The moment Nyx steps into the room, every instinct in me snaps to life—fangs bared, muscles coiled, a low growl ripping from my chest before I can stop it.
She doesn’t flinch. Just leans against the doorframe, one hand lazily toying with the button of my shirt—one I *know* I left in my private chambers, not hers—with a smirk that could cut glass.
“Cassian,” she drawls, voice like smoke and sin. “I didn’t expect company. Though I suppose I should’ve known you’d finally take a mate. After all these years.”
Harmony is rigid beside me, her breath sharp, her pulse a wild drumbeat beneath her skin. I can feel it—the bond thrumming between us, reacting to her fear, her fury, her jealousy. It’s not just magic. It’s *alive*, feeding on emotion, amplifying it.
And right now, it’s screaming.
“You have no right to be here,” I say, voice ice. “No right to wear my clothes. No right to speak her name.”
Nyx’s smile widens. “And yet, here I am.” She steps forward, hips swaying, the shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. “Just thought I’d remind you what real passion feels like. Before you’re bound to this… witch.”
Harmony moves before I can stop her.
She throws back the covers and rises, bare feet on cold marble, her dress rumpled, her hair a wild halo around her face. But her eyes—those storm-gray eyes—are sharp, dangerous.
“Get out,” she says, voice low, steady.
Nyx laughs. “Or what? You’ll curse me? You barely know your own magic, little witch. Let alone how to use it on someone like me.”
“You’re not welcome here,” I growl, stepping between them. “Leave. Now.”
Nyx’s gaze flicks to mine, and for a heartbeat, something flickers in her eyes—hurt? Anger?—before it’s buried beneath venom.
“You used to say that about *her*,” she whispers. “And look where that got you.”
My chest tightens. I won’t let her do this. Not here. Not now.
“I said *leave*.”
She holds my stare for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate shrug, she lets the shirt slide off her shoulder and drop to the floor.
“Enjoy your betrothal, Cassian,” she murmurs. “I’ll be watching.”
And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a tomb sealing.
Silence crashes down.
Harmony doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I can feel her—the bond pulling taut, her emotions a storm I can’t name.
“You should’ve told me,” she says finally, voice quiet. “That you had a blood-mistress.”
“She was never my blood-mistress,” I snap. “She was a political convenience. A tool. Nothing more.”
“And yet she wears your shirt like a trophy.”
“And you wear your hatred like armor,” I counter, turning to face her. “But we both know it’s just a mask.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, vampire.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not affected,” I say, stepping closer. “I can *feel* it. The bond. Your pulse. The way your breath hitches when I’m near. You’re not fooling anyone, Harmony. Not even yourself.”
She looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t want this. Any of it.”
“Too late,” I say. “The bond is real. The Council knows. And by dawn, the entire Court will know you’re mine.”
“I’m not *yours*.”
“Aren’t you?” I reach out, not touching, but my fingers hover near her wrist, where the sigil burns faintly. “Your body says otherwise.”
She jerks back. “Don’t.”
I drop my hand. “Fine. Hate me. Fight me. But don’t pretend this isn’t happening.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks to the balcony, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the moon.
I let her go.
For now.
Because I know what’s coming.
The Council won’t wait.
And the curse won’t either.
—
The throne room is packed by midday.
Fae in gilded masks, their glamour shimmering like oil on water. Werewolves in ceremonial leathers, claws out, tails low. Witches in robes of deep indigo, hands crackling with restrained magic. And at the center of it all—Lord Thorne, seated on the arbitration dais, his smile sharp, his eyes gleaming with something that makes my fangs itch.
Harmony stands beside me, rigid, her spine straight, her face a mask of defiance. She’s dressed in Coven ceremonial garb—black silk, silver-threaded sigils, a high collar that frames her face like a crown. Beautiful. Untouchable. And completely, devastatingly mine.
The bond hums between us, a live wire under my skin. I can feel her fear, her anger, her confusion. But beneath it—something else. A flicker. A spark. Like she’s fighting not just me, but *herself*.
Good.
Let her fight.
Because I won’t let her go.
Thorne rises, his voice echoing through the chamber. “By the Supernatural Accord, Article Seven, Subsection Twelve: when a fated bond is formed between warring bloodlines, the union must be recognized and formalized to prevent conflict.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
“Given the unprecedented nature of this bond—a witch and vampire, bound by soul-flame—the Council hereby decrees the betrothal of Prince Cassian D’Vaire and Harmony of the Coven Triad.”
My jaw tightens.
Harmony’s breath hitches.
“The betrothal shall stand until such time as the bond is either broken—by mutual death—or consummated. Until then, they are to remain in proximity, under the watch of the Tribunal, to ensure stability.”
“You can’t do this,” Harmony says, voice sharp. “This isn’t a political alliance. It’s a *bond*. You don’t get to dictate its terms.”
Thorne smiles. “We don’t. The Accords do. And the Accords are clear. A fated bond between enemies is a threat to peace. Unless it is formalized, it risks war.”
“So you’re using us,” she says. “As pawns.”
“As *symbols*,” Thorne corrects. “A witch and vampire, united. Think of the message it sends. Think of the power it represents.”
My eyes narrow. He’s not just pleased. He’s *planning*.
And I don’t like it.
“And if we refuse?” I ask, voice low.
“Then the bond remains unstable,” Thorne says. “The curse in her blood accelerates. She dies. And you—well, you’ll spend eternity mourning a mate you never claimed.”
Harmony flinches.
I step closer to her, my shoulder brushing hers. “You don’t get to threaten her.”
“I don’t have to,” Thorne says. “The curse does that for me.”
He turns to the Council. “The decree is final. Let it be recorded.”
The chamber erupts—voices rising, arguments flaring. But the decision stands.
We’re betrothed.
Harmony turns to me, eyes blazing. “This is *your* fault.”
“My fault?” I laugh, dark. “You’re the one who lunged at me with a dagger. You’re the one who triggered the bond.”
“You *knew* this would happen!”
“No,” I say, stepping into her space, forcing her to look up at me. “I didn’t. But I *do* know this—fight me all you want, Harmony. Hate me. Blame me. But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”
Her breath stutters.
“The bond. The pull. The way your body *aches* when I’m near. You can’t lie to me. Not through this.”
“I don’t want it,” she whispers.
“Too bad,” I say, voice rough. “Because it wants *you*.”
And then—
—the curse strikes.
It hits her like a sledgehammer.
One second, she’s glaring at me. The next, she’s on her knees, gasping, hands clutching her stomach as the sigils across her skin flare white-hot.
“Harmony!”
I drop beside her, hands on her shoulders, but she’s burning up, her magic spiraling out of control.
“Cassian—” Her voice is a ragged whisper. “It’s—*hurts*—”
“I know,” I say, pulling her against me. “I’ve got you.”
But she’s trembling, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The sigils spread—up her neck, across her collarbones, down her arms—and the bond *screams*, a psychic wail that echoes through my skull.
She’s dying.
Right here. Right now.
And the only thing that can stop it is *me*.
“Stay with me,” I growl, pressing my forehead to hers. “Breathe. Focus on my voice.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. “The curse feeds on distance. On denial. But it can’t touch you when I’m close. When the bond is strong.”
Her fingers dig into my arms. “Why—why does it need you?”
“Because it’s tied to the fated one,” I say, voice low, urgent. “And that’s *me*. Your body knows it. Your magic knows it. You just have to *let it in*.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t—”
“You *can*.” I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Look at me, Harmony. *Look at me*.”
Her storm-gray eyes lock onto mine.
And for the first time, I see it—past the hate, past the fear—the flicker of *trust*.
“You’ll die if I don’t touch you,” I say, voice raw. “You’ll die if I don’t hold you. So stop fighting it. Stop fighting *me*.”
Tears well in her eyes. “I’ll die before I let you control me.”
“Then you’ll die,” I say, pulling her closer, my voice breaking. “Because I’m the only one who can save you.”
And then I do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t.
I kiss her.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Desperate.
Hard.
A claim.
Her lips part in surprise, and I take it, pouring every ounce of will, every shred of magic, into the bond. I *push*—not to dominate, but to *connect*. To anchor her. To keep her alive.
And for one heartbeat—
—she kisses me back.
Just a breath. Just a sigh. Just the softest press of her lips against mine.
But it’s enough.
The sigils dim. Her breathing slows. The fever breaks.
She sags against me, weak, trembling, but alive.
I pull back, just enough to see her face.
Her eyes are dazed. Her lips swollen. Her breath warm against my skin.
And the bond—
—is stronger than ever.
“You…” she whispers. “You kissed me.”
“To save your life,” I say, voice rough.
“That wasn’t just—”
“No,” I admit. “It wasn’t.”
She stares at me, searching my face. And for a moment, I think she might say it. Might admit it.
But then the chamber doors burst open.
And everything changes.
—
It’s Kael.
His face is grim, his scent sharp with urgency.
“Cassian,” he says, stepping forward. “The archives. Something’s wrong.”
I rise, pulling Harmony with me. “What is it?”
“The Curse Codex. It’s been disturbed. And there’s blood.”
Harmony stiffens. “Blood?”
“Not yours,” Kael says quickly. “But recent. And the sigils on the altar—they’ve changed.”
My gut tightens. “Thorne.”
Harmony looks between us. “What are you talking about?”
“The Curse Codex,” I say. “It’s a grimoire that holds the original ritual. The one that cursed your bloodline.”
“And someone’s been there,” she says, voice tight.
“Yes,” Kael says. “And they left a message.”
He hands me a scrap of parchment, written in blood.
*She was never yours. The locket was a lie. The curse is just beginning.*
Harmony reads it over my shoulder, her breath catching.
“They know,” she whispers. “Someone knows the truth.”
I crumple the note, fury burning in my chest.
Thorne.
It has to be.
He’s not just using us.
He’s *orchestrating* this.
And if he has the Codex—
—then he has the power to control the curse.
“We’re going to the archives,” I say, gripping Harmony’s hand. “Now.”
She doesn’t pull away.
And for the first time, I let myself hope.
Maybe she doesn’t hate me.
Maybe she never did.
Maybe she’s just afraid.
And maybe—just *maybe*—that’s something I can fix.