I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I drifted in and out of a fevered half-consciousness, my body caught between exhaustion and the constant hum of the bond. Every time I sank too deep, the tether between Lysander and me tightened—just enough to jolt me awake, heart pounding, skin prickling with phantom heat. The rune on my palm pulsed in time with my pulse, a dull, insistent throb that refused to let me rest.
At some point, I must have dozed, because I dreamed.
Flames. Screams. My mother’s voice, sharp with warning: *“The Stone remembers, Cordelia. It knows the truth.”* Then darkness. A hand—cold, strong—pulling me back. Not my mother’s. His.
Lysander.
I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat despite the room’s chill. The fire had burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor. The suite was silent. No movement from the sleeping chamber. No sound but the soft crackle of dying blue flames.
I sat up slowly, testing the bond. Ten feet. I could feel the limit like a wall in the air. Beyond it, pain waited. But within it, I was safe. For now.
I rubbed my face, trying to scrub the dream from my mind. My mother’s voice had been so clear. Too clear. Had the bond somehow reached into my memories? Was it feeding on them? Twisting them?
And then I saw it.
On my wrist.
A mark.
Deep crimson, glowing faintly beneath my skin, the sigil of House Duskbane—a serpent coiled around a dagger—etched into my flesh like a brand. It wasn’t on my palm anymore. It had *moved*. Transferred. Claimed.
I stared at it, breath caught in my throat.
This wasn’t just a bond.
This was branding.
I scrambled to my feet, rushing to the full-length mirror framed in black iron. The firelight flickered over my reflection—pale face, storm-gray eyes wide with horror, hair tangled from restless sleep. And there, on my left wrist, undeniable: the Duskbane sigil, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
“No,” I whispered.
I ran my fingers over it. No raised skin. No scab. Just warmth. A deep, unnatural heat that seeped into my bones. It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. But it *felt* wrong. Like something foreign had been implanted inside me. Like I’d been marked as property.
I turned my arm, watching the light catch the edges of the sigil. It was beautiful, in a terrible way—symmetrical, elegant, ancient. But it wasn’t mine. I hadn’t given consent. I hadn’t even known this was possible.
And then I remembered Lysander’s words from the night before: *“The bond isn’t just a leash. It’s a tether. Break it, and it breaks you.”*
This was more than a tether.
This was a declaration.
He hadn’t just bound me to him.
He’d claimed me.
“You didn’t give me permission,” I hissed, staring at my reflection as if it could answer me. “You don’t get to mark me like I’m yours.”
But the mark didn’t fade. It didn’t vanish. It simply *was*—a living thing, part of me now, whether I liked it or not.
I turned away from the mirror, my breath coming fast. I needed answers. I needed to know what this meant, what power it gave him, how deep the bond went. And I needed to know if it could be undone.
I moved to the edge of the room, testing the distance. Seven feet. Six. The bond hummed, but no pain—yet. I could still move. Still think. Still fight.
Then the door to the sleeping chamber opened.
Lysander stepped out, shirtless, his torso a sculpted landscape of muscle and old scars. His black hair was tousled from sleep, his crimson eyes sharp, assessing. He wore only black trousers, low on his hips, and the sight of him—bare, powerful, *real*—sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the bond.
And everything to do with it.
His gaze dropped to my wrist.
And he smiled.
Not a cruel smile. Not a triumphant one.
Something worse.
Satisfaction.
“You’ve been marked,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “It’s complete.”
I stepped back, instinctively hiding my wrist behind my back. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “The bond did. It seals itself with a mark—visible proof of the union. It’s tradition. Protection. A warning to others.”
“A warning?” I snapped. “Or a trophy?”
He stopped just within reach, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating from his skin, close enough that the bond flared—heat pooling low in my belly, my breath hitching. “It’s a sign of strength,” he said. “To the Council, to our enemies. It says you’re not just allied. You’re *claimed*.”
“I’m not a prize,” I said, voice trembling. “I’m not yours.”
“You are,” he said simply. “Whether you like it or not.”
He reached for my wrist.
I tried to pull away, but the movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness through me—too far, too fast. I swayed, and he caught me, his fingers closing gently around my forearm. His touch was cool, controlled. But when his thumb brushed the mark, a shock of heat tore through me—sharp, electric, *intimate*.
I gasped.
His eyes darkened.
“You feel it,” he murmured. “The connection. It’s stronger now. Deeper.”
“It’s magic,” I said, yanking my arm back. “Not loyalty. Not devotion. Just magic.”
“Magic is power,” he said. “And power binds tighter than vows.”
“You think this makes me yours?” I demanded, holding up my wrist. “This mark? This *brand*? It doesn’t change what you did. It doesn’t erase the blood on your hands.”
He didn’t flinch. “No. But it changes how the world sees you. And how they see *us*.”
“I don’t care what they see.”
“You should,” he said. “Because now, any move you make against me will be seen as an act of war. The Fae will rally behind me. The werewolves will hesitate. Even your own coven—what’s left of it—will question your loyalty.”
“I don’t have a coven,” I said coldly. “You made sure of that.”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “I didn’t kill your mother, Cordelia. I signed an order. There’s a difference.”
“Not to me.”
“Then let me prove it.”
I froze. “What?”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. But not here. Not now. When the time is right, I’ll show you everything. The blackmail. The threats. The life I was forced to sacrifice to keep the peace.”
“And why would I believe you?”
“Because the bond won’t let you lie to me,” he said. “And soon, it won’t let you lie to yourself.”
I wanted to hate him. To scream, to fight, to claw the smug certainty from his face. But the mark on my wrist burned, a constant reminder that I wasn’t free. That I was tied to him in ways I didn’t understand.
And worse—part of me *believed* him.
Not completely. Not yet.
But enough to make me hesitate.
Enough to make me wonder.
“You think this changes anything?” I said, holding up the mark. “This isn’t loyalty. It’s branding.”
He looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something raw in his eyes—something vulnerable.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not loyalty. Not yet. But it’s a beginning.”
I turned away, unable to face him. “I don’t want a beginning. I want justice.”
“Then let me give it to you,” he said. “But on my terms. At the right time. Not in a reckless act that will burn the world down with us.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because the bond hummed in my veins, a whisper, a promise, a threat.
*You’re mine now.*
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it.
Not until I knew the truth.
Not until I decided whether he deserved to burn.
---
The summons came at dawn.
A servant—pale, silent, eyes downcast—knocked once, then slipped a black envelope beneath the door. I picked it up, my fingers brushing the wax seal of the Supernatural Council. Inside, a single line of script:
Allied Signatories are required to attend the morning briefing. Chamber of Accord. 7:00 a.m.
I glanced at the clock. 6:42.
Eight minutes.
Lysander was already dressed—black coat, silver cuffs, hair combed back into ruthless order. He looked like a king ready for war. And maybe he was.
“You’ll need this,” he said, tossing me a dark cloak lined with silver thread. “The Council chambers are warded. Iron burns. Silver protects.”
I caught it, frowning. “Why help me?”
“Because if you collapse in there, it reflects poorly on me,” he said. “And because I don’t want you hurt.”
“Liar,” I muttered, but I put the cloak on anyway.
We walked in silence through the spire’s winding corridors, guards stepping aside as we passed. Whispers followed us.
“Look at her—marked.”
“Duskbane’s finally claimed a witch.”
“She doesn’t look happy about it.”
“She will be.”
I kept my head high, my expression blank. Let them talk. Let them think what they wanted. I wasn’t his. Not really. Not yet.
But when my fingers brushed the mark on my wrist, I felt it—warm, alive, *his*.
The Chamber of Accord was a vast, circular room beneath the spire’s peak, its walls lined with obsidian mirrors that reflected not our faces, but our auras—shifting colors of power, emotion, intent. The Council sat in a ring of thrones, twelve figures shrouded in shadow. At the center, the Contract Stone stood once more, dormant, waiting.
We stepped forward together.
The Speaker raised a hand. “Cordelia Vale, Lysander Duskbane. The bond has sealed. The mark is visible. You are recognized as Allied Signatories under the Midnight Accord.”
Gasps. Murmurs. The fae queen leaned forward, her eyes gleaming.
“The union is binding,” the Speaker continued. “To break it is to break the peace. War will follow. Do you accept these terms?”
Lysander didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
All eyes turned to me.
I felt the weight of the moment—the expectations, the danger, the bond pulling me toward him, demanding my answer.
I looked at Lysander.
At the mark on my wrist.
At the ghost of my mother’s voice in my mind.
And I spoke.
“I do.”
The word tasted like ash.
But it was done.
The bond flared—bright, hot, *final*—and I knew, with cold certainty, that there was no going back.
Not from this.
Not from him.
And when he turned to me, his crimson eyes burning with something I couldn’t name, I realized the truth:
This wasn’t just a contract.
This was a vow.
And I had just sworn it.