The moonlight tonight is different.
Not silver. Not white.
Blood-red.
It bleeds through the arched windows of the Obsidian Court, spilling across the obsidian floor like liquid fire, painting the walls in hues of rust and ruin. The Blood Moon. The one night every cycle when magic surges, when bonds deepen, when the veil between worlds thins to a whisper. And tonight—tonight, it feels alive.
I stand at the threshold of my room, the open doorway to Kaelen’s chambers a gaping wound in the stone. The bond hums beneath my skin, not as a warning, not as a leash, but as a pulse. Slow. Steady. Connected. I press my fingers to the mark on my hip—still warm, still throbbing—and feel it answer, a ripple of heat that spreads low in my belly.
He’s close.
I don’t need to see him to know. I can feel him in the air, in the silence, in the way my breath hitches when the torchlight flickers just so. He’s been watching me. Always watching. Since the Blood-Sharing Ritual, since Malrik’s interruption, since I let his whisper echo in my mind—You’re already mine—and didn’t hate it.
I turn from the threshold, wrapping my robe tighter around me. The torn dress from the public marking still lies crumpled on the floor, stiff with dried blood. I don’t touch it. Don’t look at it. But I can’t forget the way he ripped it open, the way his fangs sank into my breast, the way his blood flooded into me, filling me with his memories, his hunger, his need.
And worse—
I can’t forget the way I kissed him back.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because I couldn’t not.
A knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Enter,” I say, voice steady.
The door opens.
Not Kaelen.
Not Thorne.
But a servant—a young fae woman with silver eyes and delicate features, dressed in gray robes. She carries a long garment bag over one arm, her expression carefully neutral.
“My lady,” she says, bowing slightly. “The prince has sent your attire for the Moon Ritual.”
My stomach tightens.
The Moon Ritual. A sacred ceremony held only under the Blood Moon. A test of power, of lineage, of blood. It’s not just political. It’s personal. The Fae High King himself will be there. So will Malrik. So will Selene. And Kaelen—
Kaelen will be watching me.
“Set it on the bed,” I say.
She obeys, placing the bag gently on the mattress before retreating with another bow. The door closes behind her.
Silence.
I stare at the garment bag like it’s a coiled serpent. I don’t want to open it. Don’t want to see what he’s picked for me. But I have to. Because if I refuse, the bond will punish me. And if I show up in my usual black, he’ll make me regret it.
I cross the room and unzip the bag.
The dress slides out, a cascade of midnight-blue silk that pools on the bed like spilled ink. It’s breathtaking—high-necked, long-sleeved, but cut so tightly it looks like it was poured over a mannequin. The bodice is reinforced with silver thread, the sleeves sheer at the wrists, the hem sweeping the floor in a dramatic train. But what makes my breath catch is the back.
It’s bare.
From the nape of the neck all the way down to the waist, the fabric gives way to a deep, plunging cut, edged with delicate silver embroidery. It’s not just revealing. It’s exposing. A declaration. A challenge.
And then I see it.
Nestled in the folds of the fabric—a small vial, stoppered with silver wax. I pick it up, turning it in the dim light. Inside, a few drops of thick, dark liquid.
Blood.
His blood.
A message. A test. A trap.
My fingers tighten around the vial. This isn’t just a dress. It’s a performance. A spectacle. And I’m the star.
I strip off my robe and step into the dress, the silk cool against my skin, sliding over my curves like liquid shadow. The bodice fits like a second skin, the silver thread biting slightly into my ribs, the sleeves clinging to my arms. I turn to the mirror, adjusting the high collar, then twist to see the back.
The exposed skin glows faintly in the dim light, the mark on my hip just visible beneath the edge of the fabric. But that’s not what catches my eye.
It’s the bite.
On the left side of my neck, just below my ear—two small punctures, nearly healed, but still visible. The one from the Blood Garden. The one he gave me during the truth ritual. The one that marked me as his.
I press my fingers to it.
Heat floods through me, a slow, spreading warmth that pools between my thighs. My breath hitches. My nipples tighten. My core clenches with need.
No.
I drop my hand, stepping away from the mirror. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. I am not some vampire’s pet. Not his lover. Not his mate.
But the mark throbs, a constant reminder: I am.
I reach for the vial, hesitating. Do I wear it? Do I let his blood touch my skin? Do I give him this victory?
But then I remember Maeve’s letter.
Your blood is not just witch. It is Fae. And it is his.
And the truth hits me like a blade.
I don’t have to destroy him.
I can use him.
I uncork the vial and tip a single drop onto my fingertip. The blood is thick, warm, almost alive. I press it to the bite on my neck, letting it seep into the healing skin. The moment it touches me, the bond surges—a pulse of heat that races through me, settling low in my belly. My knees weaken. My breath hitches.
And then—
I feel him.
Not distant. Not guarded.
Close.
He’s coming.
I don’t have time to react before the door opens.
Kaelen steps in, dressed in black as always, his coat tailored to perfection, his hair slightly tousled—as if he’s just risen from sleep. But his eyes are sharp. Alert. Watching me like a predator who knows the prey hasn’t realized it’s already caught.
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the curve of my hip, the line of my throat, the exposed skin of my back.
“You look… regal,” he says, voice low.
“I look like your idea of obedience,” I reply, not turning.
“You look like power restrained. I like it.”
“You would.”
He steps closer, his presence like a storm. “You wore the blood.”
“I wore the dress.”
“Same thing.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the edge of my sleeve, tracing the line of my shoulder. Heat flares where he touches, spreading down my arm, coiling low in my belly. “The ritual begins soon. You’ll stand beside me. You’ll speak when spoken to. And you will not challenge them.”
“Or what?”
“Or the bond will punish you before you even open your mouth.”
“You’d let it hurt me?”
“I’d let it do whatever it wants. Because if you defy them, you’re not just risking your life. You’re risking the alliance. And if that falls, war follows. And I won’t let that happen.”
I study him. The sharp lines of his face. The cold fire in his eyes. The way his fingers flex at his side, like he’s restraining himself from touching me again.
He’s not just a monster.
He’s a ruler.
And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his power.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll play your game. For now.”
“Good.”
He offers his arm. “Come. The court awaits.”
I don’t take it.
“I can walk beside you.”
“You’ll walk with me.”
The bond tugs at my chest, a warning. I exhale sharply and take his arm.
His skin is cold. His muscles hard beneath the fabric. But I feel it—the heat beneath, the pulse of him, the way his body responds to my touch.
We walk in silence through the corridors, the bond humming between us. The court is already gathering in the Moon Chamber—a vast, circular hall with a domed ceiling open to the night sky. The Blood Moon hangs low, its crimson light spilling over the white marble floor, where ancient runes pulse with magic. Fae nobles in shimmering silks, vampire elders in blood-red robes, Oathweavers standing like statues at the edges. Whispers rise as we enter.
“Look at her. She’s marked.”
“He’s claimed her already.”
“She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it.”
I keep my chin high. My grip tight on Kaelen’s arm.
We reach the dais. The Fae High King sits on his throne of thorns, his crown glowing faintly. Beside him, the Vampire Elder—Lord Malrik—watches us with cold, calculating eyes. Silver-haired, gaunt, his face a mask of disdain.
Kaelen and I stand before them.
“The Blood Moon has risen,” the High King intones. “Let the ritual begin.”
A hush falls over the chamber.
Malrik steps forward, holding a silver dagger etched with runes. “The ritual requires a test of blood. A demonstration of power. A proof of lineage.”
My stomach tightens.
“And who will be tested?” Kaelen asks.
“The witch,” Malrik says, his gaze locking onto mine. “Let her prove she is worthy of your mark.”
All eyes turn to me.
I don’t flinch.
Kaelen’s hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing. The bond flares, a pulse of heat that races through me, settling low in my belly.
“Agreed,” Kaelen says.
Malrik steps toward me, the dagger glinting in the moonlight. “Extend your hand.”
I do.
He slices my palm with a single, precise cut. Pain flares, sharp and bright, but I don’t cry out. Blood wells, thick and dark, dripping onto the marble floor. The runes beneath me pulse, glowing faintly.
“Now,” Malrik says, “let us see what blood you carry.”
The blood spreads, pooling over the runes. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then—
The runes flare.
Not with red. Not with black.
Silver.
A gasp ripples through the chamber.
“Fae blood,” the High King murmurs, rising from his throne. “Not just witch. Fae.”
My breath stops.
Malrik’s eyes narrow. “Impossible. She was sent by the Witch Conclave.”
“Blood does not lie,” the High King says, stepping down from the dais. He kneels, pressing his hand to the glowing runes. “This is ancient magic. Pure. Unbroken. She is of the Seelie line. A descendant of the Winter Court.”
Whispers rise.
“She’s half-fae.”
“No wonder the bond is so strong.”
“She’s not just a witch. She’s royalty.”
I look at Kaelen.
His red eyes burn into mine, not with surprise, not with anger—but with something deeper. Something real.
“You knew,” I whisper.
“I suspected,” he says. “But I didn’t know for certain. Not until now.”
“And you still marked me?”
“I marked what was already mine.”
Malrik steps forward, his voice cold. “This changes nothing. The bond is still a political tool. She is still a witch.”
“No,” the High King says. “It changes everything. The Blood Vow can only be broken by a fae-blooded descendant. By her.”
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen turns to me, his voice low. “You feel it, don’t you? The power. The shift. The way the moon calls to you.”
I do.
It’s not just the bond.
It’s not just the magic.
It’s me.
I press my hand to my chest, where the bite above my heart still pulses. The silver blood on the floor glows brighter, responding to my touch. The runes flare, spreading across the marble like cracks in ice. Power surges through me—cold, sharp, alive.
And then—
A scream.
I turn.
One of the vampire elders has fallen, clutching his chest. Blood seeps through his robes, his face pale, his breath ragged.
“He’s been poisoned,” someone shouts.
Kaelen moves instantly, crouching beside the elder. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” the elder gasps. “It burns—like fire in my veins.”
I step forward.
“Stay back,” Kaelen growls.
But I don’t listen.
I press my hand to the elder’s chest, over his heart. The moment I touch him, I feel it—the poison, dark and writhing, feeding on his blood. But beneath it—
Beneath it, I feel the magic.
And I know what to do.
I close my eyes, drawing on the power of the Blood Moon, on the silver blood in my veins, on the bond that ties me to Kaelen. I let it flow through me, down my arm, into the elder’s chest. The poison recoils, writhing, screaming, then dissolves—burned away by the cold, pure magic of my fae blood.
The elder gasps, his color returning, his breath steadying.
“He’s healed,” someone whispers.
I open my eyes.
The entire chamber is silent. Staring.
Kaelen looks at me, his red eyes burning. “You healed him,” he says. “With a touch.”
“I didn’t know I could,” I whisper.
“But you did.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re not just mine. You’re fated.”
Malrik steps forward, his voice cold. “This proves nothing. She’s still a witch. Still a threat.”
“No,” the High King says. “It proves everything. The Blood Vow can be broken. And she is the key.”
My breath catches.
Kaelen turns to me, his voice low. “Now you know. Now you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That you don’t have to destroy me to break the Vow.”
“Then how?”
“By becoming me.”
My heart stutters.
“By loving me.”
“By claiming me.”
And then—
A whisper in my mind.
You’re already mine.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time—
I don’t hate it.
I don’t fight it.
I just… let it in.