The Council chambers are a viper’s nest.
Polished black marble floors reflect the flickering violet torches overhead, casting long, shifting shadows that make the statues along the walls seem to move. The air is thick with glamour—Fae perfume laced with truth-serum and seduction—coiling in my lungs, making it hard to breathe. Around me, the Supernatural Council sits in judgment: Fae nobles with eyes like shattered glass, werewolves with claws tapping impatiently on armrests, witches with hands crackling with restrained magic. All watching. All waiting.
And at the center of it all—me.
Bound to a vampire prince I came to kill.
Engaged to the man whose blood sings in my veins.
Trapped in a lie I no longer know how to untangle.
Cassian stands beside me, tall and cold, his gold eyes unreadable. He hasn’t spoken since we entered. Hasn’t touched me. But I feel him—the bond humming between us, steady, insistent, like a second heartbeat. Since the Reliquary, since he knelt and offered me his life, something has shifted. Not in his control. Not in his dominance. But in *me*.
I don’t hate him as much as I should.
And that terrifies me more than the curse.
Lord Thorne rises, his jeweled fingers steepled, a smile playing on his lips. “The Council convenes to address the matter of the fated bond between Prince Cassian D’Vaire and Harmony of the Coven Triad. Given the political instability it presents—and the unresolved questions surrounding the Bloodline Curse—we have called for testimony.”
My stomach tightens.
Testimony?
This isn’t a trial. It’s a spectacle.
“First,” Thorne continues, “we hear from one who claims intimate knowledge of the prince’s affections.”
My breath catches.
Then the doors open.
And *she* walks in.
Lady Nyx.
She’s dressed in crimson silk that clings to every curve, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. She moves like smoke—slow, deliberate, drawing every eye in the room. And when her gaze lands on me, her smile is a blade.
“Lady Nyx of House Vael,” Thorne announces, “former blood-mistress to Prince Cassian. You may speak.”
My fingers curl into fists.
Former blood-mistress?
I glance at Cassian. His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t deny it.
Nyx steps forward, her heels clicking against the marble. “I served Prince Cassian for twenty-three years,” she says, voice low, sultry. “Bound by blood, by passion, by his *mark*.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“His mark?” a Fae elder asks, leaning forward. “You bear the prince’s bite?”
Nyx smiles.
Then, slowly, she turns and lifts the hem of her dress.
Revealing a long, pale thigh.
And on it—a bite mark.
Not old. Not faded.
Fresh.
Pink. Swollen. Still healing.
And unmistakably *his*.
My breath stops.
“He marked me in passion,” Nyx purrs, lowering her dress. “Not out of duty. Not for politics. But because he *needed* me. Because I carried his child.”
The chamber erupts.
“A child?” Thorne’s voice cuts through the noise. “You bore the prince’s offspring?”
Nyx nods, hand drifting to her stomach. “Three months ago. But the pregnancy was… unstable. The child did not survive.”
My stomach drops.
A child.
Cassian had a child.
With *her*.
I look at him. “Is it true?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just stares at Nyx, his expression unreadable.
“You see?” Nyx turns to the Council, tears glistening in her eyes. “I loved him. I gave him everything. And now he casts me aside for a witch—a *spy*—who came here to assassinate him?”
“That’s a lie!” I snap. “I didn’t come to—”
“Didn’t you?” She cuts me off, stepping closer. “You had a dagger. You lunged at him. The entire court saw it.”
“It was a mistake—”
“A mistake?” She laughs, sharp and cruel. “Or was it *jealousy*? Did you see us together and decide to eliminate the competition?”
“I don’t even know you!”
“But you will.” She smiles. “Because Cassian *remembers* me. He *craves* me. He moans my name when he drinks.”
My pulse hammers.
“You’re lying,” I whisper.
“Am I?” She steps even closer, until we’re nearly nose to nose. “Or are you just afraid to admit that he’ll never want you the way he wanted me?”
“Enough,” Cassian growls.
But Nyx doesn’t back down. “He marked me in passion,” she says, voice low, for my ears only. “When will he mark *you*, little witch?”
The words slice through me.
Because she’s right.
He hasn’t.
Not like that.
Not with fangs and blood and claiming.
The bond is real. The magic is undeniable. But the *mark*—the physical, undeniable proof of possession—hasn’t happened.
And now I know why.
Because he already marked *her*.
“You don’t belong here,” I say, voice trembling. “You’re not his mate.”
“No,” she agrees. “But I was his *lover*. His *confidante*. His *blood*.” She leans in, breath hot against my ear. “And I’ll be again. Because men like Cassian don’t change. They don’t *love*. They only take.”
I shove her.
Not hard. Just enough.
But it’s enough.
She stumbles back, hand flying to her throat, eyes wide with mock shock. “The witch attacks me!” she cries. “In front of the Council! Is this how she plans to rule? With violence?”
“She didn’t attack you,” Cassian snaps, stepping between us. “And you’re done speaking.”
“Am I?” Nyx smiles. “Or is this just the beginning?”
Thorne raises a hand. “The Council will deliberate. Prince Cassian, you will remain. Lady Nyx, you are dismissed.”
Nyx curtsies, slow and mocking. “Of course, Councilor.” She glances at me. “Until next time, *betrothed*.”
And then she’s gone.
The doors close.
Silence falls.
And I feel it—the bond, pulling taut, reacting to my fury, my humiliation, my *jealousy*. My sigils flare beneath my dress, white fire tracing my collarbones, my arms. My breath comes fast, shallow. My magic coils, ready to strike.
“Don’t,” Cassian says, turning to me. “Don’t let her get to you.”
“Don’t let her?” I laugh, sharp and broken. “She has your *mark*, Cassian. She carried your *child*. And you didn’t even tell me.”
“Because it’s not true,” he says, voice low. “Not the way she says.”
“Then tell me the truth!”
He hesitates.
And that hesitation is worse than any lie.
“You’re right,” I say, stepping back. “You don’t have to. The bond will show me.”
Before he can stop me, I reach for it.
I close my eyes and *pull*—not at the magic, but at the connection between us. The soul-flame. The shared memories. The truth.
And it floods in.
—Cassian in a dimly lit chamber, Nyx on her knees before him, her neck bared. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t desire it. But he drinks, because she’s dying. Because she begged him. Because she threatened to expose secrets that could destroy the Court.—
—Nyx, weeks later, claiming pregnancy. Cassian testing the blood. Finding no trace of his lineage. Calling her a liar.—
—Nyx screaming, slashing her thigh with a dagger. “Then I’ll wear your mark anyway!” And Cassian—cornered, desperate—biting her to stop the bleeding, to save her life.—
I gasp, stumbling back.
It wasn’t passion.
It wasn’t love.
It was *mercy*.
“She lied,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Cassian says. “About the child. About the mark. About everything.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” he says, stepping closer. “The past is dead. The only thing that matters is *now*. Is *us*.”
“Us?” I laugh. “There is no *us*! There’s a bond. A curse. A political farce. But not *us*.”
His eyes flash. “You felt the memories. You know the truth.”
“I know she’s a liar,” I say. “But I also know you let her wear your shirt. Let her walk into our chambers half-naked. Let her *touch* you.”
“She didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I shout. “The bond shows everything. I *felt* your disgust when she was near. But I also felt your guilt. Your *pity*. And that’s worse. Because it means you *let* her believe. You let her hope.”
He doesn’t deny it.
And that’s the worst part.
“I didn’t want to hurt her,” he says quietly. “She was alone. Abandoned. Like I was.”
“And what about *me*?” I whisper. “Am I just another charity case? Another lost soul for the great Prince Cassian to *save*?”
“No.” He steps into my space, forcing me to look up. “You’re the only one I’ve ever *wanted*. The only one I’ve waited for. The only one who makes my blood burn, my fangs drop, my soul *ache*.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I marked her out of desire?” he says, voice rough. “I marked her to *stop her from dying*. I’ve never bitten you because I’m *afraid*—afraid that if I taste you, I’ll never stop. Afraid that the bond will consume me. Afraid that I’ll lose control and take too much.”
My heart stutters.
“You think I don’t want to claim you?” he whispers, hand brushing my neck. “You think I don’t dream of it? Of sinking my fangs into your skin and drinking you deep? Of marking you so the whole world knows you’re *mine*?”
Heat pools low in my stomach.
“Then do it,” I say, voice trembling. “Mark me. Prove it.”
His eyes flare gold. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” I tilt my head, baring my neck. “Do it. Or admit you don’t want me enough to try.”
He growls—a low, animal sound—and in an instant, he’s on me.
Not biting.
Not claiming.
But pressing me against the wall, one hand caging me in, the other fisted in my hair, tilting my head back. His breath is hot on my neck. His fangs graze my skin—just a whisper, just enough to make me shiver.
“You want proof?” he murmurs. “You want to know how much I want you?”
My pulse races.
“Then feel it.”
He doesn’t bite.
But he *kisses* me.
Hard. Desperate. A claim in every movement of his lips, every flick of his tongue. It’s not like the last time—desperate to save my life. This is different. This is *hunger*. This is *need*.
And I kiss him back.
Not because I want to.
But because I can’t stop.
My hands claw at his shoulders. My body arches into his. The bond *screams*, white fire racing through my veins, sigils flaring beneath my skin. My magic surges, wild and uncontrolled, and his answers it—dark, ancient, *his*.
And then—
—the doors burst open.
We break apart.
Thorne stands in the doorway, flanked by Fae guards, his expression unreadable. “The Council has reached a decision,” he says, voice smooth. “Given the instability of the bond, and the unresolved claims of Lady Nyx, we are invoking Article Nine.”
My stomach drops.
Article Nine.
The Blood Oath.
“To verify the authenticity of the fated bond,” Thorne continues, “Prince Cassian and Harmony must undergo the Blood Oath ritual. A public exchange of blood, witnessed by the Council. If the bond is true, their magic will merge. If not…” He smiles. “Then one of them is a fraud.”
Cassian steps in front of me. “You can’t force this.”
“We can,” Thorne says. “And we will. The ritual begins at moonrise. In the courtyard. In front of the Court.”
He turns to go.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses.
“If we refuse?”
“Then the betrothal is void,” he says. “The bond is deemed unstable. And Harmony is to be handed over to the Tribunal for interrogation—as a suspected assassin.”
Cassian’s hand tightens on mine.
“You have until moonrise,” Thorne says. “Decide wisely.”
And then he’s gone.
Silence.
And then Cassian turns to me. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, we do,” I say. “Because if we don’t, they’ll take me. And you know what they’ll do.”
“I won’t let them.”
“You can’t stop them,” I say. “Not without starting a war.”
He stares at me. “You’d rather risk the ritual? The exposure? The pain?”
“I’d rather risk it than spend eternity wondering if you’re lying,” I say. “So yes. We do it.”
He nods, slow. “Then we do it together.”
I look at him—really look at him. The gold eyes. The sharp jaw. The way his fangs still graze his lip when he’s angry. The way his hand won’t let go of mine.
And for the first time, I wonder—
—not if he’s lying.
But if *I* am.
If I’ve been lying to myself this whole time.
That I don’t hate him.
That I never did.
That I came here to kill him—
—but I stayed because I was afraid to love him.
And now, there’s no escape.
Not from the bond.
Not from the curse.
Not from *him*.
At moonrise, we stand in the courtyard.
The sky is black, the moon a silver blade overhead. The Court has gathered—Fae, werewolves, witches—all watching as we step onto the dais, where a black altar waits, etched with runes of binding and truth.
A vampire priest steps forward, a silver dagger in hand. “To seal the Blood Oath,” he intones, “the bonded must exchange blood, heart to heart, soul to soul. If the bond is true, their magic will ignite. If not…” He doesn’t finish.
I look at Cassian.
He takes my hand.
And together, we press the blade to our palms.
Blood wells—dark red, silver-tinged. We clasp hands, letting our blood mix, feeling the bond *pull*, *surge*, *ignite*.
And then—
—the world explodes.
Light. Fire. Magic. It erupts from us, violet and gold, spiraling into the sky like a storm. The sigils on our skin flare, brighter than ever, connecting, merging, becoming one.
The crowd gasps.
But I don’t care.
Because in that moment, I *know*.
The bond is real.
The magic is real.
And so is he.
And as the light fades, and the Council falls silent, Cassian pulls me close, his lips brushing my ear.
“Now they know,” he whispers. “Now *you* know.”
“Know what?” I breathe.
“That you’re mine.”
And for the first time—
—I don’t argue.