The Blood Moon has waned. The storm has broken. The world outside the Fae High Court is still, quiet, drenched in the aftermath of chaos.
But inside?
Inside, the war has only just begun.
I stand at the edge of the Grand Banquet Hall, my back to the towering stained-glass window that depicts the fall of the First Vampire King—his fangs bared, his hands raised in triumph, his blood dripping onto the roots of the World Tree. The hall is alive with movement, with music, with the clink of silverware and the low hum of political scheming. Fae nobles in shimmering silks glide between tables like ghosts. Vampire elders in blood-red robes whisper behind fans. Oathweavers stand like statues at the edges, their masks gleaming, their eyes watching, always watching.
And at the center of it all—
Lavender.
She sits beside me at the high dais, her spine straight, her expression cool, her dark hair pulled back in a braid threaded with silver. She’s wearing the white dress from the Sacred Unity Ritual—modified now, the back covered, the neckline higher, the sleeves longer. A concession. A compromise. But the mark on her hip is still visible beneath the fabric, pulsing faintly with every beat of her heart. The bond between us hums, steady, watchful, *alive*.
She doesn’t look at me.
She hasn’t since this morning.
Since she saw the truth.
Since she watched my father break her mother.
Since she kissed me—soft, slow, *real*—and then pulled away without a word.
And now—
Now she’s ignoring me.
Not out of hatred.
Not out of fear.
But out of *thought*.
She’s thinking. Calculating. Deciding.
And I hate it.
Because I know what she’s thinking.
Is he worth saving?
I press my fingers to the edge of the table, the wood cool beneath my skin. I don’t need to look at her to feel her. I can feel the heat of her body, the rhythm of her breath, the way her pulse hitches when I’m near. I can feel the bond—tight, coiled, aching for release. And I can feel the shift in her.
She’s not fighting me anymore.
She’s *seeing* me.
And that terrifies me more than any blade ever could.
“You’re brooding,” she says, not looking at me.
“I’m observing.”
“You’re glaring at the fae lord three tables down.”
“He’s been staring at you for the past ten minutes.”
She finally turns, her green eyes sharp, her lips curving in the faintest smirk. “And if he is?”
“Then I’ll rip his eyes out.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you stayed.”
Her breath hitches.
She didn’t think I’d remember. But I do. Every word. Every breath. Every moment she spent in my arms last night, her back pressed to my chest, my cock hard against her ass, my arms wrapped around her like I could keep the world from touching her.
And she let me.
She didn’t pull away.
She *stayed*.
“You’re not my keeper,” she says, voice low.
“No,” I agree. “I’m your mate.”
“We’re not mated.”
“Not yet.”
She turns away, her jaw tight, her fingers curling around her goblet. The wine inside is dark, thick, laced with vervain to dull magic. But she doesn’t drink. Just stares at it, like it holds the answers she’s searching for.
And then—
He approaches.
Lorcan, Lord of the Wild Court. Tall, golden-haired, his skin kissed by moonlight, his smile sharp as a dagger. He moves like a predator—graceful, confident, *dangerous*. And he’s coming for her.
“Lady Lavender,” he says, bowing slightly, his voice a velvet purr. “May I steal a moment of your time?”
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t ask for permission.
“Of course,” she says, standing.
My magic flares.
The bond surges.
But I don’t stop her.
I let her go.
Because I want to see.
I want to see how far she’ll let him go.
I want to see if she’ll flirt. If she’ll laugh. If she’ll lean into his touch.
And if she does—
Then I’ll remind her.
Remind her who she belongs to.
They move to the edge of the hall, near the fountain of blood-red roses. Lorcan leans in, his hand brushing her arm, his voice low, intimate. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens, her expression unreadable, her body relaxed.
Too relaxed.
My fangs descend.
My hands clench.
And then—
He touches her.
His fingers brush her waist, just above the curve of her hip, where my mark burns beneath the fabric. A casual touch. A flirtatious one. But it’s *mine*. She’s *mine*. And no one touches what’s mine.
I’m on my feet before I realize it.
Across the hall in three strides.
My hand closes around her wrist, cold and unyielding. “You’re needed,” I say, voice low, dangerous.
She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue. Just lets me pull her away, her eyes locked on mine, her breath hitching.
Lorcan watches us go, his smile fading, his eyes narrowing.
Good.
Let him know.
Let the whole court know.
She’s not available.
She’s not for sale.
She’s *mine*.
I drag her through the corridors, my grip tight, my pulse roaring in my ears. The bond hums between us, tense, electric, *alive*. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t fight. Just follows, her boots silent on the obsidian floor, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
We reach the Hall of Whispers—a narrow, shadowed corridor lined with ancient mirrors, their surfaces cracked, their silver backing peeling. No one comes here. No one dares. The mirrors show not your reflection, but your *truth*. Your deepest fear. Your darkest desire.
And right now?
Right now, I don’t care what they show.
I spin her around, pinning her to the wall, my body pressing her down, my hands caging her in. “You let him touch you,” I growl.
“He didn’t—”
“He touched your *hip*. Where I *marked* you.”
“It was an accident.”
“Nothing is an accident.” My fangs graze her throat, my breath hot against her skin. “You knew he’d do it. You *let* him.”
“I was gathering information.”
“On *what*?”
“Malrik. He’s been meeting with Lorcan. They’re planning something.”
My breath stops.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I was *going* to.”
“After he had his hands all over you?”
“I can handle myself.”
“Not with him. Not with any of them.” I press my cock against her, hard and insistent, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re *mine*. Say it.”
“Never.”
“You’re lying.” My hand slides down, fingers pressing between her thighs. She gasps. I feel it—the wetness, the heat, the way her body arches toward me. “You’re soaked,” I murmur. “For *me*.”
“It’s the bond.”
“Then why doesn’t it happen with anyone else?”
She doesn’t answer.
I kiss her—hard, deep, *hungry*. My lips move over hers, my tongue sliding against her own, demanding surrender. She gasps, and I take the sound, swallowing it, my hands moving over her—down her back, over her hips, gripping her ass and pulling her flush against me. I can feel every hard line of her body, the heat of her, the thick length of my cock pressing against her stomach.
And then—
She kisses me back.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because she *can’t* not.
Her hands fist in my coat, pulling me closer, her mouth crashing against mine, desperate, furious, *real*. I groan, low in my chest, and take control, my tongue sliding deeper, my hands moving faster, until she’s breathless, until her knees weaken, until the world narrows to her mouth, her hands, her body against mine.
“You’re mine,” I growl against her lips. “Say it.”
“Never,” she gasps, even as her hips roll against mine.
“You’re lying.” My teeth graze her throat. “Your body knows the truth.”
“It’s the magic.”
“Then why does it only happen with you?”
I don’t answer.
She kisses me again, deeper, harder, until I’m breathless, until my knees weaken, until the world narrows to her mouth, her hands, her body against mine. My free hand slides under her dress, his fingers grazing her bare hip, then higher—
And then—
A whisper in my mind.
You’re already mine.
I open my eyes.
The mirrors around us flicker.
In one, I see her—naked, bound, her body arched in pleasure, my fangs in her neck.
In another, I see me—kneeling, my head bowed, my hands clasped in surrender.
And in the center—
Us.
Together.
Not as master and consort.
Not as prince and witch.
But as equals.
As lovers.
As *mates*.
She sees it too.
Her breath hitches.
“That’s not real,” she whispers.
“It could be,” I say. “If you’d let it.”
“I came here to destroy you.”
“And I came here to destroy myself,” I say. “But then I saw you. And I realized—”
My lips brush hers. “—I don’t want to die. I want to *live*. With you.”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t pull away.
And then—
She speaks.
“Lorcan said Malrik is planning to expose me. To reveal my half-fae blood in front of the Council. To use it to invalidate the bond.”
My breath stops.
“When?”
“Tonight. During the toast.”
I step back slowly, my hand still on her waist, my body shielding hers. “Then we’ll stop him.”
“How?”
“By making sure the bond is undeniable.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” I say, stepping closer, my voice dropping, “that when they look at you, they won’t see a witch. They won’t see a half-breed. They’ll see *mine*.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By marking you. In front of them all.”
Her breath hitches.
“No.”
“Yes.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “It’s the only way. If Malrik tries to expose you, they’ll see the mark. They’ll see the bond. They’ll see that you’re not just a witch—you’re my *fated*. And no law, no vow, no *lie* can break that.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll do it anyway.”
“You’d force me?”
“I’d *claim* you.” My fangs graze her throat. “And I’d make sure the entire court hears you *scream* my name.”
She shivers.
Not from fear.
From *need*.
“You’re impossible,” she whispers.
“And yet, you stay.”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t pull away.
We return to the banquet hall just as the High King rises for the toast. The music dies. The whispers fade. All eyes turn to the dais.
Malrik stands beside him, his silver hair gleaming, his eyes cold.
And then—
He speaks.
“Before we drink,” he says, voice ringing through the hall, “I have a revelation.”
My grip tightens on Lavender’s hand.
Here it comes.
“Lady Lavender is not who she claims to be.”
The hall erupts in murmurs.
“She is not merely a witch envoy. She is half-fae. A hybrid. And such blood is forbidden in the Sacred Unity Bond.”
Lavender tenses.
But I don’t let go.
Instead—
I step forward.
“Then allow me to prove her purity,” I say, voice cold, commanding.
“How?” the High King asks.
“By marking her.”
Silence.
Every eye in the hall turns to us.
Malrik’s smile fades.
And then—
I pull her into my arms.
My fangs descend.
And in front of the entire court—
I bite her.
Not on the neck.
Not on the wrist.
On the breast.
Right over her heart.
Her back arches. She gasps. The bond surges—a pulse of fire that races through us both, visible now, a crimson glow that wraps around us like a shroud.
And then—
She screams.
Not in pain.
In *pleasure*.
And the entire court hears it.
As I lift my head, blood on my lips, her mark glowing on her skin, I growl into the silence—
“Say it.”
She looks at me—really looks.
At the sharp lines of my face. At the cold fire in my eyes. At the way my body responds to hers, even now, even after everything.
And then—
She whispers—
“Prove it.”
I smile.
And I do.