The first thing I do after leaving Kael in the Blood Archive is run.
Not far—just down the twisting stone corridors of the Shadow Court, my boots silent on the ancient flagstones, my breath tight in my chest. I don’t stop until I reach the guest wing, until I’m inside the small, austere chamber assigned to “Raine Vale,” until the door is locked behind me and my back is pressed against the cold wood.
Then I slide down, knees buckling, and bury my face in my hands.
I can still feel his touch.
His fingers on my wrist—over the scar—sending fire through my veins. His voice, low and rough, saying my name like it meant something. Like he *remembered* me.
And worse—worse—my body’s reaction. The way my pulse jumped. The way my breath caught. The way heat pooled low in my belly, a traitorous throb that had nothing to do with hate.
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my nails into my palms until the sting grounds me. I trained for this. Ten years of control. Ten years of denying every instinct, every emotion, every flicker of weakness. I meditated through bond-fever dreams. I practiced scent-blocking oils until my skin burned. I learned to suppress the magic sealed inside me, to walk among werewolves without triggering their instincts.
But none of it prepared me for this. For the bond roaring back to life. For the way my body responds to him, even as my mind screams kill him, kill him, kill him.
And then—his words.
“You don’t have a choice, Rowan.”
“Then you’ll watch your people burn.”
He’s right. I don’t have a choice. Not if I want to protect Silas. Not if I want to keep the witches of the Circle of Thorns safe. Not if I want to prevent another war.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll play his game.
I push myself up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. No tears. I don’t allow myself that. I walk to the washbasin, splash cold water on my skin, then strip off my outer robe. Underneath, my corset is lined with hidden pockets—witch sigils etched in silver, a vial of scent-masking oil, and the dagger, its hilt cool against my ribs.
I pull the dagger free, testing the edge against my thumb. Sharp. Lethal. Just like me.
I can still kill him. I just have to be smarter.
The Council wants proof of our bond? Fine. I’ll give them a show. I’ll stand beside him. I’ll let them see us touch. I’ll even let him *think* he’s winning.
But the second I get my hands on the original vow scroll—when I can destroy it and break the bond for good—I’ll slit his throat in his sleep.
I sheathe the dagger, smooth my hair, and step back into the corridor.
Time to gather information.
Kael’s private wing is off-limits to guests. Only his inner circle—Beta, Enforcers, trusted advisors—are allowed past the black iron gate guarded by two werewolves with golden eyes. But I’m not here as a guest.
I’m here as a hunter.
I wait until the shift changes—midnight, when the guards are tired, when the corridors are shadowed and quiet. Then I slip through the gate, moving like smoke, my scent masked, my footsteps silent. I’ve studied the layout. I know where his chambers are. I know where he keeps his records. I know where he sleeps.
And tonight, I’m going to find out who he really is.
The door to his private suite is reinforced oak, carved with wolf sigils that pulse faintly with magic. I press my palm to the wood, whispering a witch’s counter-charm—*“Solvo vinculum”*—and the wards flicker, then die.
I push the door open.
The room beyond is vast—high ceilings, stone walls lined with black furs, a fire crackling in a hearth the size of a wagon. Weapons hang on the walls: swords, daggers, a massive war axe. A desk dominates one corner, littered with scrolls and maps. And in the center—his bed. Huge. Canopied in dark velvet. Unmade.
But I don’t go to the bed.
I go to the desk.
I scan the documents—military reports, alliance treaties, supply lists. Nothing about the Vowkeep. Nothing about me. I move to the bookshelves, running my fingers along the spines. Histories. Law codes. A journal, bound in wolf hide.
I open it.
The pages are filled with Kael’s handwriting—sharp, angular, precise. Dates. Names. Orders. And then—near the back—a single entry, scrawled in what looks like haste:
“She’s gone. I’ve sent scouts to every border, every ruin. No trace. I keep her scent on a scrap of cloth in my chest. I don’t know if she’s alive. I don’t know if she hates me. But if she is out there… I will find her.”
My breath catches.
He’s been looking for me?
After everything—after breaking the vow, after letting my family die—he’s been *searching*?
It’s a lie. It has to be. A trick. A ploy to make me doubt.
But the handwriting… it’s raw. Unfiltered. And the scent of the page—his scent, mixed with something faint, something familiar—storm and iron. My scent.
I slam the journal shut.
No. I won’t fall for it. I won’t let sentiment cloud my mission.
I turn to leave—
And the bathroom door opens.
Steam spills into the room, curling around long, bare legs. A woman steps out, wrapped in nothing but a black silk robe that barely covers her thighs. Her skin is pale as moonlight, her hair a cascade of blood-red waves. She’s beautiful. Deadly. And she’s wearing Kael’s scent—thick, intimate, clinging to her like a second skin.
My stomach drops.
She sees me. Smiles.
“Oh,” she says, voice like velvet over steel. “You must be the new plaything.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. My hand drifts to my corset, to the dagger.
She steps forward, trailing a finger down her collarbone, then lower—over the knot of the robe, between her breasts. Her eyes never leave mine.
“I was just in the bath,” she purrs. “Kael has such *strong* hands. Always knows how to… relieve tension.”
My jaw clenches. “Who the hell are you?”
“Lysandra D’Vaal,” she says, bowing mockingly. “Vampire. Mistress of the Crimson Court. And,” she adds, pulling the robe open just enough to reveal a jagged bite mark on her inner thigh, “the last woman Kael *fed*.”
My blood runs cold.
Blood bond. A vampire drinking from a werewolf—especially an Alpha—is more than intimacy. It’s addiction. It’s power. It’s a claim.
And that bite… it’s fresh.
“You’re lying,” I say, voice flat.
She laughs, low and knowing. “Am I?” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the bath oils on her skin—jasmine and something darker, something metallic. “He kept me for three nights. Drank from me. Let me drink from him. Told me I was the only one who ever *understood* him.”
“He’s an Alpha,” I snap. “He doesn’t *feed* for pleasure. It’s political.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re beautiful, I’ll give you that. Storm-colored eyes. That sharp little chin. But you’re *half-breed*. Omega. He’ll tire of you in a week. But me?” She smiles, fangs glinting. “I’ve had his blood. I’ve had his *mark*. He *promised* me.”
“Promised what?”
“His bite.” She runs her tongue over her lower lip. “The mating mark. Right here.” She taps the pulse point on her neck. “Said he’d do it when the Council approved.”
“And did they?”
“No.” Her smile fades. “But he *wore* my ring.” She holds up her hand—on her finger, a band of black obsidian, carved with wolf sigils. “Took it off only when you arrived.”
I stare at the ring.
It’s real. I can feel the magic in it—old, powerful, bound to Kael’s essence.
“He told me you were a rumor,” she says, stepping even closer. “A ghost from his past. But when the bond flared… I saw it in his eyes. He’s *terrified* of you.”
“He’s not afraid of me,” I say, though my voice wavers. “He’s afraid of what I’ll do to him.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s afraid of what he’ll do to *you*. He hasn’t touched another woman in seven years. Not since you disappeared.”
My breath hitches.
Seven years.
No lovers. No political alliances. No blood bonds.
Until her.
“Then why you?” I whisper.
“Because he was *weak*,” she says, almost gently. “Because he missed you. Because he thought you were dead. And because,” she adds, stepping back, “I made sure he was *very* lonely.”
She turns, walking toward the bed, her robe slipping off one shoulder. “He’ll come back soon. He always does. And when he does…” She looks over her shoulder, smiling. “He’ll be *ravenous*.”
I don’t wait.
I turn and walk out, my steps steady, my face blank. But inside, I’m shaking.
It’s not just that she’s been with him. Not just that she’s had his blood, his ring, his *promises*.
It’s that she *knows* him.
She’s seen him vulnerable. She’s heard him whisper in the dark. She’s felt his fangs at her throat.
And I—
I don’t know anything.
I thought I did. I thought he was a monster. A liar. A killer.
But what if he’s not?
What if he *did* search for me?
What if he *didn’t* order my family’s death?
What if everything I’ve built my revenge on is a lie?
I reach my chamber, lock the door, and press my forehead to the wood.
I came here to kill him.
But now…
Now I don’t know what I want.
The next morning, I’m summoned to the Council chamber.
Kael is already there, standing at the center of the semicircle of thrones. He’s dressed in dark silk and leather, his hair pulled back, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t look at me. Not at first.
But when I step forward, I feel it—the bond. A low, insistent thrum beneath my skin. My pulse jumps. My breath catches.
He turns.
His golden eyes lock onto mine. And for a second—just a second—I see it. Not dominance. Not cruelty.
Regret.
Then it’s gone.
“You’re late,” he says, voice cold.
“I was detained,” I say, not breaking his gaze. “By a vampire who claims you fed her your blood. Wore your ring. Promised her your bite.”
The chamber goes still.
Kael’s jaw tightens. “Lysandra is a political ally. Nothing more.”
“She says otherwise.”
“She lies.”
“Does she?” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Because she has your scent on her skin. Your ring on her finger. And a bite mark that looks *very* recent.”
His eyes flare. “You went to my chambers.”
“I went to gather intelligence.”
“You went to *spy*.”
“And you let her *in*.”
“She’s not a threat.”
“She’s in your *bed*.”
“She was *not* in my bed.”
“Then why was she wearing your shirt?”
He goes very still.
And then—
“Because I gave it to her,” he says, voice low. “After the Blood Archive. When I realized you’d run. I was… angry. Frustrated. She offered wine. Conversation. Nothing more.”
“And the ring?”
“A diplomatic gift. It meant nothing.”
“And the bite?”
“A test. To see if a blood bond could suppress the mate-mark. It didn’t work.”
I stare at him.
He’s telling the truth. I can feel it—through the bond. No lies. No deception. Just… pain.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper.
He flinches.
“She’s using you. She wants your power. And you let her *think* she has a chance.”
“I was trying to protect you,” he growls.
“By *sleeping* with her?”
“By *not* killing her! She’s a vampire lord’s daughter. If I reject her openly, it starts a war. I bought time. That’s all.”
I want to believe him.
I want to.
But the image of her—steam curling around her thighs, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, her fangs glinting as she smiled—won’t leave me.
“Next time,” I say, stepping back, “try protecting me without letting another woman wear your clothes.”
He doesn’t answer.
And I don’t look back as I walk away.
But that night, as I lie in bed, the bond humming beneath my skin, I wonder—
What if I’m not just here to kill him?
What if I’m here to *save* him?
And worse—
What if he’s already saved me?