“I came here to break the bond,” I whisper, fingers pressing the scar on my wrist beneath the black silk of my sleeve. The words are a prayer, a promise, a last defense against the storm gathering behind my ribs.
The Shadow Court rises before me like a nightmare carved in obsidian and bone. Towers twist into the bruised twilight sky, their spires crowned with flickering crimson lanterns that pulse like dying hearts. The air is thick with the scent of iron and jasmine—blood and illusion, the two currencies of vampire power. My boots click against the black marble steps, each step a lie. I am not an envoy. I am not here for peace.
I am here to burn it all down.
Ten years. Ten years since that night—the cold stone floor, the silver restraints biting into my wrists, the man in black robes chanting in a language older than sin. I was twelve. I didn’t understand the words. But I understood the pain. The searing bite on my wrist. The way my blood sang as it was drawn into a chalice, then forced into his mouth. Lysander Thorne’s mouth.
The Blood Bond. A ritual meant to bind a child’s life force to a vampire king’s—temporary, reversible, a political tool to secure alliances. But the reversal never happened. The bond stayed. And so did the dreams.
Dreams of his hands on my throat. His breath on my neck. The slow, devastating drag of his fangs against my skin. Dreams that left me trembling, wet, ashamed.
And now, I am walking into his court, pretending to be a diplomat from the Northern Coven, when all I want is to find the Blood Codex hidden in the Royal Archives and destroy it. Erase the spell. Cut the tether. Be free.
The massive double doors of the throne hall loom ahead, carved with scenes of feeding, war, and dominion. Two guards in silver-trimmed armor step forward, blocking my path.
“State your name and purpose,” one demands, voice flat, inhuman.
“Stella Vey,” I say, lifting my chin. “Envoy of the Northern Coven, here to discuss the werewolf treaty.”
The second guard’s eyes narrow. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” I say, dry. “And by traffic, I mean dodging three assassins and a werewolf pack sniffing at my heels. Try being half-witch in a vampire court. It’s a real vibe.”
They don’t laugh. Vampires never do.
One nods, and the doors groan open.
Inside, the throne hall is a cathedral of shadows. Long tables stretch down the chamber, filled with vampire nobles in dark velvet and blood-red silk. Candles float in midair, casting flickering light over sharp faces, pale skin, eyes that gleam like wet stone. At the far end, on a throne of blackened bone and thorned vines, sits the king.
Lysander Thorne.
He’s younger than I expected. Not the ancient monster of my nightmares, but a man in his early thirties, with raven-black hair, a jawline carved by gods, and eyes that burn gold—molten, predatory, alive. He’s dressed in a tailored black coat with silver embroidery, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He hasn’t looked at me yet. He’s listening to a noble speak, his expression unreadable.
I take a breath. Steady. Calm. You are not that girl anymore. You are not powerless.
I walk forward, my heels echoing in the sudden hush. Heads turn. Whispers ripple through the hall. I feel their eyes—assessing, hungry, suspicious. A half-breed. An anomaly. A threat.
Then—his gaze lifts.
And locks onto mine.
The world stops.
It’s like being struck by lightning. My breath snags in my throat. My skin ignites—flushing, burning, every nerve ending screaming. My pulse hammers in my wrist, in my neck, between my thighs. The scar beneath my sleeve—my mark—flares with a heat so intense I gasp.
And I see it.
On his wrist, exposed by the cuff of his coat—his mark. Crimson light pulses beneath his skin, glowing in perfect rhythm with mine.
The bond is awake.
“No,” I breathe, staggering back a step. “No, no, no—”
But it’s too late.
“Seize her,” Lysander says, voice low, commanding. “Now.”
Guards move like shadows, surrounding me in an instant. Cold hands clamp onto my arms, my wrists. I twist, but they’re too strong—vampire strength, immortal speed.
“You don’t own me,” I snarl, baring my teeth. “I’m here under diplomatic immunity!”
“You’re here under my law,” he says, rising from the throne. “And you’ve just broken it.”
He descends the steps slowly, each step measured, deliberate. The nobles watch in silence. The air is thick with tension, with anticipation. This isn’t a trial. It’s a spectacle.
He stops a foot away. I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down. Up close, he’s even more devastating—his scent wraps around me, dark and intoxicating, like aged whiskey and storm-wet earth. His eyes are not just gold. They’re alive with fire, with hunger, with something else—recognition.
“You remember me,” I say, voice shaking despite myself.
“I never forgot,” he murmurs.
And then—his hand touches my face.
It’s not rough. Not cruel. Just a single fingertip tracing my jawline. But the effect is catastrophic.
The bond *screams*.
Heat explodes through me—white-hot, electric, *violent*. My knees buckle. My vision blurs. My body arches toward him, desperate, traitorous. I can feel his pulse in my veins, his breath in my lungs, his need—*his need*—burning through me like a fever.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, and the words vibrate through my bones. “And you always have been.”
I try to speak. To curse him. To deny it. But my voice is gone. My body is no longer my own. The scent of him—blood and power and something darkly sweet—fills my nose. My thighs press together instinctively, trying to stifle the wetness, the ache.
This isn’t magic.
This is *hunger*.
And it’s not just the bond.
It’s me.
“Let her go,” a voice says—deep, calm, familiar.
Kaelen Vex, Lysander’s Beta, steps forward. He’s broad-shouldered, scarred, with wolf-gray eyes that miss nothing. He’s been watching me since I entered. Now, he looks at the king. “She’s not a threat. She’s a diplomat.”
“She’s *marked*,” Lysander snaps, his voice sharp with something I can’t name—anger? Fear? “No one with my blood bond enters this court without my knowledge. And no one hides it.”
“I didn’t hide it,” I manage, my voice ragged. “I didn’t even know it was still active.”
“Liar,” a woman purrs from the shadows.
Lady Nyxara steps into the light, draped in crimson silk that clings to every curve. Her hair is black as ink, her lips painted blood-red. And on her neck—just above her collarbone—shines a fresh, glistening bite mark.
Lysander’s mark.
“He told me the bond was broken,” she says, trailing a finger over the wound. “That the child died. But here you are. Alive. And *leaking* his magic.”
I look at Lysander. “Did you know?”
His jaw tightens. “I was told she was dead.”
“And you believed it?”
“I had no reason to doubt.”
“Convenient,” I spit. “Just like it was convenient to mark a child and walk away.”
“I didn’t walk away,” he says, voice low. “I was *ordered* to do it. And I was ordered to let it fade.”
“Then why didn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. But his eyes—those molten gold eyes—flicker with something like guilt.
Nyxara laughs, soft and cruel. “Oh, darling. Don’t you know? Bonds like this don’t fade. Not when they’re *fated*.”
“There’s no such thing,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“There is when the Blood Codex sings for you,” she whispers. “And it’s been singing for *him* for a century.”
My blood runs cold.
The Blood Codex. The book that holds the spell. The book I came to destroy.
And it *knows* me.
Lysander steps closer, his hand now cupping my face fully. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and a jolt of heat shoots straight to my core.
“You came here for a reason,” he says, voice a velvet threat. “You didn’t just stumble into my court. You *sought* me out.”
“I came to end this,” I say, meeting his gaze. “To destroy the bond. To be free of you.”
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—his lips curve. Not a smile. A *promise*.
“You can’t destroy it,” he murmurs. “But I can make you *beg* to keep it.”
And then—darkness.
The world tilts. My knees give out. The last thing I feel is his arms catching me, pulling me against a chest that beats with a rhythm not quite human.
The last thing I hear is his voice, dark and possessive, in my ear:
“Welcome home, Stella.”
Stella’s Mark
Ten years ago, a child’s scream echoed through a blood-drenched ritual chamber as a vampire king sank his fangs into a girl’s wrist—not to kill, but to bind. The bond was meant to be erased. It wasn’t.
Now, Stella walks into Lysander Thorne’s court like a blade in velvet: poised, dangerous, and utterly determined. She’s not here to negotiate. She’s here to cut the tether—to free herself from the phantom heat of his touch, the dreams of his mouth on her neck, the way her body betrays her every time he’s near. But the instant their eyes meet, the bond roars to life—skin flushing, pulse spiking, magic surging between them like a live wire.
Forced into a public alliance to prevent a war between vampire houses and the werewolf packs, they are bound by law to share quarters, share secrets, and endure nightly rituals that press them too close, too often. A rival vampire mistress flaunts her past with Lysander, wearing his bite like a trophy. A fae envoy whispers of a forbidden ritual that could sever the bond—but at the cost of one life.
And then, one night, Stella finds herself pinned against a bookshelf in the royal archives, his fangs grazing her collarbone, her thighs trembling around his waist, both of them breathless with fury and need. She came to destroy him. But when the door bursts open and someone shouts, “The king’s mark is glowing on her throat!”—she realizes the truth: the bond isn’t breaking. It’s awakening.
And so are they.