The summons came at dusk.
A single black envelope, sealed with crimson wax shaped like a serpent coiled around a rose. No messenger. No knock. It simply appeared on my bedside table, as if conjured from shadow. I didn’t need to open it to know it was a trap. I didn’t need the faint, cloying scent of honeysuckle clinging to the paper to recognize the signature of the Hollow Thorne’s most dangerous predator.
Queen Lysara.
I tore the seal anyway.
Inside, a single line, written in delicate, looping script:
The Crown remembers its true heir. Come and witness.
No time. No place. Just a dare.
And I, against every instinct screaming at me to run, knew exactly where she’d be.
The Grand Atrium. The heart of the Obsidian Court. The stage where power was performed, not wielded.
And she would make sure I was in the audience.
—
I found Kaelen in his war room, surrounded by maps and blood-scribed scrolls, his coat open, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked up as I entered, his storm-gray eyes narrowing slightly, the bond flaring between us—a quiet pulse, a question.
“You’re tense,” he said, not looking back at the map. “Something’s wrong.”
“Something’s always wrong,” I said, tossing the envelope onto the table. “But this is new.”
He picked it up, scanned the note, and his jaw tightened. Not with surprise. With recognition.
“Lysara,” he said, the name like a curse.
“You know her.”
“I know *of* her,” he corrected, setting the note down. “Fae queen. Ancient. Ambitious. Likes to play games with other people’s lives.”
“And you?” I stepped closer, my voice low. “Did you play with hers?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me, his expression unreadable.
And that silence was worse than a confession.
“She claims you spent a night together,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “That you promised her the Blood Crown.”
“I made no such promise.”
“But you *were* with her.”
“It was political,” he said, standing. “An alliance negotiation. It went nowhere.”
“And the night?”
“We shared a room,” he admitted. “For diplomacy. Nothing happened.”
“Then why does she think it did?”
“Because lies are power,” he said, stepping toward me. “And she’s always wanted the Crown. Now that she knows about us—about the bond—she’ll use it. Twist it. Make you doubt me.”
“Is that all I am to you?” I asked, my voice shaking. “A tool? A political asset to stabilize your reign?”
He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re the only thing that feels real in this entire fucking court.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I wanted to believe him. Gods, I *wanted* to.
But the doubt was already there, coiled tight in my chest like a serpent.
“She’s going to make a scene,” I said, pulling away. “And I’m going to be there.”
“Onyx—”
“I need to see her,” I said. “I need to know what kind of enemy I’m dealing with.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then nodded. “Then we face her together.”
—
The Grand Atrium was already packed when we arrived.
Vampires in black velvet, werewolves in leather and steel, fae nobles shimmering in illusion. The air was thick with perfume and power, the low hum of whispered conversations and clinking crystal. A string quartet played in the corner, their music too sweet, too controlled, like everything else in this gilded cage.
And at the center of it all—her.
Lysara.
She stood on the dais, draped in a gown of living shadow that shifted with her movements, revealing flashes of pale, perfect skin. Her hair was black as midnight, cascading in waves down her back, threaded with silver vines that pulsed faintly with fae magic. Her eyes—golden, slit-pupiled—locked onto me the moment I stepped inside.
And she *smiled.*
Not with warmth. With *triumph.*
Kaelen’s hand found the small of my back, a possessive, protective touch. “Don’t react,” he murmured. “She wants you to.”
“She already has,” I whispered.
Because she did.
The scent of honeysuckle was stronger now, cloying, invasive. It mixed with the jasmine and iron of our bond, creating a nauseating cocktail of desire and deception. My magic flared, just slightly, the runes on my arms glowing beneath my sleeves.
Lysara turned her gaze to Kaelen.
“Kaelen,” she purred, her voice like silk over a blade. “You look… restrained.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t bow. Just inclined his head. “Lysara. I didn’t expect you.”
“You didn’t invite me,” she said, stepping down from the dais. “But I heard you’d found your fated mate. I simply *had* to see her.”
She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of her glamour, the faint hum of her magic. She was beautiful—unnaturally so, like a painting too perfect to be real. But there was something *wrong* beneath it. A hunger. A cruelty.
“Onyx Vale,” she said, her golden eyes scanning me. “The girl who survived the fire. The traitor who vanished. And now—Kaelen’s *pet*.”
My blood ran cold.
She knew my name.
“I’m not his pet,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’m his equal.”
She laughed—low, melodic, and utterly false. “Oh, darling. Fated mates are never equals. One always consumes the other. And Kaelen… he *devours*.”
“Then why are you still standing?” I asked. “If he’s such a monster, why haven’t you run?”
Her smile turned feral. “Because he didn’t devour me. He *pleasured* me.”
The room stilled.
Every eye turned to us.
My breath caught.
“You’re lying,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Am I?” She turned to Kaelen, her voice dropping to a whisper meant for me alone. “You loved how I screamed your name, didn’t you?”
He didn’t react. Just stared at her, his expression cold, unreadable.
But I felt it—the bond, flaring hot and jagged, a surge of something I couldn’t name. Jealousy. Rage. *Pain.*
My hands clenched at my sides.
“You think he’s different with you?” Lysara said, stepping closer. “You think this bond makes you special? He used me the same way. Took what he needed. Left me wanting more.”
“He didn’t touch you,” I said, my voice shaking. “He said so himself.”
“Did he?” She smiled. “Or did he just tell you what you wanted to hear?”
And then she did it.
Her fingers went to the top button of her gown.
One by one, she unfastened them, the shadow-silk parting to reveal smooth, pale skin, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone.
And there—on the left side of her neck—was the mark.
A bite.
Fresh. Glowing faintly with residual magic. The edges were still red, the puncture wounds precise, unmistakable.
A vampire’s claim.
My stomach dropped.
“He marked me,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Right here. As I came apart in his mouth. Do you think he’ll mark *you*?”
The room erupted.
Gasps. Murmurs. The sharp intake of breath. I could feel the weight of their stares, the judgment, the *pity.*
I looked at Kaelen.
“Is it true?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Did you—”
“No,” he said, his voice low, final. “I didn’t.”
“Then what is that?” I gestured to the mark.
“A glamour,” he said, stepping forward. “A lie made flesh. She’s faking it.”
Lysara laughed. “You think I’d risk a fake mark? The Council can verify it with a single spell. Ask them. Ask *her*.”
She turned to me, her golden eyes burning. “Go ahead. Touch it. Feel the magic. Smell his blood on my skin.”
I hesitated.
The bond screamed at me to stay back. To trust him. But the doubt—cold, sharp, *real*—was already there.
What if he was lying?
What if he’d used me just like her?
What if I was just another conquest, another tool to stabilize his power?
I stepped forward.
Lysara didn’t move. Just smiled, tilting her head, offering her neck like a sacrifice.
I reached out.
My fingers brushed the mark.
And I felt it—magic. Strong. Ancient. But not *his.*
It was fae. Twisted. Manipulated. A perfect forgery.
“It’s fake,” I said, pulling my hand back. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” she said. “Or are you just desperate to believe him?”
“Enough,” Kaelen growled. “You’ve made your point, Lysara. Now leave.”
“Or what?” she said, turning to him. “You’ll throw me out? After everything we shared?”
“You shared *nothing*,” I snapped, stepping between them. “You’re a fraud. A liar. And you think a fake mark makes you dangerous?”
“I think it makes me *believed*,” she said, her voice dropping. “And soon, the entire court will know the truth—that Kaelen promised me the Crown. That he *belongs* to me.”
“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” I said, my magic flaring, the air around us lighting with crimson sparks. “Least of all you.”
She smiled. “We’ll see.”
And then she was gone—vanishing into the crowd like smoke, leaving behind only the scent of honeysuckle and the echo of her laughter.
The room was silent.
Every eye was on me. On us.
Kaelen’s hand found mine, squeezing gently. “She’s trying to break us.”
“And she’s succeeding,” I whispered.
Because she was.
The doubt was there, a crack in my armor, and I didn’t know if I could seal it.
—
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat by the balcony window, wrapped in a thin robe, watching the moon hang low over Vienna. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a quiet, constant pulse. I could feel him—distant, guarded, *waiting*—but I didn’t reach for him.
I couldn’t.
Because what if he *had* been with her?
What if he’d used her, just like he’d used me?
What if the bond wasn’t fate—but just another lie?
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cold glass.
And then I felt it—a whisper in the dark, not from the bond, but from *me.*
You want him. I can taste it.
I didn’t know if it was the truth.
Or just another kind of lie.
—
The next morning, the rumors were everywhere.
Whispers in the halls. Glances in the dining chamber. The press—both human and supernatural—had already picked up the story. *Queen Lysara Claims Vampire King as Lover. Blood Crown Promised in Secret Pact.*
And beneath it all—the unspoken question.
Is Onyx just a replacement?
I walked through the court like a ghost, my head high, my expression blank. Let them talk. Let them judge. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
But inside, I was crumbling.
Because the worst part wasn’t the lie.
It was the *doubt.*
It was the way my body still responded to him. The way my breath hitched when he walked into a room. The way my magic flared when he touched me.
It was the way I still whispered his name in the dark.
And it was the way, when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see fire.
I saw *him.*
—
The breaking point came at noon.
I was in the inner gardens, trying to clear my head, when I heard it—the sound of voices from the shadowed alcove near the black roses.
Kaelen.
And Silas.
“She’s going to find out,” Silas said, his voice low. “The truth about Lysara. About the night.”
“There’s nothing to find out,” Kaelen said. “Nothing happened.”
“She doesn’t believe you,” Silas said. “And if she digs—”
“Then let her dig,” Kaelen said, his voice hard. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Except that you *were* alone with her,” Silas said. “For hours. Behind locked doors.”
“For diplomacy,” Kaelen said. “Nothing more.”
“And the mark?”
“A glamour. You know that.”
“But she doesn’t,” Silas said. “And if she finds the surveillance logs—”
“Then she’ll see the truth,” Kaelen said. “And I’ll tell her myself. When she’s ready.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Then I’ll wait.”
A pause.
“You love her,” Silas said.
Not a question.
A statement.
And Kaelen didn’t deny it.
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” he said, his voice rough. “She’s fire. She’s war. She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel *alive*.”
My breath caught.
And then—before I could stop myself—I stepped into the alcove.
They both turned.
“Onyx,” Kaelen said, his eyes widening slightly.
I didn’t look at him.
I just stared at the black roses, their thorns glistening with dew.
“You should’ve told me,” I said, my voice quiet. “About the logs. About the truth.”
“I was going to,” he said.
“When?” I asked, turning to him. “After she’d destroyed me? After I’d walked away?”
“No,” he said, stepping forward. “When you were ready to hear it.”
“And what if I’m not?” I whispered. “What if I never am?”
He cupped my face, his touch warm, steady. “Then I’ll wait. Every damn day. Until you believe me.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden, *real.*
And for the first time, I let myself believe him.
Not because he’d proven it.
But because I *wanted* to.
Because I was tired of fighting.
Tired of hating.
Tired of pretending I didn’t love him.
And as I leaned into his touch, the scent of jasmine and iron wrapping around us like a vow, I realized something:
Lysara could lie.
She could fake a mark.
She could twist the truth.
But she could never have *this.*
She could never have the way his thumb brushed my lip.
The way his voice softened when he said my name.
The way his soul screamed for mine, even in silence.
Because this—this fire, this war, this love—wasn’t a lie.
It was fate.
And no amount of honeysuckle could change that.