The city of Prague at midnight is a ghost dressed in velvet and blood.
It rises from the mist like a memory—cobbled streets slick with rain, gas lamps flickering with fae fire, bridges arching over black water where whispers drift like drowned secrets. The humans sleep in their towers of glass and steel, unaware. But beneath them, in the forgotten tunnels and sunken chambers, the supernatural world stirs. This is where Malrik’s empire spreads its roots. This is where he sells the truth for gold.
And tonight, I’m here to steal it back.
Kaelen walks beside me, silent, a storm wrapped in black wool and silver chain. His coat is long, his boots soft, his presence a wall between me and the world. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. But I can feel him—the bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire, a second heartbeat. It’s stronger now. Sharper. Not just desire. Not just need. But *recognition*. Like my body knows it was made for his, even if my mind still fights it.
We’re dressed as nobles—a vampire lord and his bonded witch—our faces hidden behind masks of carved bone and silver. Mine is light, delicate, shaped like a moth’s wing. His is heavy, brutal, a wolf’s snarl frozen in ivory. We move through the streets like shadows, past blood bars where hollowborn sip from crystal vials, past enchanted brothels where fae glamour turns skin to silk and breath to song. The air is thick with the scent of old magic, iron, and something darker—*fear*.
“The auction’s in the old cathedral,” Kaelen murmurs, voice low, rough. “Beneath the ruins. Guarded by Malrik’s inner circle.”
“Then we’ll need a distraction,” I say.
“I’ve sent two wolves to the east gate. They’ll start a fight in thirty minutes.”
“And if it’s not enough?”
He turns. His golden eyes burn through the mask. “Then we burn the place down.”
I smile. “I like you better when you’re violent.”
“You’ve always liked me violent,” he says. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”
The bond flares—heat surging, sudden and fierce. My breath hitches. His pupils dilate. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it harder to hate you.”
He reaches for me—slow, deliberate. His thumb brushes my cheek, calloused, warm. “Then stop trying.”
I step back. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just let me in.”
“You’re already in,” I say. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Not like this,” he says. “Not with secrets. Not with lies. Not with you running every time I get close.”
“I’m not running,” I say. “I’m fighting.”
“Then fight *with* me,” he says. “Not against me. Not alone.”
My breath catches.
Because the truth?
I don’t want to fight alone.
And I don’t want to lose him.
“You’re not leaving my side,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
But it’s not because I have to.
It’s because I want to.
And because I’m afraid—of him, of the bond, of the truth.
—
The cathedral is a ruin wrapped in silence.
Its spires rise like broken bones, its stained glass shattered, its doors sealed with blood-oath sigils that pulse with dark magic. We approach from the south, where the wall has collapsed into a jagged maw of stone. Kaelen goes first—silent, feral, beautiful in his brutality. He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps into the darkness, his golden eyes glowing in the gloom. I follow, my obsidian blade hidden in my sleeve, my sigils etched into my skin, ready to flare at a touch.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of incense and decay. Candles burn with frozen fire, casting long, dancing shadows across the nave. Rows of velvet chairs face a raised dais, where a single podium stands, lit by a cage of blue flame. And on the dais—Malrik.
He’s dressed in crimson, his smile sharp, his fangs bared in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Around him, the Council’s elite—vampires in silk, fae in shimmering silver, witches in hooded robes. They murmur, sip from crystal goblets, their eyes hungry. This isn’t just an auction.
It’s a *spectacle*.
“Welcome,” Malrik says, voice smooth, poisoned honey. “To the sale of a lifetime. A page from the Thorn Codex—authentic, unaltered, pulsing with the power of a thousand bloodlines. Who will bid?”
The room erupts—voices rising, numbers called, gold exchanged in blood-sealed contracts. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand in the shadows, my breath shallow, my fingers curled around the hilt of my blade. Kaelen is beside me, still, a statue carved from storm and shadow. His hand brushes mine—just once. A spark. A promise.
Then—
“Fifty thousand,” says a voice—deep, rasping, familiar.
I turn.
And my blood runs cold.
At the front of the room, draped in black velvet and iron, sits a witch warlord—tall, scarred, her eyes like embers in ash. Her name is Morana. She rules the Eastern Coven with fire and blood, her magic drawn from pain, her power built on rebellion. And in her hand—
A page of the Codex.
It glows—soft, pulsing, alive. The ink shifts, forming symbols that twist like thorns. And I can feel it—the magic. Not just power. *Hunger*. It wants to be used. To be *obeyed*.
“Sold,” Malrik says, smiling. “To Lady Morana of the Eastern Coven.”
The room applauds.
And my world cracks.
Because Morana doesn’t just want the Codex.
She wants to enslave every hybrid in Europe.
And now she has the key.
—
We move fast.
Out the back, through a crypt lined with bones, into a tunnel that smells of damp earth and old blood. Kaelen leads, his steps silent, his body tense. I follow, my breath coming fast, my mind racing. We can’t let her leave with that page. We can’t let her use it. But we can’t fight her here—not with Malrik’s guards, not with half the Council watching.
“We need to track her,” I say. “Find her stronghold. Take it back.”
“She’ll have wards,” Kaelen says. “Blood-magic. Fae traps. We’ll need time.”
“We don’t have time,” I snap. “She’ll start the ritual tonight. She’ll bind the hybrids by dawn.”
He stops. Turns. His golden eyes burn through the mask. “Then we stop her before she leaves.”
“How?”
“We follow. We wait. We take her in the streets.”
“And if she’s protected?”
“Then I’ll rip her heart out with my teeth.”
The bond flares—heat surging, sudden and fierce. My breath hitches. His pupils dilate. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper.
“And you,” he says, “are my vow.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
—
We find her in the canals.
She’s boarding a gondola—black, sleek, powered by a silent engine that hums beneath the water. Her guards are wolves—Outcasts, marked with Omega scars, their eyes hollow, their loyalty bought with blood. They don’t speak. Just stand, motionless, as she steps onto the boat, the Codex page wrapped in thorned silk.
Kaelen and I crouch behind a crumbling arch, our breath shallow, our bodies pressed close. The bond hums between us, a live wire, a second heartbeat. I can feel him—the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath comes fast, the way his body tenses when I shift. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. But his presence is a fire against my skin.
“We wait,” he murmurs. “Let them move into the open. Then we strike.”
I nod.
But the bond is screaming.
Not in pain.
In *need*.
It wants more.
It wants *all*.
And I don’t want to fight it.
Not here.
Not now.
Not with him so close.
His hand brushes mine—just once. A spark. A promise. Then slides to my hip, his thumb tracing the curve beneath my coat. My breath hitches. My thighs press together, trying to suppress the ache that blooms low in my belly.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh,” he says. “Just feel.”
His fingers dip beneath the fabric, just slightly, tracing the line of my hip. Fire erupts beneath his touch. My breath comes fast. My skin burns. The mark on my arm throbs, a living thing.
“You feel it too,” I whisper.
“Every second,” he says, voice rough. “The bond. The need. The way your body answers mine, even now.”
“It’s not real,” I say. “It’s magic. Instinct.”
“It’s *us*,” he says. “The magic doesn’t create desire. It *amplifies* it. And you… you *want* me. Even hating me.”
I close my eyes. Because he’s right. And the truth is worse than the fever.
I *do* want him.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the magic.
But because he sees me. Really sees me. The rage. The grief. The fire. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run. He *stays*.
His hand slides up my side, skimming the curve of my ribcage, the dip of my waist. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and I gasp.
“Stop,” I whisper.
He doesn’t.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Say stop, and I’ll walk out that door.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because the truth?
I don’t want him to stop.
I want him to burn me.
I want him to ruin me.
I want to hate him so much that it feels like love.
He leans in. His breath is warm on my neck. His lips brush my ear. “You called me,” he whispers. “Say it wasn’t a mistake.”
My breath catches.
The fever rages. The bond screams. My body burns.
And for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“It wasn’t,” I whisper.
He stills. Then, slowly, he pulls back. Looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time, I see it—relief. A crack in the armor.
“You’re not leaving my side,” he says, voice rough.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
But it’s not because I have to.
It’s because I want to.
He steps closer. His hands slide under my arms, lifting me. I gasp as he pulls me against him—skin to skin, heat to heat, heart to heart. His cock presses against my belly, hard, insistent. My breath hitches. My thighs clench. The bond flares—heat pooling low, sudden and sharp.
“You’re not wearing anything,” I say, voice trembling.
“Neither are you,” he says.
His mouth crashes into mine.
Not gentle. Not soft. A claiming. A punishment. A demand. His tongue demands entry. I open for him. He tastes like iron and fire, like defiance and need, and for one devastating second, I forget everything—duty, law, honor, war.
There is only him.
His hands slide down my back, over my hips, cupping my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I moan into his mouth, a sound of pure, unfiltered hunger. My fingers curl in his hair, tugging him closer. His fangs graze my lip—*almost blood, almost bond*. He growls, low and deep, the sound vibrating through my chest.
This isn’t just desire.
This is *surrender*.
And I don’t want it to end.
But it has to.
Because the gondola is moving.
And Morana is getting away.
He breaks the kiss. Just enough to breathe. Our foreheads press together. Our breath mingles. His heart hammers against my chest. His scent floods my senses. His lips are swollen, glistening, *mine*.
“We need to move,” I say, voice trembling.
“In a minute,” he growls. “Let me feel you first.”
And then—
Shouts.
Howls.
Gunfire.
Attack.
“Next time,” he snarls, pressing his forehead to mine. “No interruptions.”
But I don’t hear him.
Because I’m already running.
Toward the only truth left.
Toward the only future worth saving.
And when I reach the edge of the canal, my boots pounding against stone, my breath coming fast, I see it—
The gondola, lit by the blue flame of the Codex, drifting into the mist.
And Morana, standing at the bow, her hand raised, the page glowing in her grip.
“You don’t get to have it,” I whisper.
And I jump.
The water is black. Cold. *Alive*.
And I don’t care.
Because the fire in my veins is hotter.
And the vow on my lips is louder.
And the man behind me—
He’s not just my enemy.
He’s not just my mate.
He’s my *ruin*.
And I don’t want to survive it.
“We need to move,” she says. “In a minute,” he growls. “Let me feel you first.”