The morning after the Council clash, the bond was a live wire beneath my skin—raw, pulsing, unrelenting. I woke tangled in black silk sheets, my body slick with sweat, my dreams still haunted by fire and fangs. Lysander’s voice echoed in my skull: *“I signed the order… to save my daughter.”*
Elara.
A name. A child. A secret he’d carried for sixteen years.
And I didn’t know what to do with it.
Part of me wanted to scream. To throw the truth back in his face—*You think that absolves you? You think a single confession undoes sixteen years of silence, sixteen years of my mother’s blood on your hands?*
But another part—the part that had seen the grief in his eyes, the way his voice cracked when he said her name—whispered something quieter. Something dangerous.
What if he’s telling the truth?
I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t afford doubt. Not now. Not when every breath I took was tied to him, when the Duskbane sigil still burned on my wrist like a brand.
I sat up, wincing as the bond flared—a dull throb behind my eyes, a warning. I was too far from him. The suite was vast, the sleeping chamber on the opposite side of the room, but even that distance was enough to make my muscles tense, my vision blur at the edges.
Lysander stood by the window, already dressed in black coat and silver cuffs, his profile sharp against the dawn light. He turned as I moved, his crimson eyes scanning me—assessing, calculating.
“You’re awake,” he said. “Good. We have a diplomatic garden stroll in thirty minutes. Council dignitaries. Fae emissaries. A chance to present a united front.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
“You expect me to walk through a garden with you like some obedient pet? After what you did? After what you *are*?”
He stepped closer, the bond humming between us. “I expect you to survive. And right now, survival means appearances. The Council is watching. Nyx is waiting for you to slip. Malrik is circling. If we appear divided, they’ll tear us apart.”
“Let them.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “Because if they tear us apart, they’ll tear the Accord apart. And then what? War? More blood? Is that what your mother would have wanted?”
I flinched. “Don’t use her to manipulate me.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m reminding you of what’s at stake. You want justice? Fine. But not at the cost of millions of lives. Not at the cost of a child who had nothing to do with any of this.”
Elara.
Her face flickered in my mind—imagined, fragile, innocent. A girl who didn’t know her father was a vampire lord. A girl who didn’t know her existence had been bought with my mother’s death.
I swallowed hard. “You don’t get to play the martyr.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m playing the survivor. Just like you.”
I looked away, my fingers brushing the mark on my wrist. It pulsed warmly, as if responding to his presence, to the tension between us.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll walk with you. But don’t expect me to smile.”
“I don’t,” he said. “I just need you to stay close. And quiet.”
“Or what? The bond will punish me?”
“Or I will,” he said, stepping closer. “And trust me, my methods are far less pleasant.”
I glared at him, but he didn’t back down. The air between us crackled—heat, tension, the unspoken pull of the bond. I could feel his pulse in my veins, his breath in my lungs. And when he reached out, his fingers grazing the rune on my palm, a jolt of fire tore through me.
“Stay close,” he murmured. “Or suffer the consequences.”
---
The garden was a contradiction—beautiful and deadly, like everything in this world.
Hidden beneath the Obsidian Spire, it was a sprawling labyrinth of black roses, silver thorns, and moon-blooming lilies that pulsed with faint bioluminescence. Paths wound through arches of twisted iron, past fountains of liquid mercury and statues carved from bone. Fae nobles drifted through the mist, their glamour shifting like smoke. Werewolf sentinels stood at intervals, their eyes tracking every movement.
And at the center of it all—us.
Lysander and I walked side by side, ten feet apart, the bond humming between us like a taut wire. I kept my expression blank, my posture rigid, my hands clasped behind my back. He was equally composed—cold, controlled, every step precise. But I could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles coiled beneath his coat, the way his fangs occasionally grazed his lower lip when he thought I wasn’t looking.
We were a performance. A lie. And everyone knew it.
“There they are,” a fae noble murmured, her voice like wind through glass. “The bonded enemies.”
“Look at her—she’s marked, but she doesn’t want to be.”
“He’ll break her,” another said. “They all do.”
I clenched my jaw, ignoring them. Let them talk. Let them think what they wanted. I wasn’t broken. Not yet.
Then the pain hit.
It started as a dull throb behind my eyes, a familiar warning. I slowed, my breath hitching. The bond was tightening—too much distance, too long without contact. I glanced at Lysander. He was ahead by three steps. Not far. But enough.
I took one step forward.
And the world tilted.
Dizziness slammed into me, my vision blurring, my knees buckling. I caught myself on a marble bench, my fingers digging into the stone. The rune on my palm flared, burning like fire. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist pulsed in time with my pulse, a cruel reminder of what I’d become.
“Cordelia,” Lysander said, turning. His voice was calm, but I heard the edge beneath it—concern? Control? I couldn’t tell.
“I’m fine,” I snapped, trying to stand. But my legs wouldn’t hold me. The bond fever was spreading—muscle spasms, nausea, a deep, aching cold that had nothing to do with the garden’s chill.
He was beside me in an instant, his hand on my arm. “You’re not fine.”
“Let go of me.”
“Or what? You’ll collapse in front of them?” He gestured to the watching nobles, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. “They’re waiting for it. For you to fail. For you to prove you’re weak.”
“I’m not weak.”
“Then prove it,” he said. “Let me carry you.”
I froze. “What?”
“You can’t walk. The fever’s too strong. So I’ll carry you. Or you can crawl. Your choice.”
I wanted to refuse. To fight. To scream that I wouldn’t be humiliated like this, not in front of them, not by *him*. But the pain was unbearable. My vision was narrowing. My breath came in short gasps.
And then he lifted me.
Effortless. Like I weighed nothing. One arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back, pulling me against his chest. I gasped, my hands instinctively gripping his shoulders. His body was cold, hard, unyielding—but his heartbeat was fast, erratic, *aroused*.
The bond flared—hot, electric, *intimate*.
“Put me down,” I hissed, struggling. But my movements only made it worse. The fever spiked, pain lancing through my skull.
“Stop fighting,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’d rather suffer than be carried by you.”
“Then suffer,” he said. “But you’ll still be in my arms.”
I glared up at him, my breath coming fast. His face was inches from mine, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name—hunger, need, *desire*. His fangs were fully extended now, sharp and deadly, and when he spoke, his breath brushed my throat.
“You’re so warm,” he murmured. “Even through the fever. Even through the hate. You’re *alive*.”
My pulse jumped. My skin prickled. And then—his mouth hovered over my pulse point, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin of my neck.
I froze.
Not from fear.
From *want*.
It was a whisper of a touch, barely there, but it sent a shock through me—deep, primal, *dangerous*. My fingers tightened in his coat. My breath hitched. The bond screamed between us, a surge of heat and need that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with *us*.
And then he pulled back.
Just enough to look at me. His eyes burned. “You didn’t pull away.”
“I—I was too weak,” I stammered.
“No,” he said. “You *wanted* it.”
“I hate you.”
“Then hate me like this,” he said, his voice a growl. “Hate me with your hands in my hair. Hate me with your legs around my waist. Hate me while I taste your blood and claim you as mine.”
My breath caught. My body *ached*.
And I hated him more in that moment than I ever had.
Because he was right.
---
He carried me through the garden, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the way the fae nobles leaned in to each other, their eyes wide with scandal.
“Look at her—she’s in his arms.”
“The bond’s taking hold.”
“She’ll be his by the end of the week.”
I kept my face turned away, my jaw clenched, but I couldn’t hide the flush creeping up my neck, the way my fingers still clung to his shoulders, the way my body molded against his.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t gloat. Just walked, steady, controlled, his grip firm, his presence overwhelming. And with every step, the fever lessened—replaced by something worse.
Heat.
It started low in my belly, spreading through my limbs, pooling between my thighs. It wasn’t the bond. Not entirely. It was *him*. His scent—dark spice and old blood. His strength. The way his thigh pressed between my legs as he carried me. The way his breath warmed my skin.
I wanted to push him away.
I wanted to pull him closer.
And when we reached the edge of the garden, where the path opened into a secluded alcove of black roses and silver thorns, he stopped.
“You can walk now,” he said, setting me down gently.
I swayed, my legs still weak, but the fever had receded. The bond was calm. For now.
I took a step back, putting distance between us. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You would have collapsed.”
“Then I would have.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “And what would that prove? That you’re stubborn? That you’d rather suffer than accept my help?”
“It proves I’m not yours.”
“You are,” he said. “Whether you admit it or not.”
“This mark doesn’t make me yours.”
“No,” he agreed. “But the way you looked at me when my fangs touched your throat? That did.”
I turned away, my face burning. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He moved behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his breath warm on my neck. “Then why didn’t you pull away? Why did your pulse jump? Why did your body *arch* toward me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t have one.
He turned me to face him, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes searched mine—crimson, intense, *hungry*.
“You think this is just about the bond?” he said. “You think I only want you because magic tied us together?”
“Isn’t that why?”
“No,” he said. “I wanted you the moment you walked into that hall. The bond didn’t create this. It just *unlocked* it.”
My breath hitched.
“You hate me,” he said. “Good. Hate me. Fight me. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to me. Because I can *feel* it. The way your body responds. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your heart beats when I’m near.”
“It’s the bond.”
“It’s *us*,” he said. “And you know it.”
I looked up at him, my chest tight, my pulse racing. And for the first time, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
A man who had signed an order to save his daughter.
A man who carried grief like armor.
A man who, despite everything, still looked at me like I was the only light in his darkness.
And I hated him.
But gods help me, I was starting to *believe* him.
---
Later that night, alone in the suite, 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 fed her.
He’d *given* her his blood.
And he’d lied.
I held the vial in my trembling fingers, the truth crashing over me like a wave.
He wasn’t just a murderer.
He was a liar.
And I had almost—*almost*—let myself believe in him.
The bond flared, a sharp, accusing throb.
But this time, it wasn’t pain.
It was betrayal.