The Chamber of Accord hummed with suppressed energy, a storm held at bay by ancient wards and colder wills. I stood at the edge of the dais, my spine rigid, my expression carved from ice. Cordelia was beside me—close enough that the bond didn’t punish her, distant enough that she could pretend she wasn’t tethered to me. Her storm-gray eyes burned with fury, her jaw clenched so tight I could hear her teeth grind. The Duskbane sigil glowed faintly on her wrist, a brand I hadn’t placed but one I now wore in spirit. She hated it. Hated me. And still, she’d said the words.
I do.
They’d tasted like ash to her. To me, they were a promise I hadn’t asked for but would not break.
The Council session had begun with ritual formalities—oaths of neutrality, declarations of peace, the reading of ancient bylaws. Boring. Predictable. Necessary. But I felt Cordelia’s impatience like a blade between my ribs. She wasn’t here for protocol. She was here for blood.
And she was about to make her move.
I saw it in the way her fingers twitched toward the inner seam of her cloak. In the way her breath stilled when the Speaker opened the floor for faction concerns. In the sharp glint of her eyes as she stepped forward—uninvited, unannounced—her voice slicing through the silence like a dagger.
“I rise to accuse House Duskbane of violating the Bloodfire Accords.”
The chamber froze.
Every head turned. Fae nobles leaned forward, their glamour flickering with interest. The werewolf alpha bared his teeth in a silent snarl. The vampire elders—Malrik among them—watched with cold amusement. And me? I didn’t flinch. I’d known this was coming. I’d *expected* it. But still, the weight of her accusation pressed against the bond like a fist.
She stood tall, her silver-threaded cloak shimmering under the obsidian mirrors, her voice steady, precise. “Article Seven of the Bloodfire Accords states that no species shall coerce another into magical servitude under threat of violence. Yet House Duskbane, under the command of Lord Lysander Duskbane, executed the High Seer of the Veil Coven for refusing to sign a secret clause granting vampires control over witch magic.”
Her words landed like stones in still water. Ripples of shock. Whispers. The fae queen—Nyx, cold and beautiful as winter’s first frost—smiled behind her veil.
Cordelia wasn’t done.
“My mother died for her defiance. And now, I demand justice. I demand that Lysander Duskbane be stripped of his title, his seat on the Council, and face trial under the Hybrid Tribunal.”
She turned to me, her gaze like a blade. “Do you deny it?”
The chamber waited. Breathless. Electric.
I met her eyes—calm, controlled. “I do not deny that I signed the order.”
A gasp. A murmur. Malrik’s smile widened.
But I wasn’t finished.
“What I *do* deny,” I continued, my voice rising, “is that this is a matter for the Tribunal. Cordelia Vale is not here as a neutral party. She is not here as a representative of her coven. She is here as my *Allied Signatory*—bound to me by the Contract Stone, marked by the bond, and under the protection of House Duskbane.”
I stepped forward, my boots echoing on the stone. “And under Article Twelve of the Midnight Accord, any accusation made by a bonded party against their ally is considered *null* unless proven by third-party testimony or irrefutable evidence.”
Her eyes flashed. “I *am* evidence. I’m her daughter. I was there.”
“And you were presumed dead,” I countered. “Your reappearance is convenient. Your claim is tainted by vengeance. And your credibility?” I let the pause stretch, heavy with implication. “Is compromised by the bond.”
The bond. That cursed, beautiful thing that tied her to me. That made her feel my pulse in her veins, my hunger in her blood. That made her *want* me even as she accused me.
She took a step forward, her voice low, dangerous. “You think this bond silences me? You think I’ll let you hide behind magic and politics while the truth rots in the dark?”
“I think,” I said, stepping closer, “that you’re not here for justice. You’re here for revenge. And revenge has no place in this chamber.”
Her breath hitched—just once. The bond flared between us, a surge of heat and tension so sharp it made the air crackle. I felt it in my chest, in my fangs, in the base of my spine. She felt it too. I saw it in the way her pupils dilated, in the flush that crept up her neck.
We were standing too close. The Council could see it. They could *feel* it.
And then—our hands brushed.
Just the slightest contact. My knuckle against her wrist. But the spark that arced between us was anything but slight. A jolt of raw magic, hot and electric, tore through my nerves. I flinched. So did she. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide, startled, *aroused*.
The bond wasn’t just a leash. It was a live wire. And every touch, every glance, every unspoken challenge sent it singing.
“You’re dismissed,” I said, my voice rough. “Your accusation is invalid. Until you can provide evidence beyond your word—evidence that isn’t tainted by our bond—you have no standing here.”
She didn’t move. “You’ll pay for what you did.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But not today. Not like this.”
She turned on her heel and strode from the chamber, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner of war. The bond screamed in protest—she was pulling too far, too fast—but she didn’t stop. Not until the pain dropped her to her knees in the corridor.
I followed.
Of course I did.
I found her there, trembling, her fingers clawing at the marble floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The rune on her palm flared crimson, and the Duskbane sigil on her wrist burned like fire. She was hurting. And it was my fault.
I knelt beside her, my voice low. “I told you not to push it.”
She spat the words through clenched teeth. “I’d rather die than let you win.”
“Then you’ll die,” I said, lifting her into my arms. “And for what? Pride? Vengeance? You think your mother would want this? You think she’d want you to destroy the Accord, to burn the world down just to watch me burn with it?”
She went still. “Don’t speak her name.”
“Then stop using her as a weapon,” I snapped. “You don’t know what she knew. You don’t know what she sacrificed. And you *certainly* don’t know what I did to keep her death from being in vain.”
She glared up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then tell me.”
“Not here.”
“When, then? After you’ve silenced me? After you’ve made me your obedient little witch?”
“Never,” I said, my voice raw. “I don’t want obedience. I want *truth*. But you have to be ready to hear it. And right now, you’re not.”
She turned her face away, but I felt the shift in the bond—less hate, more doubt. Good. Let her question. Let her wonder. Let her see that I wasn’t the monster she’d painted me to be.
I carried her back to our suite, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the weight of a hundred eyes. Let them talk. Let them think what they wanted. I had survived worse than scandal.
Inside, I set her down gently on the edge of the bed. The fire had been relit, blue flames dancing in the hearth. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, her arms wrapped around herself, her breathing slow, controlled.
“You’ll stay here,” I said. “Until the next session. You’re not fit to face the Council again today.”
“You don’t get to order me.”
“No,” I agreed. “But the bond does.”
She lifted her wrist, staring at the mark. “You think this makes you powerful?”
“I think it makes us *connected*,” I said. “And that connection is the only thing keeping you alive right now. Because if you’d stayed in that chamber, Nyx would have torn you apart. Malrik would have used your accusation to rally the other houses against me. And the Accord would have collapsed.”
She looked up. “And that’s worse than justice?”
“Yes,” I said. “Because justice without peace is just more blood. And I’ve seen enough blood to last a thousand lifetimes.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared into the fire, her expression unreadable.
I moved to the window, watching the city below. “You think I don’t carry her death?” I said quietly. “You think I don’t see her face every time I close my eyes? She was the only one who ever looked at me and saw *more* than a vampire lord. She saw the man beneath the title. And when she died, a part of me died with her.”
She turned, her eyes searching mine. “Then why?”
“Because I was given a choice,” I said. “Sign the order, or watch my daughter die.”
Her breath caught. “You have a daughter?”
I nodded. “Human. Sixteen. Hidden in London. Queen Nyx threatened her life if I refused. So I signed. Not for power. Not for control. For *her*.”
She stared at me, stunned. “You never told anyone.”
“No,” I said. “Because if anyone knew, she’d be a target. And I’ve spent the last sixteen years making sure she’s safe. Even if it meant becoming the monster you think I am.”
Long silence.
Then, softly: “What’s her name?”
“Elara.”
She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “You’re saying you did it to protect her.”
“I’m saying I did it to save a child,” I said. “Just like your mother tried to save hers.”
She looked away, her fingers brushing the mark on her wrist. “And the bond? The mark? Is that part of your plan too?”
“No,” I said. “That was the Stone. That was fate. Or punishment. I don’t know. But it’s real. And it’s *ours*. Whether we like it or not.”
She didn’t answer.
But the bond—quiet now, steady—pulsed between us like a second heartbeat.
And for the first time, I felt it shift.
Not hate.
Not rage.
Doubt.
And something else.
Something dangerously close to *trust*.
Later that night, I found the vial.
Hidden in the seam of her cloak, where the truth-ink should have been. But this wasn’t truth-ink.
This was blood.
My blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
I crushed the vial in my fist, glass biting into my skin, blood dripping onto the floor. Rage—cold, sharp, *familiar*—surged through me.
She’d been digging. Probing. Hunting for proof that I’d shared blood with another. That I’d *wanted* another.
But she didn’t know the truth.
Seraphine had taken that blood by force. I’d never given it willingly. Never fed her. Never *claimed* her. It was a trick, a manipulation, a play for power.
And now Cordelia had it.
I looked at her, sleeping fitfully by the fire, her face soft in repose, the mark on her wrist glowing faintly.
She thought I’d betrayed her.
But the real betrayal?
Was that she still didn’t believe me.
And I would spend every damn day until she did.
Because the bond wasn’t just a curse.
It was a vow.
And I intended to keep it.