The Archives smell of dust, decay, and secrets.
I press my back against the cold stone wall just inside the hidden entrance, my breath shallow, my fingers curled around the hilt of the silver dagger Riven slipped me last night. Not that it would do much good against Kael—if he catches me. Vampires don’t die easy. Especially not ones with centuries of combat etched into their bones and blood.
But I’m not here for him.
I’m here for the truth.
The first night of our marriage—contract, I remind myself, not real—left me raw. Not from touch, not from violence, but from something worse: connection. The way Kael spoke in the dark, voice cracking with regret, admitting he couldn’t save my mother. The way the bond flared not with heat, but with grief—his grief. The way I dreamt of fire and chains and a child screaming.
And the way I woke—not afraid, not angry—but seen.
That’s the most dangerous part.
Because if I start believing he feels anything real, I’ll lose focus. I’ll lose control. And I can’t afford either.
The curse is still in my blood.
The clock is still ticking.
And Kael—no matter how his voice trembles when he says my name—is still the enemy.
I push off the wall and step deeper into the Archives. The floating witchfire orbs pulse faintly, casting long shadows across the shelves. I move silently, boots barely making a sound on the stone. My magic hums beneath my skin, coiled tight, ready. I’ve spent years learning to suppress it, to let it sleep like a caged beast. But the bond keeps waking it. Stirring it. Feeding it.
It’s unnatural.
Fated bonds are supposed to be between mates. Not enemies. Not murderer and daughter of the murdered.
Unless the bond isn’t fated at all.
Unless it’s cursed.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Maeve said the curse burns brightest under moonlight. But what if it burns through the bond? What if this connection isn’t a fluke of fate—but a trap? A way to bind me to Kael, to make me dependent, to keep me from uncovering the truth?
I reach the section I need: Forbidden Blood Rites, 1700–1900. My fingers skim the spines. Dust puffs into the air. I pull out a heavy, leather-bound tome, its cover cracked with age. The title is in Old Fae script, nearly illegible. I flip it open, scanning the pages—rituals, incantations, blood pacts. Most are standard—binding spells, loyalty oaths, curses broken by sacrifice.
Then I find it.
A sigil.
Etched in blood-red ink on a yellowed page. A spiral of thorns wrapping around a crescent moon—the same mark on my wrist. The same mark the Court branded me with.
My breath catches.
I trace the lines with my fingertip. The moment I do, the cursed mark on my wrist flares—hot, sharp, alive. A jolt of pain shoots up my arm, and I bite back a cry.
Then—
A whisper.
Not in the room.
In my mind.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I whirl around, dagger in hand.
No one.
Just shadows. Dust. Silence.
But the air… it’s changed. Thickened. Charged.
And then I feel it—him.
Like a blade sliding between my ribs.
“Looking for something?”
Kael steps out of the darkness, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow given form. He’s not in his usual black leather. He’s dressed in a tailored coat of deep crimson, the color of dried blood, the House Nocturne sigil embroidered on the lapel. He looks like a prince. A king. A predator.
And his eyes—black, depthless—are locked on me.
On the book in my hands.
“Just browsing,” I say, snapping the tome shut and shoving it back onto the shelf. “You know, like a normal guest would do.”
“Guests don’t carry daggers,” he says, stepping closer. “Or break into restricted sections.”
“And husbands don’t spy on their wives,” I snap.
“I’m not spying,” he says. “I’m protecting the Court.”
“From me?” I laugh, sharp, brittle. “Or from the truth?”
He stops a few feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—cold stone, aged wine, the iron tang of blood. My magic stirs, not in defense, but in response. The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, like a cello string vibrating in my blood.
And then—
He smiles.
Not a kind smile. Not a warm one.
A hunter’s smile.
“You think I don’t know what you’re looking for?” he says, voice low, velvet over steel. “The sigil. The curse. The truth about your mother.”
My breath hitches. “And do you?”
“I know more than you think.”
“Then tell me.” I step forward, my voice rising. “Tell me why she was executed. Tell me why her name was erased. Tell me why the bond—this thing between us—feels like a lie.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me. His gaze drops to my wrist, where the cursed mark still pulses beneath my sleeve.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
I look down.
A thin line of blood trickles from my palm—the cut from the blood inspection, not fully healed. I must have reopened it when I grabbed the dagger.
And the sigil in the book—
It bled too.
Not ink.
Blood.
“It’s nothing,” I say, wiping it on my sleeve.
“It’s not nothing,” he says. “That sigil—it’s a blood pact. One that binds two souls through pain, through memory, through death.”
My stomach twists. “And who made it?”
“The High Fae Judge.”
The name hits me like a slap.
“He cursed her,” I whisper. “My mother.”
“No,” Kael says. “He cursed you.”
I freeze. “What?”
“The curse wasn’t cast on her,” he says. “It was cast through her. To bind you. To control you. To ensure that when the time came, you’d return—to me.”
My breath stops.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” He steps closer. “You think this bond is an accident? A mistake? It’s not. It’s a counter-curse. A failsafe. The only thing keeping you alive right now is this connection—us.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His voice drops. “Then why does the mark burn when I’m near? Why do you dream of her death? Why do you feel my grief as if it’s your own?”
Because of the bond.
Because of magic.
Because—
“No,” I say, backing away. “You’re trying to manipulate me. To make me dependent. To keep me from finding the truth.”
“And what if the truth is that I’m trying to save you?”
I laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “You don’t save people. You consume them.”
His eyes flash. “Then why haven’t I consumed you?”
“Because you need me.”
“Yes,” he says. “I do. But not for power. Not for control.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I need you because the curse will kill you in twenty-eight days. And if you die, I die with you.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is,” he says. “Because the bond isn’t just magic. It’s life. And if you go, I go.”
I stare at him. Searching his face. Looking for the lie. The manipulation. The trap.
But I don’t see it.
I see something worse.
Truth.
And that terrifies me.
Because if he’s telling the truth, then everything I’ve believed—the mission, the vengeance, the hate—is built on sand.
And if I let it crumble—
I’ll have nothing left.
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper.
“Then prove me wrong,” he says. “Keep searching. Keep stealing. Keep fighting me.” He steps closer, his heat radiating through the thin space between us. “But know this—every time you run, the bond tightens. Every time you lie, it burns. And every time you try to destroy me—” His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and brushes my cheek. “—you destroy yourself.”
The bond explodes—fire surging through my veins, my core aching, my breath coming fast. I jerk back, but he’s faster. He grabs my wrist—the one with the cursed mark—and yanks me forward, pinning me against the shelf.
Books crash to the floor.
My back arches. My breath hitches. His body is pressed against mine, hard and unyielding. His thigh slides between my legs, and I gasp, my hips jerking instinctively against him.
“You feel that?” he growls, his lips close to my ear. “That’s not magic. That’s you. That’s desire. That’s truth.”
“It’s the bond,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “It’s manipulating us.”
“Then why does it feel like freedom?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Because my body is betraying me. My magic is surging. My core is throbbing. And the cursed mark on my wrist—
It’s glowing.
Not red.
Gold.
And then—
A sound.
Not from us.
From the Archives.
A soft click. A hiss.
The door seals shut.
Locked.
Trapped.
Kael doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. His eyes stay locked on mine, dark and intense.
“Bond magic,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t like lies. Or secrets. Or distance.”
“Let me go,” I say, struggling. But my body doesn’t want to. My hips rock against his thigh. My fingers dig into his coat.
“No,” he says. “Not this time.”
“You don’t own me.”
“No,” he says. “But the bond does.”
And then—
The heat spikes.
Not just in my core.
In my blood.
The cursed mark burns—white-hot, searing. I cry out, my back arching. Kael’s grip tightens. He doesn’t let go. He pulls me closer, his body shielding mine as the shelves tremble, as the witchfire orbs flicker, as the very air shimmers with magic.
“It’s happening,” he says, voice rough. “The bond is forcing us to face the truth.”
“What truth?” I gasp.
“That you’re not here to destroy me,” he says. “You’re here to save us.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not slow.
Hard.His lips crash against mine, demanding, claiming. His fangs graze my lower lip, sharp, dangerous. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his tongue sliding into my mouth, hot and insistent.
And the bond—our bond—explodes.
Fire. Heat. Light.
Memories flood in—
A child screaming.
A woman in chains.
A knife raised.
A curse carved into skin.
And then—
Him.
Younger. Blood on his hands. Eyes wide with horror.
Not as a killer.
As a witness.
As a prisoner.
And then—
Me.
Not as a daughter.
As a key.
And the curse—
Not as a punishment.
As a lock.
And the bond—
Not as a chain.
As a key.
The kiss breaks. We’re both gasping, our foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling.
“Now do you believe me?” he whispers.
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know what to believe anymore.
But I know one thing—
The door is still sealed.
The bond is still burning.
And the truth—
It’s not what I thought.
It’s worse.
And better.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
But I can’t run.
Not this time.
Because the lock is breaking.
And the key—
Is us.