The sun had not yet risen when I left Rosemary in the library, but the castle was already alive with whispers. The kind that slithered through corridors like serpents, curling around ears and poisoning minds. *She stole the Seal. She’s a traitor. The Thorned Bride is a curse upon the court.*
I ignored them.
Let them talk. Let them suspect. I had spent centuries mastering the art of silence, of stillness, of letting fear do my work for me. But this time, the silence sat wrong in my chest. It wasn’t control I felt—it was *doubt*. Not of her guilt. No, I knew she hadn’t stolen the Seal. She was reckless, yes. Defiant, absolutely. But she wasn’t a thief. And she wasn’t a fool.
She was a storm.
And storms didn’t sneak. They *raged*.
Still, the Council would demand answers. Oberon would use this—twist it, weaponize it. He had always wanted a reason to dismantle the bond, to expose Rosemary as a fraud, a threat. And now he had one.
I walked the length of the eastern balcony, the cold stone biting through my boots, the wind carrying the scent of iron and night-blooming thorn. Below, the courtyard was bathed in the pale blue of dawn, shadows retreating like defeated soldiers. And there—standing beneath the arch of the armory, wrapped in my ceremonial cloak—was Lysara.
My blood went still.
The cloak was black as void, lined with silver thread that pulsed with the rhythm of my heartbeat. It was a symbol of my authority, worn only during state rituals, during blood oaths, during the claiming of a mate. And now she wore it like a shroud, like a trophy, like a *lie*.
She saw me. Smiled.
Slowly, deliberately, she drew the cloak tighter around her, pressing it to her chest, her fingers lingering where my scent would be strongest. Her eyes—dark, knowing—locked onto mine.
And then she did the one thing I knew would ignite the fire in my veins.
She inhaled deeply. Closed her eyes. Smiled.
“You smell him on me,” she called, voice soft, carrying on the wind. “Don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. But my fangs pressed against my tongue, my hands curled into fists, my vision tinged with red.
She stepped forward. “Last night, after you left the library… he came to me. Said he needed *comfort*. Said the bond was too much. That *you* were too much.”
“Liar,” I said, voice low, dangerous.
“Am I?” She laughed, light and silvery. “Then why did he whisper my name while he touched me? Why did he beg me to stay?”
I leapt.
One moment I was on the balcony. The next, I had her pinned against the stone wall, my hand around her throat, not tight enough to crush, but enough to *hold*. Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with triumph.
“You’re going to regret this,” I growled.
“Are you?” she purred. “Or are you just angry because it’s the first time someone’s taken something from you?”
“You have *nothing*,” I snarled. “You’re a ghost clinging to a past that died centuries ago.”
“Then why does your pulse race?” she whispered. “Why are your fangs bared? Why does your body *ache* to rip me apart?”
Because I wasn’t just angry.
I was *jealous*.
And that—more than anything—terrified me.
I released her. Stepped back. The wind howled between us.
“Take off the cloak,” I said.
She smirked. “Make me.”
So I did.
I tore it from her, the fabric ripping in my grip, the silver threads snapping like bones. She gasped—more from shock than pain—but I didn’t care. I burned it with a flick of my wrist, the flames consuming it in seconds, reducing it to ash that scattered on the wind.
“Touch what’s mine again,” I said, voice ice, “and I’ll burn more than just cloth.”
She didn’t flinch. Just smoothed her dress, her smile returning. “You can destroy the cloak. But you can’t destroy the truth. He came to me. He *wanted* me. And when the Council hears—”
“The Council will hear *nothing*,” I said. “Because if you speak one word of this, I’ll have your tongue cut out and fed to the ravens.”
She laughed. “You won’t. You need me. The Nocturne line still holds power in the Council. You can’t afford to make an enemy of my house.”
“Try me,” I said. “And find out just how little I care about political games when my patience is gone.”
She stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Keep your little witch. Play your little game. But remember—” She leaned in, her breath cool against my ear. “—you were *mine* first.”
And then she was gone.
I stood there, the ashes of the cloak swirling at my feet, my chest tight, my mind a storm.
She had done this on purpose. To provoke me. To make me lose control. To make me look weak.
And it had worked.
Because I *was* weak.
Not because of her.
Because of *Rosemary*.
I could still see her in the library—flushed, trembling, her lips swollen from my kiss, her body arching into mine. I could still feel the way her magic had surged, how her breath had caught when my fangs grazed her neck. She had wanted me. Not as a king. Not as a monster.
As a man.
And now Lysara was spreading lies, trying to poison that truth, trying to make Rosemary doubt me.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Not because I needed her loyalty.
Because I needed *her*.
—
I found her in the training hall, stripped down to a leather corset and riding pants, her hair braided tightly, a bone dagger in each hand. She was sparring with a training dummy—fast, precise, brutal. Every strike was a memory of vengeance. Every slash, a promise of blood.
She didn’t look up when I entered.
“You’re late,” she said, voice flat. “Council convenes in two hours.”
“You heard,” I said.
“Of course I heard,” she snapped, driving a dagger into the dummy’s throat. “The entire court is buzzing about it. The Vampire King’s ex-lover claims he spent the night in her bed. That he begged her to stay. That he *needed* her.”
My jaw tightened. “It’s a lie.”
She turned to me, eyes blazing. “And you expect me to believe that?”
“You should,” I said. “Because I was in my chambers all night. Alone.”
“Then why does she smell like your blood?”
I froze.
She stepped closer, the daggers still in her hands, her magic flaring. “I can *smell* it, Kaelen. Your scent. Your essence. It’s on her skin, in her hair. How do you explain that?”
“She stole the cloak,” I said. “Wore it like a whore wears a stolen jewel.”
“And that’s it?” she demanded. “That’s your defense? That she *stole* your clothes?”
“I burned it,” I said. “And I warned her never to touch what’s mine again.”
“And what *is* yours?” she shot back. “Me? The throne? Or just the illusion of control?”
“You,” I said, stepping forward. “You are *mine*. Not because of the bond. Not because of the law. But because every time I look at you, I see *fire*. And I don’t want to put it out. I want to *feed* it.”
She laughed—bitter, broken. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to touch me, kiss me, *claim* me, and then let another woman wear your scent like a crown.”
“I didn’t let her,” I growled. “She took it. Just like she’s trying to take *you* from me.”
“Me?” She scoffed. “I’m not yours to lose.”
“Aren’t you?” I closed the distance between us, my hands gripping her arms, not hard, but with intent. The bond flared—hot, electric—and this time, I didn’t fight it. I let it *burn*. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your body responds to mine? The way your magic *screams* when I touch you? You think I don’t know you wanted that kiss in the library?”
“I didn’t—”
“*Liar*,” I snarled. “You moaned. You arched. You *ached* for me. And now you’re standing here, letting her poison that truth, letting her make you doubt—”
“Because I *should* doubt!” she screamed. “You lie. You manipulate. You *own* people. How do I know this isn’t just another game? Another way to control me?”
“Because I’ve never *felt* like this before!” I roared, the words tearing from my chest like a wound. “Three hundred years, Rosemary. Three centuries of silence, of ice, of *nothing*. And then you walk in with poison in your hand and fire in your eyes—and suddenly, I’m *alive*. I feel. I *want*. I *need*. And it *terrifies* me.”
She stilled.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her eyes—wide, searching—locked onto mine.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Not hate.
Not defiance.
*Fear*.
“You’re afraid,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “Of you. Of this. Of how much I don’t want to let you go.”
She dropped the daggers. They clattered to the floor.
And then—
She *shoved* me.
Not hard. Not violent.
But enough.
“Prove it,” she said, voice low, trembling. “If I’m yours… *claim me*.”
The air stilled.
The bond *screamed*.
I didn’t hesitate.
I backed her against the wall, my body caging hers, my hands gripping her waist. She didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Her breath came fast, her pulse fluttered in her throat, her magic flared like a storm about to break.
“You want proof?” I growled. “Then you’ll have it.”
My mouth crashed against hers—hard, desperate, *hungry*. She moaned, her hands flying to my chest, not to push me away, but to *hold on*. I kissed her like I was drowning, like she was the only air I had left. My fangs grazed her lip—just once—and she *shivered*, her hips arching into mine.
“Kaelen—”
“Say it,” I demanded, my mouth moving to her neck, my teeth scraping over her pulse. “Say you’re mine.”
She gasped as I bit down—not deep, not enough to draw blood, but enough to *mark*. A warning. A promise.
“I’m yours,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Gods help me… I’m yours.”
The bond *exploded*.
Heat. Fire. Magic. The room trembled, the torches flaring, the stone cracking beneath our feet. I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her body pressed against mine, every inch of her burning for me.
And then—
A voice.
“Ahem.”
We froze.
Cassien stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Council’s waiting,” he said. “And Oberon’s not known for his patience.”
I lowered Rosemary, but didn’t release her. Her head rested against my shoulder, her breath hot against my neck, her body still trembling.
“We’ll be there,” I said, voice rough.
Cassien nodded, then turned to go. But at the door, he paused.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, not looking back, “she’s not the only one who’s been marked.”
And then he was gone.
I looked down at Rosemary. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her fingers clutching my coat like she was afraid I’d vanish.
“You’re mine,” I said again, softer this time.
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t deny it either.
—
The Council Chamber was colder than I remembered. The moonstone veins in the ceiling pulsed slow and steady, casting long shadows across the faces of the gathered lords and ladies. Oberon sat upon his throne of thorns, his golden eyes sharp, his smile thin.
And Lysara—
She sat in the front row, her dress crimson, her hair loose, her neck bare.