
I didn’t argue.
Just ran.
We moved through the city like shadows—Lysander in front, his body a wall, his senses sharp; Mira at the rear, her presence a storm; me in the middle, my dagger drawn, my magic humming beneath my skin. The streets were slick with rain, the neon signs flickering, the air thick with the scent of danger. And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A *shift*.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
They came.
Three of them—Fae assassins, their wings shimmering with illusion, their blades of frozen light gleaming. They dropped from the rooftops like vultures, silent, precise, their eyes locked on me.
But they weren’t fast enough.
Lysander moved first—his body a blur, his dagger finding the first’s throat, severing the spinal cord before he could react. The second lunged for me.
I spun, my dagger slicing across his abdomen, my magic flaring as I whispered a binding spell. He fell, screaming, his blood black on the pavement.
The third—
He didn’t attack me.
He went for Lysander.
His blade of ice pierced Lysander’s side, just below the ribs. Pain lanced through me, my vision blurring, my strength waning.
And then—
I *screamed*.
Not in fear.
In rage.
My magic tore through the air like a storm, shattering the assassin’s blade, sending him flying into the brick wall. He didn’t get up.
Dead.
I turned to Lysander, my breath coming fast, my hands trembling as I pushed his coat aside. The wound was shallow, but it was bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric.
“You’re hurt,” I said, my voice breaking.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” I said, pressing my palm to the wound. My magic flared—warm, healing, *mine*—and I felt the cut seal beneath my touch, the blood stop, the skin knit together. But the pain—
It didn’t go away.
Because it wasn’t just his pain.
It was mine.
And I didn’t care.
“You took a blade for me,” I said, my voice raw. “Again.”
“And I’d do it a thousand times,” he said, his voice rough. “For you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for him, my fingers brushing the tear in his shirt, the blood still staining the fabric. And then—
I did it.
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 don’t have to do this,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “But I want to.”
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.”
---
We reached the school just as the sky began to bleed red with dawn.
The Charterhouse Academy stood at the end of a quiet street—its façade crumbling, its windows dark, its wards flickering faintly. But inside—
Chaos.
Shattered glass. Blood on the stone. The scent of Fae glamour and vampire ash thick in the air. And then—
Elara’s scream.
It tore through the bond like a blade, sharp and searing, and I was moving before I could think, my dagger drawn, my magic flaring. Lysander was beside me, his fangs bared, his aura crimson, his body a wall. Mira followed, silent, deadly.
We burst into the main hall—its chandeliers shattered, its walls scorched with fire magic. And there—
Elara.
She was backed against the far wall, her hands raised, her grimoire clutched to her chest, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror. And in front of her—
A Fae assassin.
Tall, cloaked in shadow, his blade of ice gleaming. He turned as we entered, his eyes locking onto Lysander.
“You’re too late,” he said, his voice like wind through glass. “The child is ours.”
“No,” Lysander said, his voice a growl. “She’s *mine*.”
And then—
He moved.
Not with speed.
With *fury*.
His body became a blur, his dagger finding the assassin’s throat, severing the spinal cord before he could react. He fell—dead.
But then—
A flicker.
From the ceiling.
Another assassin—this one faster, stronger, his blade already swinging for Elara’s neck.
I didn’t hesitate.
I *pulled*.
Not with my hands.
With my magic.
The Rite of Unveiling—my mother’s spell, the one that broke contracts, that revealed truth. I reached into his mind, felt the pulse of his magic, and *shattered* it.
He screamed.
His blade fell.
And then—
Lysander was on him.
His fangs found the assassin’s throat. He tore it out.
He fell.
Dead.
I turned to Elara, pulling her into my arms. “You’re safe,” I said. “You’re safe.”
She clung to me, sobbing. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” I said. “With us.”
And then—
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Cordelia… who’s *she*?”
My breath caught.
Because standing in the doorway—her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame—was Seraphine.
And in her hand—
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 wasn’t studying it.
She was *using* 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.