The first time I see him, I want to kill him.
He’s standing over a black obsidian altar, bathed in violet moonlight that slices through the stained-glass dome above. Blood—dark, thick, still warm—drips from his fangs and pools at the base of the altar, where it’s absorbed like ink into stone. In his hand, clutched between long, pale fingers, is a silver locket. My mother’s locket. The one stolen from her body the night she died.
My breath stops.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. I’m a shadow in the archway, cloaked in illusion, my magic wrapped tight around me like a second skin. One flicker of power, one misstep, and the sentinels will tear me apart. But I don’t care. Not when I’m looking at *him*.
Prince Cassian D’Vaire.
The vampire who cursed my bloodline.
The monster who marked my mother and left her to die in shame.
The man I’ve spent ten years hunting.
He’s younger than I expected—early twenties in human terms, though I know better. Vampires don’t age like we do. But there’s something ancient in the way he moves, a predator’s grace, every motion calculated. His hair is black as a raven’s wing, falling just past his jaw. His eyes—when he finally lifts his gaze—are gold. Not amber, not honey. *Gold*. Like molten metal, like fire in the dark.
And they’re locked on me.
My pulse hammers. I don’t know how he sees through the veil. No one should. I trained under the Coven Triad’s most ruthless illusionists. But his lips twitch. A smirk. A challenge.
Then he closes his fist around the locket.
That’s when I snap.
I drop the illusion and lunge.
My boots hit the marble floor with a crack, and the air shivers as I pull the cursed dagger from my thigh sheath. It hums in my grip, etched with runes that burn cold against my palm. Forged from the bones of the first witch in my bloodline, it’s meant to sever curses at their root. Meant to kill the caster.
Meant to kill *him*.
“You took everything from me!” I scream, charging across the chamber.
He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t move.
He just watches me come, those golden eyes tracking my every step, like I’m a storm he’s been waiting for.
And then—
—the ritual begins.
I don’t know what triggers it. Maybe it’s the dagger. Maybe it’s my blood, boiling with rage and magic. Maybe it’s fate, cruel and laughing, twisting the knife deeper.
But the moment my fingers brush his wrist—just a graze, just a spark—the world explodes.
Lightning splits the air. Violet and silver, crackling like live wire, lashing out from the altar, from the walls, from *us*. The sigils carved into the floor ignite, glowing white-hot, and a force slams into me, throwing me back. I hit the ground hard, the dagger skittering from my hand.
I try to rise. My muscles won’t obey.
My skin burns.
I look down.
Sigils—*my* sigils, the ones etched into my blood at birth—are flaring across my arms, my collarbones, my stomach. They pulse with light, searing, alive. And they’re *changing*. Twisting. Reaching. Connecting.
Like they’re answering something.
“No,” I whisper.
But the magic doesn’t listen.
I turn my head. Cassian is on his knees, one hand pressed to his chest, the other outstretched toward me. His face is twisted—not in pain, but in something worse. Awe. Horror. Recognition.
“It can’t be,” he breathes.
And then the bond slams into me.
It’s not a sound. Not a touch. It’s a *knowing*, deep in my marrow, in my soul. Like a door I never knew was closed has been wrenched open, and on the other side—*him*. His heartbeat. His hunger. His loneliness. His rage. It floods me, drowning me, and I scream.
Not from pain.
From *recognition*.
Because I know him.
Not his face. Not his name. But his *soul*.
And it knows mine.
“Fated,” someone whispers. A voice from the shadows. A gasp. Then another. Then a chorus.
Fated.
The word echoes through the chamber, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings, the ancient pillars, the watching statues of dead kings.
Fated.
Impossible. Forbidden. A myth. Witches and vampires haven’t shared a mate-bond in over five centuries. Not since the Blood Wars. Not since the Accords banned cross-species unions as acts of war.
And yet—
—the sigils on my skin are now mirrored on his. White fire tracing the same paths, the same patterns. Our blood sings in unison. My breath matches his. My pulse—wild, frantic—syncs with his slow, immortal rhythm.
I try to deny it. I claw at my arms, at the burning marks, as if I can tear them off. But they’re not on the surface. They’re *in* me. Part of me.
“This isn’t happening,” I gasp. “This is a trick. A spell. You did this—”
“I didn’t,” Cassian says, rising. His voice is low, rough, like stone dragged over fire. “I didn’t do this, witch. It’s *you*.”
He takes a step toward me. Then another.
I scramble back, but my limbs are weak, trembling. The bond tugs at me, pulling me toward him like gravity. I hate it. I hate *him*.
“Stay away from me!”
“You think I want this?” He’s close now. So close I can smell him—cedar and iron, frost and fire. “You think I asked for a witch to walk into my court and *break* me?”
“You don’t get to play the victim!” I spit. “You cursed my family! You marked my mother and left her to die!”
His eyes flash. “I never marked your mother.”
“Liar!”
“Look at the locket,” he says, holding it out. “Open it.”
I hesitate. It could be a trap. A trick. But something in his voice—raw, desperate—makes me reach for it.
The metal is cold. I pry it open.
Inside, no picture. No lock of hair.
Just a sigil. One I’ve seen before. Not in my blood. In the records. In the lies.
The sigil of House Vael, a rival vampire bloodline, long thought extinct.
My breath catches.
“They framed me,” Cassian says quietly. “They wanted war. Wanted to break the Accords. And they used your mother to do it.”
I want to deny it. I want to scream. But the bond—this cursed, impossible bond—whispers something else. A truth I can’t ignore.
He’s not lying.
And that means… I’ve been wrong.
For ten years, I’ve been hunting the wrong man.
The realization hits like a blade to the gut. I double over, gasping. The sigils flare brighter, reacting to my turmoil, and the bond *pulls*, tighter, deeper.
Cassian drops to one knee in front of me. Not in submission. In warning.
“The curse,” he says. “It’s not breaking. It’s *awakening*. And if you don’t let me help you, it will kill you by dawn.”
I laugh. It comes out broken, hysterical. “You expect me to trust you? After this?”
“No,” he says. “I expect you to survive.”
And then he touches me.
One hand on my cheek. Warm. Steady. Human, almost.
The moment his skin meets mine, the world *shifts*.
I see flashes—his memories, pouring into me. A child in the snow, alone. A throne drenched in blood. A woman with my eyes, screaming as she’s dragged away. A vow, whispered in the dark: *I will find her. I will wait.*
And then—
—me.
Not as I am. As I *was*. As I *will be*. Standing beside him. Laughing. Fighting. Loving.
I tear away, slapping his hand aside.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t you *dare* show me that.”
“It’s not a show,” he says, rising. “It’s a bond. And you can’t run from it. You can’t kill me to break it. The curse is tied to *you*, Harmony. Not me.”
My name on his lips—soft, reverent—makes my stomach twist.
“You don’t get to say my name.”
“I don’t have a choice,” he says. “Just like you don’t have a choice. You’re mine. Whether you like it or not.”
“I came here to kill you,” I whisper, the words raw, torn from somewhere deep. “I came here to end your bloodline.”
He stares at me. Gold eyes burning. Fangs still bared.
And then, slowly, he smiles.
Not kind. Not cruel.
Resigned.
“Then you’ll die trying,” he says.
The chamber doors burst open.
Voices. Footsteps. The clink of armor.
The Supernatural Council.
They flood in—Fae with their jeweled daggers, werewolves with claws out, witches with hands crackling with magic. At their head, Lord Thorne, Fae Councilor, his smile sharp as a blade.
“Well,” he drawls, eyes flicking between us. “It seems the Blood Concord has produced a *most* unexpected outcome.”
“This is not a Concord,” I snap. “This is a violation.”
“Is it?” Thorne steps forward, tilting his head. “Or is it fate? A witch and vampire, bound by soul-flame? The first in centuries.”
“It’s a mistake,” Cassian growls. “It can be broken.”
“Can it?” Thorne’s gaze is knowing. Too knowing. “Or is this the key to ending the old feuds? A union of blood and magic. A new era.”
I know that look. I’ve seen it in warlords and liars. He’s not shocked. He’s *pleased*.
And that terrifies me more than the bond.
“You want this,” I say. “You *planned* this.”
Thorne smiles. “I merely observed. The rest… was written in blood.”
Cassian steps in front of me, shielding me from Thorne’s gaze. His back is rigid, protective.
“She’s not yours to claim,” he says.
“No,” Thorne agrees. “She’s yours. For now.”
He turns to the Council.
“By the Accords, a fated bond between species of warring bloodlines must be recognized. To deny it is to invite chaos. To break it is to invite war.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“Therefore,” Thorne continues, “I decree that Prince Cassian D’Vaire and Harmony of the Coven Triad shall be betrothed. Until the bond is either broken… or consummated.”
The word hangs in the air.
Consummated.
As in, *sex*.
As in, *mine*.
I look at Cassian. He’s staring at me, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
And the bond—this cursed, impossible thing—pulses between us, hot and insistent.
I came here to kill him.
Now, I’m bound to him.
And the real nightmare is just beginning.