The morning after the gala, the Obsidian Spire felt like a cage.
I woke tangled in black silk, my body still humming from the night before—the heat of the dance, the scandal of the torn gown, the way Lysander’s thumb had brushed my lip like a promise. The bite mark above my collarbone throbbed faintly, a fresh wound layered over the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. Two brands. Two claims. Two lies I couldn’t escape.
And then there was the vial.
I’d left it on the hearth, cracked and empty, a silent accusation. I didn’t know if he’d found it. Didn’t know if he’d crushed it in his fist like he had the last one, or if he’d kept it—some twisted trophy of a past I didn’t want to believe in.
Lysander was already dressed, standing at the window in his usual obsidian armor, his back to me. The bond pulsed between us, steady, watchful. I could feel his tension like a blade pressed to my spine. He hadn’t spoken since last night. Not after I’d whispered *“Try”* and turned away. Not when I’d slipped into bed, my skin still burning from his touch. He’d stayed on the far side of the suite, a shadow in the dark, and I’d hated him for it. For giving me space. For not taking what he claimed he wanted.
But the truth?
I hated myself more.
Because part of me had wanted him to.
Had wanted him to cross the room, to pin me to the bed, to make good on his threats. To prove that this—this maddening, unbearable pull—wasn’t just magic. That it was *real*. That I wasn’t the only one losing control.
And now, as I sat up, the rune on my palm flaring with every movement, I realized something worse.
I was afraid.
Afraid that if he did touch me again, I wouldn’t push him away.
Afraid that I’d finally believe him.
Afraid that I’d stop hating him.
“You’re awake,” he said, not turning. His voice was smooth, controlled. The voice of a ruler, not a man.
“You don’t get to monitor me,” I snapped, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The bond tightened—too far, too fast—and pain lanced through my skull. I gripped the sheets, waiting for it to pass.
“You’re pushing again,” he said. “Why?”
“Because I can.”
“No,” he said, turning. His crimson eyes locked onto mine. “Because you’re afraid.”
I flinched. “Of you?”
“Of *this*,” he said, stepping closer. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—as he closed the distance. “Of what we are. Of what you feel when I touch you. Of what happens when you stop fighting it.”
“I don’t feel anything,” I lied.
He smiled—cold, knowing. “Your pulse says otherwise.”
I looked away, my fingers brushing the bite mark on my shoulder. “You think that changes anything? That marking me in front of the entire Council makes me yours?”
“It proves it,” he said. “To them. To you. To me.”
“Proves what? That you’re possessive? That you enjoy humiliating me?”
“Proves that you’re *alive*,” he said. “That you’re not just a weapon aimed at my heart. That you’re a woman. That you *want* me, even when you hate me.”
My breath caught. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know,” he said, stepping even closer. “I feel it. Every time our hands brush. Every time you don’t pull away. Every time your body arches toward mine.”
I stood abruptly, putting space between us. “I need air.”
“The garden,” he said. “We have a meeting with the Fae emissaries in an hour. You’ll come.”
“Or what? The bond will punish me?”
“Or I will,” he said. “And trust me, Cordelia, my methods are far more… intimate.”
I glared at him, but the bond hummed in my veins, a reminder that I didn’t have a choice. Not really. Not anymore.
---
The garden was quieter in the daylight, the mist burning off under the weak winter sun. Black roses glistened with dew, their thorns sharp as knives. The path wound through arches of twisted iron, past fountains of liquid mercury that shimmered like molten silver. I walked ahead of Lysander, my steps measured, my back rigid. The bond kept me within ten feet, but I refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the way my skin prickled when he was near, the way my breath hitched when his voice dropped to that velvet growl.
We were meeting the Fae emissaries at the Moonwell—a circular pool of still, black water said to show visions of the future. I didn’t believe in visions. I believed in proof. In truth. In justice.
And then I saw her.
She emerged from the shadows of a rose arbor, barefoot, draped in nothing but a man’s shirt—*his* shirt—her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
Seraphine.
My breath stopped.
She was beautiful—unnaturally so, her features too perfect, her glamour shimmering like heat haze. But it was the shirt that made my blood freeze. The silver cuffs. The obsidian buttons. The way it hung open, revealing the curve of her breast, the delicate chain around her neck—and the fresh, angry bite mark on her collarbone.
Identical to mine.
“Lysander,” she purred, stepping forward. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
He went still. “Seraphine. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“But I *am*,” she said, gliding toward him. “And look—your little witch is here too.”
Her gaze slid to me, cold, mocking. “You must be Cordelia. I’ve heard so much about you. How you hate him. How you want to destroy him.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My eyes were locked on the mark. On the shirt. On the way she moved toward him like she had the right.
“You fed her,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Lysander turned to me. “No. She took—”
“Last winter,” Seraphine interrupted, stepping between us. Her scent—fae musk and something darker, something *used*—flooded my senses. “He came to me. In the night. Said he needed relief from the weight of his crown. And I gave it to him. Blood. Body. *Everything*.”
My stomach twisted.
“He lies,” Lysander said, his voice sharp. “She ambushed me. Took my blood by force. I severed the bond—”
“But you came back,” she said, turning to him with a smile. “Night after night. Until the debt was paid. Until I tasted like *power*.”
“That’s not true,” I said, but my voice wavered.
“Ask him,” she said. “Ask him how many times he knelt at my feet. How many times he begged for my blood. How many times he whispered my name while he—”
“Enough,” Lysander snarled, stepping forward. “You have no right to be here. No right to speak of—”
“Or what?” she said, tilting her head. “You’ll silence me? Again? You think I’m afraid of you, Lysander? You think I won’t tell them what you are? What you *did*?”
The bond screamed—hot, jagged, *betrayal*—and I didn’t think. I lunged.
My hands closed around her throat, shoving her back against the iron arch. “You don’t get to touch him,” I hissed. “You don’t get to *claim* him.”
She laughed, breathless, her fingers clawing at my wrists. “And you do? You, who came here to kill him? You, who still call him a murderer?”
“I—”
“Cordelia.”
Lysander’s voice. Calm. Commanding.
And then his hands were on me—strong, cold, pulling me back. His chest pressed against my back, his arms locking around my waist, holding me in place. I struggled, but he was too strong, the bond flaring between us, feeding on my rage, my jealousy, my *fear*.
“Let me go,” I spat.
“Not until you calm down,” he said, his breath hot on my neck. “She’s not worth it.”
“She’s wearing your shirt,” I said, my voice breaking. “She has your *mark*.”
“She stole it,” he said. “Just like she stole my blood. Just like she’s stealing this moment to humiliate you.”
I turned in his arms, shoving against his chest. “Then why does she have it? Why does she *look* like you let her?”
He didn’t answer. Just held me, his crimson eyes burning into mine. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m *furious*.”
“Same thing,” he said. “When it’s about me.”
I wanted to slap him. To scream. To tear the smug certainty from his face. But the bond pulsed—warm, insistent—and I felt it, deep in my bones.
He wasn’t lying.
Not completely.
But he wasn’t telling the whole truth either.
Seraphine stepped forward, her smile sharp. “You see, Cordelia? He *wants* you to believe her. Because if you don’t, you’ll realize he’s just like every other vampire lord—cold, calculating, *cruel*. He used me. He’ll use you. And when he’s done, he’ll discard you like he did me.”
“Get out,” Lysander said, his voice low, dangerous. “Now.”
She laughed. “Or what? You’ll have me killed? You already tried.”
My breath caught. “You *tried* to kill her?”
“She’s a threat,” he said. “To the Accord. To *us*.”
“To *you*,” I said. “Because she knows your secrets.”
“And you don’t?” he said, stepping closer. “You think I’ve told you everything? You think I’m not hiding things too?”
“Then tell me,” I said. “Tell me the truth. About her. About the blood. About why she has your shirt and your mark and the look of a woman who’s been *fucked* by you.”
His jaw tightened. “Not here.”
“*When*, then?” I demanded. “After you’ve silenced her? After you’ve made me believe in you? Or do I have to fight for every damn truth, like it’s some prize you get to dangle in front of me?”
“You want the truth?” Seraphine said, stepping forward. “I’ll give it to you. He came to me because he was weak. Because he was *afraid*. Because the weight of his guilt was crushing him, and he needed someone to take it away. And I did. I let him feed from me. I let him lose himself in me. And when he was done, he tried to erase me. But I’m still here. And I’m not afraid of him anymore.”
My chest ached.
Not from the bond.
From *this*.
The thought of him—broken, desperate, seeking comfort in her arms—made something inside me crack.
And then, worse—envy.
Because she’d seen him like that.
And I hadn’t.
“You’re lying,” I said, but my voice was weak.
“Am I?” she said. “Then why does he flinch when I say it? Why does he keep me alive, when he could have me killed? Because he *needs* me. Just like he needs you. Not for love. For *survival*.”
“That’s enough,” Lysander said, stepping between us. “Leave. Or I’ll have you thrown into the lower cells.”
She smiled. “You already did. And I still came back.”
She turned, gliding away, her bare feet silent on the path. But before she disappeared into the mist, she looked back.
“He’ll ruin you, Cordelia,” she said. “Just like he ruined me. And when he does, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”
And then she was gone.
The garden was silent.
The bond hummed between us, a live wire of tension, of *doubt*.
I turned to Lysander, my voice barely a whisper. “You fed her.”
“She took my blood,” he said. “I didn’t give it willingly.”
“But you went back.”
“No.”
“Then why does she have your shirt? Why does she look like—”
“Because she stole it,” he said. “And the mark? That was *my* blood, yes. But it was taken by force. I severed the bond. I never touched her again.”
“And the lower cells?”
He exhaled. “I imprisoned her. For theft. For assault. For trying to frame you.”
“And you didn’t kill her.”
“Because she’s useful,” he said. “And because killing her would start a war with the Shadow Court.”
I stared at him, my chest tight. “You’re hiding something.”
“I’m protecting you,” he said. “And the Accord.”
“No,” I said. “You’re protecting *yourself*.”
He didn’t deny it.
And that hurt more than any lie.
“I need air,” I said, turning away.
“Cordelia—”
“Don’t,” I said, walking faster. The bond pulled—pain flaring behind my eyes—but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not now. Not when the world was spinning, when the truth was shifting, when I didn’t know what to believe.
“Cordelia, *stop*,” he said, his voice sharp with command.
But I didn’t.
I ran.
Through the garden, past the fountains, past the statues of bone. The pain spiked—my vision blurred, my legs buckled—but I kept going. I had to. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t *feel*.
And then the sky cracked open.
Rain.
Heavy, cold, relentless.
It soaked through my gown, plastered my hair to my face, turned the path to mud. I didn’t care. I kept running, the bond screaming, my heart breaking.
And then I felt him.
Behind me.
Close.
Too close.
“You think you can run from me?” he said, his voice a growl. “You think you can run from *this*?”
I turned, rain streaming down my face. “I hate you.”
“Then hate me,” he said, stepping forward. “But do it while you’re *mine*.”
And then he was on me.
Pinning me against a tree, his body hard, his breath hot on my neck. The bond flared—fire, need, *desire*—and I didn’t fight.
Because part of me wanted this.
Wanted *him*.
“You think I wanted her?” he said, his voice rough. “I’ve only wanted you since the moment you lied to my face.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
Desperate. Furious. *Electric*.
His mouth crashed into mine, his fangs grazing my lip, his hands fisted in my hair. I moaned—into his mouth, into the storm, into the bond that screamed between us.
And then I broke it.
Pushing him back, my chest heaving, my lips swollen, my eyes burning with tears.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t make me want you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just watched me, rain streaming down his face, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was losing.