The Obsidian Court rose from the Vienna fog like a blade thrust through velvet — black spires, blood-red banners, and silence so thick it pressed against my eardrums. I stood at the base of the grand stair, my borrowed name — *Elira Voss* — a bitter taste on my tongue. The illusion wrapped around me like armor: dark hair instead of silver, eyes brown instead of violet, a witch’s stoop to hide my fae grace. But beneath it all, my blood screamed. This was the place. The place where my mother died. Where the Blood Crown was torn from our ancestral vault. Where I had been branded a traitor at sixteen and left to rot in the shadows.
I wasn’t here to beg. I wasn’t here to survive.
I was here to burn it down.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. Pain was a compass. It kept me focused. The scent of damp stone and old blood filled the air, mingling with the faint, cloying perfume of fae glamour lingering on the guards’ uniforms. Werewolves stood at the gates, their golden eyes tracking me with predatory stillness. Vampires flanked the doors, pale and perfect, their fangs retracted but their hunger visible in the way their gazes lingered on my throat. I was meat to them. A witch. A nobody. Good for spells, sacrifices, or a midnight snack.
Perfect.
Let them underestimate me.
Let them think I was just another supplicant crawling to the vampire king for favors. I’d played the weakling long enough. Now, I wore their lies like a second skin. The diplomatic summit was a farce — a desperate attempt to stabilize the Supernatural Council before civil war erupted. And I was here to make sure it failed. Or rather, to make sure it failed *his* way. Kaelen Valen. The ancient vampire who sat on a throne built from my family’s bones.
They said he was cold. Unfeeling. A ruler who bled his enemies dry and never blinked.
Good.
I wanted him soulless. I wanted him incapable of remorse. Because if he felt nothing, then I could destroy him without hesitation.
The double doors groaned open, revealing the throne room — a cavern of obsidian and flame. Torches flickered in sconces shaped like grasping hands. The floor was polished black stone, inlaid with veins of crimson that pulsed like living arteries. At the far end, atop a dais of fused bone and onyx, sat the king.
Kaelen.
He wasn’t what I expected.
He didn’t loom. He didn’t snarl. He sat with his back straight, hands resting on the armrests of his throne, his expression unreadable. Black hair fell just past his jaw, sharp cheekbones carved from ice, lips pale but full. His eyes — gods, his *eyes* — were the color of storm clouds before lightning strikes. Gray, but shifting, like smoke caught in glass. He wore no crown. No jewels. Just a long coat of midnight silk, open at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones.
And yet, power radiated from him like heat from a furnace. Not just the predatory aura of a vampire, but something deeper. Older. A presence that made the air hum.
I forced myself to walk. One step. Then another. My boots clicked against the stone, the sound too loud in the silence. Dozens of eyes followed me — fae nobles in shimmering gowns, werewolf alphas with scarred faces, vampire lieutenants with dead eyes. I kept my gaze forward, my spine rigid. This was a test. They were watching for weakness. For fear.
I gave them nothing.
When I reached the center of the room, the High Envoy — a withered vampire with a voice like rusted iron — raised his hand.
“Elira Voss, witch of the Wychwood Coven, bearer of the Neutral Sigil, you stand before Kaelen Valen, Sovereign of the Obsidian Court, Guardian of the Blood Crown, and First Voice of the Supernatural Council. By what right do you petition?”
I bowed, just enough to be polite, not enough to be subservient.
“By the right of neutrality,” I said, my voice steady. “I come as an observer, not a supplicant. To witness the alliance talks. To ensure the balance of power remains intact.”
A murmur rippled through the court. Witches weren’t supposed to speak like this. We were supposed to be meek. Silent. Useful only when bleeding.
Kaelen’s eyes locked onto mine.
And something inside me *twisted*.
It started as a whisper — a flicker of warmth in my chest. Then it surged, a wave of fire rushing through my veins. My breath caught. My knees buckled. I staggered, catching myself on the edge of a pillar, my vision blurring at the edges.
What the hell—?
Then I felt it.
*Him.*
Not just his gaze. Not just his presence.
His *soul.*
It crashed into mine like a tidal wave — dark, ancient, *hungry*. A bond, raw and screaming, tore open between us, searing through my magic, my mind, my very blood. I gasped, clutching my chest as pain exploded behind my ribs. My skin burned. My pulse roared in my ears. And beneath the agony — beneath the terror — a deep, shameful heat pooled between my thighs.
No.
No, no, *no.*
This wasn’t possible.
Fated mates were a myth. A fae fairy tale for the weak-minded. Bonds only formed between those who were meant to be — lovers, partners, *equals*. Not between a murderer and the daughter he’d orphaned.
This was a trick.
A trap.
But the magic didn’t lie.
The runes on my arms — hidden beneath my sleeves — flared crimson, reacting to the surge of power. My fae blood screamed in recognition. My witch’s magic writhed, trying to reject it, but it was too strong. Too *right*. Like a key sliding into a lock it had been made for.
I looked up, and Kaelen was standing.
He’d risen from his throne without a sound, his body coiled like a predator. His eyes were no longer gray.
They were *black.*
Not with pupil dilation. With something deeper. A void. A hunger. And he was staring at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“You,” he said. His voice was low, rough, as if dragged over stone. “You’re *her*.”
I tried to speak. To deny it. To lie.
But my body betrayed me.
A moan slipped past my lips.
The bond flared again, hotter this time, and I collapsed to my knees, screaming. Fire raced along my nerves, branding me from the inside out. My vision whited out. I could feel him — his thoughts brushing against mine, his desire like a physical touch, his voice whispering in my skull.
You are mine.
I clutched my head, shaking. “No— stop—”
“Silas,” Kaelen commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Secure the room. No one leaves.”
Boots pounded against stone. The doors slammed shut. The torches dimmed, as if the very air was holding its breath.
And then he was in front of me.
Kaelen dropped to one knee, his movements too fast to follow. His hand shot out, gripping my jaw, forcing my face up. His touch was ice and fire, sending shocks through my body. His breath brushed my lips — cool, scented with night-blooming jasmine and something darker. Blood.
Our faces were inches apart.
His eyes bore into mine, searching, devouring.
And then, in a voice so low only I could hear, he growled:
“You are mine. And I will destroy you before I lose you.”
The words hit me like a blade to the gut.
He knew.
He *knew* what I was. Who I was. And instead of denying it, instead of pretending this bond was a mistake, he was claiming me.
Threatening me.
Wanting me.
All at once.
I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. My magic flared, lashing out instinctively — a whip of crimson energy snapping through the air. It struck his chest, and he grunted, but didn’t release me. If anything, his grip tightened.
“Don’t fight it,” he said, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just anger. “The bond is Eternal. Deny it, and it will burn you alive. Resist it, and it will drive you mad. The only way to survive is to *submit*.”
“I’ll die first,” I spat, my voice trembling despite my fury.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Then you’ll die screaming. Because I won’t let you go.”
A shiver tore through me — not from fear.
From *arousal.*
Gods, I hated myself in that moment.
My body responded to him like it had been starved for a century. My skin tingled where he touched me. My breath came in shallow gasps. And between my legs, the heat was unbearable — a deep, pulsing throb that made my thighs clench.
This wasn’t me.
This wasn’t *right.*
He was the enemy. The thief. The murderer.
And yet, my soul recognized him.
My magic *ached* for him.
Behind me, the High Envoy cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the Eternal Vow— it’s activated. The Council will demand answers. Protocol requires—”
“Protocol,” Kaelen snapped, still not looking away from me, “can burn. She is *mine*. And until we resolve this—” his thumb brushed my lower lip, sending a jolt through me “—no one touches her. No one speaks to her. And if anyone so much as *looks* at her with intent, I will rip their throat out.”
The room fell silent.
He released me, standing in one fluid motion. He offered me his hand — not to help me up, but as a challenge.
“Get up,” he said. “You’re not weak. Don’t pretend to be.”
I glared at him, my body still trembling from the bond’s aftermath. Slowly, I rose on my own, refusing his hand.
“I don’t need your help,” I said, my voice low. “And I don’t belong to you.”
He smiled. Not with warmth. With *hunger.*
“You already do,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
He turned, striding back to his throne. “Take her to the east suite. Double the guards. And Silas—”
“Yes, Sire?”
“If she tries to run, bring her back. By force, if necessary.”
As the guards moved toward me, I stood tall, my heart pounding, my body still humming with the echo of his touch.
I had come here to destroy him.
But the moment our souls collided, the mission changed.
Now, I had to survive him.
Because if the bond didn’t kill me…
What I felt for him might.