The night of the opening gala arrived like a storm held at bay—tense, glittering, inevitable. The Obsidian Spire had been transformed. Chandeliers of frozen bloodlight blazed from the vaulted ceilings, casting crimson shadows across marble floors inlaid with silver runes. Fae nobles drifted through the grand hall in gowns of living shadow and frost, their glamours shifting with every step. Werewolves prowled the edges in tailored leather, eyes sharp, fangs bared in what passed for a smile. Vampires stood in clusters, their obsidian coats gleaming, their movements precise, predatory.
And at the center of it all—us.
Cordelia and I.
Allied Signatories.
Bonded. Marked. Watched.
She stood beside me in a gown of midnight silk, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin, the neckline plunging just enough to reveal the sharp line of her collarbone—and the Duskbane sigil glowing faintly on her wrist. Her raven hair was swept up in a loose twist, a few rebellious strands framing her storm-gray eyes, which burned with defiance even as the bond pulsed between us, a constant, humming awareness.
She hadn’t spoken to me since the garden. Not a word. Not even when I’d handed her the gown—an order from the Council, meant to present unity. She’d taken it in silence, her fingers brushing mine just long enough to send a jolt through the bond, her breath hitching before she turned away.
She was furious.
And I didn’t blame her.
Because I knew what she’d found.
The vial.
Seraphine’s name scrawled across it like a brand.
She thought I’d lied. That I’d fed her willingly. That I’d *wanted* her.
But she didn’t know the truth.
She didn’t know that Seraphine had taken that blood by force—that she’d ambushed me during a diplomatic meeting last winter, bitten me before I could react, and drained just enough to claim a bond she had no right to. That I’d severed it the moment I could, that I’d *never* returned to her chambers, never touched her again.
But how could I explain that without sounding like I was making excuses?
How could I make her believe me when the bond itself was built on lies—on secrets I still couldn’t tell?
“They’re watching,” Cordelia murmured, her voice low, her gaze scanning the room. “Nyx. Malrik. Even the werewolves. They’re waiting for us to break.”
“Let them wait,” I said. “We’re not giving them the satisfaction.”
She turned her head, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to speak for me.”
“I don’t,” I agreed. “But the bond does. And right now, it’s screaming that you’re two seconds from storming out of here and collapsing in the corridor.”
She stiffened. “I can handle the distance.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t. And if you try, you’ll humiliate yourself in front of the entire Council. Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer. Just turned away, her jaw clenched so tight I could hear her teeth grind. The bond flared—heat, tension, *need*—and I stepped closer, just enough that our arms brushed.
She inhaled sharply.
“Stay close,” I said. “Or suffer the consequences.”
“You keep saying that,” she snapped. “But you’re the one who suffers when I pull away. I can feel it. Your pulse stutters. Your fangs lengthen. You’re not in control, Lysander. The bond is.”
I almost smiled. “And you think you are?”
“I don’t want control,” she said. “I want *freedom*.”
“Then you’ll die,” I said. “Because the bond won’t let you go. Not until the debt is known. And until then, you’re mine.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not yours.”
“Aren’t you?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “Your body says otherwise. The way your pulse jumps when I touch you. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way you didn’t pull away when my fangs grazed your throat.”
Her eyes flashed. “That was the bond.”
“No,” I said. “That was *you*.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the Speaker’s voice cut through the room, silencing the whispers, the music, the hum of magic.
“Lords and ladies of the Accord,” he intoned. “We gather to celebrate unity. To honor the bonds that hold us together. And tonight, we welcome two new signatories—Cordelia Vale and Lysander Duskbane—bound by the Contract Stone, marked by fate, united in purpose.”
Applause. Polite. Cold. Calculating.
Every eye turned to us.
I offered my arm.
Cordelia hesitated—just a heartbeat—but I felt it in the bond, a flicker of resistance, of pride. Then she placed her hand on my sleeve, her fingers cold, her grip tight.
We stepped forward together.
“They’re eating it up,” she muttered. “The perfect couple. The bonded enemies. How *romantic*.”
“They don’t believe it,” I said. “Not yet.”
“And you want them to?”
“I want them to *fear* it,” I said. “Because if they think we’re united, they won’t dare move against us.”
She didn’t answer. Just kept her eyes forward, her expression blank. But I felt the shift in the bond—less hate, more calculation. She was thinking. Planning. And that was dangerous.
---
The gala unfolded in a blur of politics and pretense. Toasts were made. Alliances were hinted at. Malrik approached us first, his smile sharp, his eyes colder than the bloodwine in his glass.
“Lysander,” he said, raising his goblet. “Congratulations on your new… partnership.”
I inclined my head. “Malrik. I trust you’re enjoying the festivities.”
“Immensely.” His gaze slid to Cordelia. “You’ve chosen an interesting mate. So much fire. So much *anger*. I wonder how long it will take you to break her.”
Her fingers tightened on my arm. The bond flared—heat, fury, *danger*.
“She’s not mine to break,” I said, my voice low, controlled. “She’s mine to protect.”
Malrik chuckled. “How noble. But we both know the truth. The bond demands submission. And eventually, she’ll kneel.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But not to you.”
He smiled. “No. To me, she’ll only bleed.”
Before I could respond, Nyx glided forward, her gown a cascade of frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice.
“Cordelia,” she purred. “How *lovely* to see you alive. We all believed you dead. A tragedy, really. Your mother was such a… visionary.”
Cordelia’s voice was ice. “And you were such a *coward*. Hiding behind oaths while others do your dirty work.”
Nyx didn’t flinch. “I do what is necessary to maintain order. Unlike some, I don’t let sentiment cloud my judgment.”
“Sentiment?” Cordelia said. “You call murder *order*?”
“I call it *peace*,” Nyx said. “And if you disrupt it, you will answer to me.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, *alive*—and I stepped between them, my presence a wall.
“Enough,” I said. “This is a celebration. Not a battlefield.”
Nyx smiled. “Then let us celebrate. With a dance.”
She extended her hand to me.
I didn’t move.
“I don’t dance,” I said.
“But you will,” she said. “For appearances.”
“He won’t,” Cordelia said, stepping forward. “Because I will.”
She took my hand, her grip firm, her eyes daring me to refuse.
I didn’t.
I led her to the center of the floor, where the music had begun—a slow, haunting melody played on strings made from fae sinew. The other couples followed, swirling in a dance of power and politics, their movements precise, their intentions hidden.
I placed my hand on her waist, pulling her close—close enough that the bond hummed, close enough that I could feel the heat of her body, the rapid beat of her heart.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.
“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. “I did it to keep her hands off you.”
“Jealous?”
“Disgusted,” she said. “She’s using you. Just like Seraphine did.”
My jaw tightened. “Seraphine didn’t *use* me. She attacked me.”
“Then why did you give her your blood?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “She took it. And I severed the bond the moment I could.”
She searched my eyes, looking for a lie. But the bond wouldn’t let me deceive her—not completely. And she knew it.
“Then why keep the vial?”
“Because it’s evidence,” I said. “Proof of her betrayal. And if you’d asked me, I would have told you.”
She looked away. “I don’t need your explanations.”
“No,” I said. “But you need the truth. And one day, you’ll ask for it.”
We danced in silence, the music wrapping around us like a spell. Her body moved with mine, fluid, reluctant, *perfect*. Every step, every turn, every brush of her thigh against mine sent a pulse through the bond—heat, tension, *want*.
And then it happened.
Her shoulder.
The fabric of her gown—thin, delicate—caught on the silver clasp of my coat. A sharp tug. A rip.
And suddenly, the left strap of her dress was gone, the silk sliding down her arm, baring her shoulder—and the fresh, still-raw bite mark just above her collarbone.
The ritual test.
From earlier that day.
The Council had demanded proof of our bond. A blood exchange. A ritual bite. I’d done it quickly, efficiently, in private—just a graze of my fangs, a drop of blood, sealed with a whispered vow. I hadn’t meant for it to be seen.
But now it was.
Exposed.
Real.
The music faltered. Conversations died. Every eye in the room locked onto her—onto the mark, onto the way her skin flushed, onto the way she froze, her breath catching.
And then the whispers began.
“Look at her—*bitten*.”
“He’s claimed her.”
“She’s his now.”
“She’ll never leave him.”
Cordelia’s face burned. She reached up, trying to pull the fabric back into place, but it was useless. The damage was done.
I didn’t hesitate.
I stepped closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, pressing her against me. “Let them look,” I murmured, my lips brushing her ear. “Let them see what’s mine.”
She trembled. “This changes nothing.”
“No,” I agreed. “But it proves something.”
“What?”
“That you can’t hide from me. From *us*. The bond is real. The mark is real. And no matter how much you hate me, you can’t deny what we are.”
She looked up at me, her eyes blazing. “I *hate* you.”
“Then hate me,” I said, my voice a growl. “But do it with my mark on your skin. Do it with my hands on your body. Do it while the world knows you’re mine.”
The music resumed, louder now, the dancers moving around us like a storm. But we stayed still, locked in place, in each other.
And then I saw him.
Kaelen.
My Beta. My most trusted warrior. Watching from the edge of the room, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—dark, assessing—flicked to Cordelia’s exposed shoulder, to the mark, to the way her body pressed against mine.
And I felt it—jealousy. Sharp. Sudden. *Mine*.
Good.
Let him see.
Let them all see.
She was mine.
---
Later, when the gala had thinned, when the whispers had turned to scandal and the night had deepened, I found her on the balcony.
She stood at the railing, the city of Geneva spread below, her arms wrapped around herself, her gown still torn, the mark on her shoulder glowing faintly in the moonlight.
I didn’t speak. Just stepped beside her, close enough that our arms brushed, close enough that the bond hummed between us.
“You enjoyed that,” she said, her voice quiet. “Making me a spectacle.”
“I didn’t rip your dress,” I said. “But I won’t apologize for what it revealed.”
“It revealed *nothing*.”
“It revealed the truth,” I said. “That you’re bound to me. That you carry my mark. That no matter how much you fight it, you can’t escape what we are.”
She turned to me, her eyes glistening. “You think this makes you powerful?”
“I think it makes us *real*,” I said. “And one day, you’ll stop fighting it.”
“Never.”
“Then I’ll make you,” I said, stepping closer, pinning her against the pillar. My thumb brushed her lower lip, slow, deliberate. “I’ll make you forget your hate. I’ll make you forget your mission. I’ll make you forget everything but *me*.”
She didn’t pull away. Just stared up at me, her breath unsteady, her pulse racing beneath her skin.
And then—softly—she smiled.
“Try,” she whispered.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn’t just a battle.
It was a war.
And I intended to win.
But not tonight.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I could feel it—shifting, changing, *growing*.
She hated me.
But she wanted me.
And that was enough.
For now.
---
Back in the suite, long after the gala had ended, I found the vial.
Where she’d left it—on the edge of the hearth, the glass cracked, the label still visible.
For Power.
Seraphine.
I picked it up, my fingers tightening around it.
And I made a decision.
Tomorrow, I would tell her the truth.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I had to.
Because if I didn’t, she would destroy us both.
And I wasn’t ready to lose her.
Not yet.
Not ever.