The underground network wasn’t a place. It wasn’t a building, a bunker, or a hidden enclave beneath the city. It was a whisper. A flicker in the dark. A name passed from blood donor to rogue witch, from human spy to disillusioned thrall, from one broken oath to the next.
And tonight, it was mine.
I stood in the heart of the old subway tunnels beneath Geneva, the air thick with damp earth and the faint metallic tang of old magic. The walls were lined with graffiti—runes disguised as street art, sigils hidden in spray-painted tags, truth-charms etched into the concrete. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, its flame flickering with blue fire, casting long, wavering shadows across the tracks. The scrying mirror was propped against a rusted train car, its surface dark, its edges cracked. I didn’t need it to work. I just needed it to look like it did.
Because tonight, I wasn’t here as Cordelia’s confidante.
Not as the woman who’d smuggled vials of blood from Nocturne barracks.
Not as the spy who’d cracked Nyx’s coded messages.
Tonight, I was here as myself.
And I was being hunted.
---
It had started three days ago.
A whisper in the dark.
Not from a contact. Not from a source.
From a dream.
I’d woken in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, my fingers clutching the sheets. The same dream I’d had since I was sixteen—the one where I stood in a blood-soaked cathedral, a dagger in my hand, a vampire’s fangs at my throat, and a voice—cold, velvet, deadly—whispering, “You’re not safe yet.”
But this time—
This time, I’d seen his face.
Not blurred. Not shadowed.
Clear.
Sharp.
Kaelen.
And not just Kaelen.
Kaelen with fangs.
Not in rage. Not in shift.
In hunger.
I’d dismissed it. A trick of the mind. A remnant of fear. A warning from the network’s collective unconscious. But then—
The messages started.
Not sent. Not delivered.
Left.
A slip of paper in my coat pocket—“She’s not safe.”
A mark on the wall outside the spire—three parallel lines, the old werewolf sigil for hunter.
A dead raven on my windowsill, its feathers black as midnight, its eyes glowing crimson—House Duskbane’s messenger, but not from Lysander.
And then—
Yesterday.
I’d been reviewing surveillance from the Bloodfire Shrine when I saw it—a flicker in the scrying mirror. Just a shadow. Just a ripple in the magic. But I knew.
Someone was watching.
Not from the outside.
From the inside.
And they weren’t watching the shrine.
They were watching me.
---
The lantern flickered.
I didn’t flinch.
Just reached into my coat and pulled out the dagger—small, silver, etched with runes that hummed when danger was near. I didn’t need it to hum. I could feel it—the shift in the air, the drop in temperature, the way the shadows seemed to thicken.
And then—
He stepped from the dark.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cloaked in black, his hood pulled low, his presence a storm wrapped in silence. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, his hands at his sides, his breath steady.
And then—
He lowered his hood.
And I saw him.
Not Kaelen.
But someone who looked like him.
Same sharp jaw. Same storm-gray eyes. Same scar across his left cheek—the kind wolves get in fights they don’t walk away from.
But this one wasn’t a Beta.
He was an assassin.
“You’ve been careless,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Leaving trails. Trusting the wrong people. Thinking you’re untouchable.”
I didn’t answer.
Just tightened my grip on the dagger.
“Cordelia trusts you,” he continued. “Lysander tolerates you. The network obeys you. But they don’t know what you’ve done. What you’ve seen.”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
Because I knew him.
Not by name.
By blood.
He was one of them—the ones who’d hunted me when I was sixteen. The ones who’d cornered me in that cathedral. The ones who’d left me for dead.
And now—
Now he was here.
For me.
“You’re not here for Cordelia,” I said, my voice steady. “You’re not here for Lysander. You’re not even here for the network.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his storm-gray eyes burning. “No. I’m here for you.”
“And what do you want?”
“The truth,” he said. “About what happened in that cathedral. About why you survived. About who you really are.”
My fingers tightened around the dagger.
Because I didn’t know.
Not really.
I’d been sixteen. A human spy, selling secrets to the highest bidder. I’d stumbled onto a blood pact between House Nocturne and the Shadow Court—something about a child, a prophecy, a betrayal. I’d tried to sell it. They’d tried to kill me. And then—
Someone had saved me.
Not a witch. Not a vampire. Not a Fae.
Someone else.
And when I woke, I could see magic. Could hear lies. Could feel the pulse of blood beneath skin.
But I’d never known who had done it.
Until now.
“You’re not an assassin,” I said, my voice low. “You’re a guardian.”
He didn’t deny it.
Just reached into his coat and pulled out a vial—old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
Not because of the vial.
Because of the blood.
It wasn’t Seraphine’s.
It was mine.
“You’ve been marked,” he said. “Not by magic. Not by oath. By blood. And they’re coming for you. Not just the ones who tried to kill you. The ones who saved you.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why now?”
“Because you’re close,” he said. “Too close. You’ve seen things. Known things. And if you remember—”
“Then I’ll be a threat,” I finished.
He nodded. “And they’ll silence you. Permanently.”
Long silence.
Then—
“Why tell me this?” I asked. “If you’re here to kill me, why warn me?”
“Because I’m not here to kill you,” he said. “I’m here to protect you.”
“From who?”
“The ones who made you,” he said. “The ones who gave you your sight. Your strength. Your power.”
My breath caught.
Because I’d always known I wasn’t just a human.
I’d always known something had changed me.
But I’d never known what.
“And if I don’t want to remember?” I asked.
“Then you’ll die,” he said. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. And when they come, no one will hear you scream.”
The lantern flickered again.
And then—
The scrying mirror lit up.
Not with an image.
With a name.
Kaelen.
And beneath it, a message:
“She’s not safe.”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From certainty.
Because this wasn’t just about me.
It was about him.
And if they were coming for me—
They were coming for him too.
---
I didn’t hesitate.
Just turned and ran.
Not toward the exit. Not toward the spire.
Toward the war room.
The tunnels were narrow, slick with moisture, the air thick with the scent of old magic and iron. My boots barely made a sound, my breath steady, my dagger in hand. The bond between Cordelia and Lysander hummed in the distance—warm, alive, real—a current of magic and desire that made the air crackle. But this wasn’t about them.
This was about us.
And then—
I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the blood.
And then—
He was there.
Not the assassin.
Kaelen.
He stood in the tunnel ahead, his broad frame filling the space, his storm-gray eyes burning, his wolf simmering beneath his skin. He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t look angry.
Just… waiting.
“You saw him,” he said, not a question.
“I saw you,” I said, stepping closer. “In my dream. With fangs. In hunger. Not as a Beta. As a hunter.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his gaze sharp, calculating. “And what else did you see?”
“That they’re coming,” I said. “Not just for me. For you too.”
“And if I said I knew?”
“Then I’d say you’ve been lying,” I said. “To Cordelia. To Lysander. To me.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped closer, his presence a storm. “I didn’t lie. I protected. Just like he did.”
“And who is he?” I asked. “The one who saved me? The one who marked me? The one who gave me this?” I held up the vial. “Is it you?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached into his coat and pulled out a second vial—this one filled with dark, swirling liquid, its surface shimmering with trapped magic. Malrik’s blood. But not from the assassin.
From him.
“You’re not just a spy,” he said. “You’re a weapon. And they made you to kill me.”
My breath caught.
Because it made sense.
The dreams. The messages. The vials. The blood.
I hadn’t been marked by accident.
I’d been chosen.
“And if I don’t want to be?” I asked.
“Then you’ll have to run,” he said. “Or fight. Or die.”
“And if I choose to remember?”
“Then you’ll have to face what you are,” he said. “And who you were meant to destroy.”
Long silence.
Then—
“Then I’ll remember,” I said. “And I’ll decide for myself.”
He didn’t smile. But something in his expression softened. “Then you’re not the weapon they made you to be.”
“And you?” I asked. “Are you the hunter they made you to be?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, his hand finding mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. “No. I’m the one who’s been waiting for you.”
The bond flared—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull back. Just let him touch me, his fingers tracing the scar across my palm, the curve of my wrist, the edge of my dagger.
And then—
I caught his wrist.
Not to stop him.
To guide him.
My hand covered his, my fingers interlacing with his, my thumb brushing the pulse at his wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until his palm rested over the hard ridge of my arousal, pressing through the fabric.
His breath caught.
“You want this,” I said, my voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving his hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” he breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled his hand back, his cheeks flushed, his storm-gray eyes burning. But he didn’t look away. Just stared at me, his chest rising and falling, his magic reaching for mine like a drowning man grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.
---
We didn’t speak.
Just walked back to the spire, our hands linked, our bond humming between us like a live wire. The city was quiet—too quiet. No birds. No wind. No rustle of leaves. Just the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the low hum of the magic in our veins.
And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the blood.
And then—
The summons.
A raven—its feathers black as midnight, its eyes glowing crimson—landed on the windowsill, a scroll tied to its leg. I took it, my fingers trembling as I unrolled it.
“It’s from the Council,” I said. “Emergency session. Tomorrow at dawn. They’ve accepted your demand.”
Kaelen didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—really looked at me.
And I saw it.
Not fear.
Pride.
“Then we move,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “We end this. Tonight.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
Because he knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.
---
Later, as the sun dipped below the spires of Geneva, as the city lights flickered to life, 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.