The fire had burned low, its blue flames flickering like dying stars across the vaulted ceiling. I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my undergarments, my skin damp from the storm, my body humming with the aftermath of what had just happened. Not the kiss—though that burned in my memory like a brand—but the *truth*. Lysander’s confession. His daughter. Elara. A child hidden in London, her life the price of my mother’s death.
And I didn’t know what to do with it.
Part of me wanted to scream. To tear the words from his throat, to claw the grief from his eyes, to pretend it was all a lie, a manipulation, another weapon in his arsenal of control. But the bond—steady now, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—wouldn’t let me. It didn’t just tether us. It *knew*. It whispered in my veins, a constant, unrelenting awareness: He’s telling the truth.
But then there was Seraphine.
Her voice echoed in my skull: *“He came to me because he was weak. Because he was afraid.”* The shirt. The mark. The way she’d looked at him—like she’d seen him break.
And worse—like she’d been the one to put him back together.
I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to steady my thoughts. This was a game. A war of truths and lies, of power and perception. And I was losing. Not because I didn’t have the strength. Not because I didn’t have the will.
Because I was starting to *believe* him.
The door to the sleeping chamber opened, and Lysander stepped out, dressed in fresh black trousers and a tailored coat, his hair combed back, his expression unreadable. He looked like a king again—cold, composed, untouchable. But I saw the shadows beneath his crimson eyes, the way his jaw clenched when he looked at me. He was as shaken as I was. Maybe more.
“You should dress,” he said, his voice low. “The Council convenes in an hour. We’re expected.”
“I’m not going,” I said, standing. My legs were still unsteady, but I forced myself upright. “Not after last night. Not after what you—”
“What *I* did?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You kissed me back, Cordelia. You *let* me touch you. You *wanted* it.”
“It was the storm,” I snapped. “The bond. The fever. It wasn’t *me*.”
He smiled—cold, knowing. “No. It was you. The part of you that’s tired of hating me. The part that’s starting to wonder if I’m not the monster you painted me to be.”
“You *are* a monster,” I said, but my voice wavered. “You signed the order. You let her die.”
“I saved a child,” he said. “Just like your mother tried to save you.”
I flinched. He saw it. Stepped closer.
“You think I don’t carry her death?” he said, his voice rough. “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.”
My breath caught. I wanted to hate him for saying it. For using her like that. But I couldn’t. Because it was true. I could feel it in the bond—the grief, the guilt, the raw, unrelenting *loss*.
And then, worse—compassion.
I turned away, crossing to the hearth. The fire had been relit, its warmth a mockery of the storm still raging outside. “I need to think,” I said. “I need to—”
“You need to survive,” he said. “And right now, survival means standing with me. The Council is watching. Nyx is waiting. Malrik is circling. If we appear divided, they’ll tear us apart.”
“Let them,” I said. “Let them see the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” he asked. “That I signed an order to save my daughter? That I’ve spent sixteen years protecting her in silence? That I’d do it again?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
---
The Chamber of Accord was colder than I remembered, the obsidian mirrors reflecting not our faces, but our auras—shifting colors of power, emotion, intent. The Council sat in their ring of thrones, twelve figures shrouded in shadow. At the center, the Contract Stone stood dormant, its runes dark, waiting.
We stepped forward together.
Lysander’s hand brushed mine—just a whisper of contact—but the bond flared, a surge of heat and tension that made my breath hitch. I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not here. Not now. The bond demanded proximity. The Council demanded unity.
And I? I didn’t know what I demanded anymore.
The Speaker raised a hand. “The Council is in session. We begin with faction concerns. Fae delegation, you have the floor.”
Queen Nyx stood, her gown a cascade of frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. She smiled—slow, deliberate—as she turned to me.
“I rise to accuse Cordelia Vale of witchcraft sabotage,” she said, her voice like wind through glass. “Last night, during the gala, she used forbidden magic to disrupt the ritual of unity. A spell of illusion, designed to discredit the bond between her and Lord Duskbane.”
The chamber stilled.
Every head turned. Fae nobles leaned forward, their glamour flickering with interest. The werewolf alpha bared his teeth. Malrik’s smile widened.
And me?
I froze.
Because it was a lie.
I hadn’t cast any spell. Hadn’t touched magic. Hadn’t even *thought* about disrupting the bond. But Nyx was claiming I had. And if I denied it, if I fought back, I’d look guilty. Desperate. Weak.
“The evidence is clear,” Nyx continued, holding up a shimmering orb of captured light. Inside, a distorted image played—me, standing on the balcony, my hand raised, a pulse of dark energy rippling from my fingertips. The torn gown. The bite mark. The way Lysander had pressed me against the pillar.
It was fake.
But it was *convincing*.
“This is proof,” Nyx said. “Cordelia Vale used forbidden magic to manipulate perception, to cast doubt on the legitimacy of the bond. By the Bloodfire Accords, such an act is punishable by exile—or execution.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
This was a trap. A test. Nyx wasn’t just accusing me. She was forcing Lysander to choose—protect me, or protect the Accord.
And if he chose me, he’d look weak.
If he chose the Accord, he’d lose me.
I turned to him, my breath shallow. His expression was unreadable, but I felt the shift in the bond—tension, calculation, *danger*.
“Cordelia Vale,” the Speaker intoned. “Do you deny the accusation?”
All eyes turned to me.
I opened my mouth—
And Lysander spoke.
“She didn’t do it,” he said, his voice calm, controlled. “Because she was with me.”
Silence.
Then—gasps. Whispers. Malrik’s smile faltered.
Nyx turned to him, her eyes narrowing. “And where were you, Lord Duskbane?”
“On the balcony,” he said. “With her. From the moment the dress tore until the gala ended. I can confirm—she cast no spell. She used no magic. She was under my supervision the entire time.”
My breath caught.
He was lying.
For me.
The bond flared—hot, sharp, *real*—and I felt it in my chest, in my pulse, in the way my magic reached for his. He wasn’t just protecting the Accord.
He was protecting *me*.
Nyx didn’t flinch. “And you expect us to believe this? That the woman who came here to destroy you would suddenly submit to your supervision?”
“I expect you to believe the truth,” he said. “Because I don’t lie. Not in this chamber. Not about this.”
She studied him—long, cold, calculating. Then, slowly, she smiled. “Very well. If you vouch for her, then the accusation is withdrawn. For now.”
The chamber exhaled.
But I didn’t.
Because the bond was screaming—heat, tension, *need*—and I knew, with cold certainty, that this wasn’t over.
---
We left the chamber in silence, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on me like a stone. Lysander walked beside me, his presence a wall, his expression unreadable. The bond hummed between us, a live wire of unspoken words, of truths too dangerous to name.
When we reached the suite, he closed the door behind us and turned, his crimson eyes locking onto mine.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Why lie for me?”
He stepped closer, the bond flaring. “Because if I hadn’t, they’d have executed you.”
“And that matters to you?”
“It matters to the Accord,” he said. “To the bond. To *me*.”
“Don’t,” I said, stepping back. “Don’t pretend this was about anything but power.”
“It *was* about power,” he said. “The power to protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Aren’t you?” He moved behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his breath warm on my neck. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body responds when I’m near. The way you didn’t pull away when I kissed you?”
My breath hitched.
“You think I don’t know you?” he said. “You think I don’t see the way you fight yourself? The way you hate me, but you *want* me?”
“It’s the bond,” I said, but my voice wavered.
“No,” he said. “It’s *us*.”
I turned to face him, my chest tight, my pulse racing. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to lie for me, to protect me, to *claim* me, and then pretend it means something.”
“It *does* mean something,” he said. “It means I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“And Seraphine?” I demanded. “What about her? What about the blood? The shirt? The way she looked at you like she’d been *yours*?”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “She took my blood. I didn’t give it willingly. She stole the shirt. The mark? That was a forced bond. I severed it. I never touched her again.”
“And the lower cells?”
“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?”
He didn’t answer.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning into mine.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Claiming.
His mouth moved against mine, soft and sure, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me against him. The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t fight it. I kissed him back, my fingers fisting in his coat, my body arching into his.
He broke it first, pulling back just enough to look at me, his breath unsteady, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “Admit it.”
My breath caught.
And then—softly—I smiled.
“Never,” I whispered.
But the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I was losing.
---
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 lied.
Again.
And this time, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him.