The moment she ran, the world narrowed to a single point—her.
Not the screaming servant. Not the photo clutched in trembling hands. Not the whispers already rising like smoke through the corridors of the Shadow Court. None of it mattered.
Only Stella.
She tore down the hall like a storm given form, her boots slamming against marble, her breath ragged, her scent—storm and blood and something sweet—tearing through the air like a beacon. I didn’t call after her. Didn’t command her to stop. I just ran.
Shadow-walking would have been faster. I could have melted into the darkness, reformed ahead of her, blocked her path. But I didn’t. I wanted her to see me chase her. Wanted her to know I wouldn’t let her go. Not again. Not ever.
She turned down the servant’s passage—a narrow, torch-lit corridor that wound beneath the east wing. The kind of place where assassins waited. Where daggers found flesh in silence. My pulse spiked, not from fear, but from fury.
She wasn’t running from me.
She was running toward danger.
I caught her just before the crosshall, my hand closing around her wrist, spinning her to face me. She gasped, eyes wide, chest heaving, her mark pulsing beneath her sleeve like a war drum.
“Let go,” she snarled, yanking against my grip.
“No.” I pulled her into the alcove, shielding her with my body, my back to the corridor. “You don’t know what’s out there.”
“I don’t care.” Her breath came in sharp bursts. “You let her wear your mark. You let her into your chambers. You—”
“I didn’t,” I interrupted, voice low, rough. “I told you. It was political. A lie to maintain peace. I never touched her. Never let her into my bed. Never let her—”
“Then why does she still have it?” she demanded, shoving at my chest. “Why does it still glow?”
“Because it’s temporary,” I said, catching her wrists, pinning them to the wall. “Because it fades in seven days. Because she’s a pawn, and I used her—just like I’ve used everyone else—to keep this court from tearing itself apart.”
She stilled. “And me?”
“You’re not a pawn.” My grip softened. I cupped her face, thumb brushing the sting on her cheek where Nyxara had slapped her. “You’re not a tool. Not a weapon. You’re *mine*. And I don’t use what I love.”
She flinched. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” I leaned in, close enough that my breath warmed her lips. “Because you’re afraid? Because you don’t believe me? Because you think I’m still playing a game?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she whispered. “I saw the photo. I saw her with your mark. I saw—”
“Illusion,” I said. “Glamour. A lie crafted by a desperate woman who wanted to break us. Just like the last one.”
“And if it’s not?” she challenged. “What if this one’s real? What if you *did* sleep with her? What if you—”
“Then I’d be dead,” I said, voice raw. “Because the bond would have killed me the moment I touched another woman. It’s not just magic, Stella. It’s *fate*. And fate doesn’t allow betrayal.”
She stared at me. “You’re saying it’s impossible.”
“I’m saying it’s *true*.” I turned my wrist, showing her the mark—the same crimson sigil that burned on her skin. It was still bleeding, thin trails of dark blood seeping from the edges, staining my pale skin. “This started the moment you walked into my court. The bond flared—and it hasn’t stopped since. It’s not just reacting to you. It’s *feeding* on you. On us. On the truth we’re denying.”
She reached out, fingers hovering over the wound. “And if I accept it… if I stop fighting it… will it stop hurting you?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I die.”
She closed her eyes.
And when she opened them, they were filled with tears.
“Then I choose you,” she whispered. “Not because I have to. Not because I’m afraid. But because… I can’t imagine a world without you in it.”
The bond *sang*.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *vow*.
I pulled her into my arms, crushing her against me, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft.
It was *claiming*.
Hard. Possessive. *Mine*.
Her hands gripped my coat, not to push me away—but to *pull me closer*. Her lips parted, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting me, owning me, marking me in a way no fang ever could.
And when I finally pulled away, breathless, eyes burning, I whispered the words I never thought I’d say:
“You don’t have to destroy the bond, Stella.”
“Then what?” she gasped.
“You can *rewrite* it.”
She stared at me. “What?”
“The Blood Codex doesn’t just hold the spell,” I said. “It can be changed. Rewritten. If we both consent—if we both *choose* it—then the bond won’t be a curse.” I cupped her face, thumb brushing her lower lip. “It’ll be a *promise*.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me.
And for the first time, I didn’t see a weapon.
I didn’t see a prisoner.
I didn’t see a pawn.
I saw my *queen*.
And I knew—
She was already mine.
And I was already hers.
“Then let’s rewrite it,” she said, voice steady. “Together.”
I smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not a threat.
A *promise*.
“Together,” I agreed.
And as we walked back to the suite, her hand in mine, the bond singing between us, I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
Malrik would fight.
Nyxara would scheme.
The Council would resist.
But none of it mattered.
Because she had chosen me.
And I would burn the world for her.
But the world wasn’t done with us.
Not yet.
We were halfway down the grand corridor when I felt it—a shift in the air. A whisper of movement. A flicker of shadow where there should have been none.
My body moved before my mind could catch up.
I shoved Stella behind me, spinning just as the dagger flashed from the darkness.
It sliced through my coat, through my shirt, through flesh.
Pain exploded in my side—a white-hot, searing fire—but I didn’t fall. Didn’t cry out. Just grabbed the assassin’s wrist, twisted, and snapped it with a sickening crack.
He screamed.
I didn’t care.
I slammed him into the wall, fangs bared, eyes burning gold. “Who sent you?”
He didn’t answer. Just spat in my face.
I backhanded him, hard enough to crack bone. “Who. Sent. You?”
“Malrik,” he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. “The Alpha wants the hybrid dead.”
My vision went red.
Not from the blood. Not from the pain.
From *rage*.
I drove my fist into his throat, crushing his windpipe. He gurgled, eyes bulging, hands clawing at his neck.
Then he went still.
I let him drop.
And turned.
Stella stood behind me, pale, trembling, her eyes wide with shock. Blood soaked through my side, dark and rich, dripping onto the marble. I could feel it—the warmth, the weakness, the slow drain of power.
But I didn’t care.
Not until she moved.
She stepped forward, her hands flying to my wound, pressing against the torn fabric, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re hurt,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You’re *bleeding*.”
“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice was rough, unsteady.
“No,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You’re not. You took the blade for me.”
“Of course I did.”
She looked up at me, her eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen before.
Fear.
Not for herself.
For *me*.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why would you do that? You could have let it hit me. You could have—”
“And live without you?” I said, voice raw. “No. I’d rather die than lose you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed harder, her hands slick with my blood, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “We need a healer. Now.”
“No.” I caught her wrist, stopping her. “The wound is clean. It’ll heal.”
“But the blood loss—”
“Is nothing.” I stepped closer, cupping her face. “Listen to me. Malrik knows you’re a threat. He’ll keep coming. He’ll send more assassins. Spies. Poison. Traps.”
She swallowed. “Then we stop him.”
“We *burn* him,” I corrected. “But not yet. Not until we’re ready.”
“And the Council?”
“They’ll side with him if they think you’re unstable. If they think the bond is a lie.” I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “So we give them truth. We give them power. We give them *us*.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t pull away.
Just nodded, her breath still unsteady.
And then—
She did something I didn’t expect.
She leaned in.
And kissed me.
Not hard. Not possessive.
Soft.
Gentle.
A whisper of lips against mine.
And the bond *screamed*.
Not in pain.
Not in demand.
In *relief*.
“You’re not allowed to die,” she murmured, pulling back. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“Then don’t give me a reason to,” I said, voice rough.
She smiled—just a flicker, just a ghost—but it was enough.
Enough to make my chest tighten.
Enough to make the pain fade.
Enough to make me believe—
That I wasn’t just a monster.
I was a man.
And I was hers.
Kaelen arrived moments later, his gray eyes scanning the scene—the dead assassin, the blood on the floor, the torn fabric at my side.
“Malrik?” he asked, voice grim.
“Yes,” I said. “He sent him to kill Stella.”
Kaelen looked at her. “You’re unharmed?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her hands were still trembling, still slick with my blood.
“Then we move,” I said. “Now. Before more come.”
Kaelen nodded, stepping over the body. “The suite is secure. I’ll have the guards doubled. No one enters without my approval.”
“Good.” I turned to Stella. “You’re not leaving my side. Not for a second.”
She didn’t argue. Just stepped closer, her hand finding mine, her fingers lacing through my blood-slicked ones.
And as we walked back to the suite, her beside me, the bond singing between us, I knew—
The war had begun.
But this time, I wasn’t fighting alone.
This time, I had her.
And I would burn the world for her.
But first—
I’d make sure she never had to bleed for me again.
Because if she did—
I’d burn it all down just to watch it burn.
The suite was silent when we entered, the fire low, the moon a sliver in the sky. Stella moved to the balcony, her back to me, her arms crossed over her chest. I didn’t speak. Didn’t approach. Just stood there, watching her, the wound in my side a dull, insistent ache.
Finally, she turned.
“Take off your coat,” she said, voice quiet.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Take. It. Off.”
I did.
Then my shirt.
She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the torn fabric, peeling it back from the wound. Blood welled, dark and rich, dripping down my side. Her breath hitched.
“It’s deep,” she whispered.
“It’ll heal.”
“Not fast enough.” She turned, rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a silver dagger, a vial of dark liquid, a strip of black cloth. “I’m not letting you bleed out because you’re too proud to admit you’re hurt.”
“I’m not proud,” I said. “I’m *immortal*.”
“And I’m not letting you test that tonight.” She uncorked the vial, pouring the liquid over the wound. It sizzled, the scent of burnt herbs and iron filling the air. I hissed, muscles tensing, but didn’t pull away.
She worked in silence—cleaning, binding, sealing—her touch careful, deliberate, *reverent*. And with every stroke, the bond sang.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *lullaby*.
When she was done, she stepped back, her eyes searching mine. “You should rest.”
“I will.” I reached out, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. My fingers brushed her cheek, thumb tracing the sting from Nyxara’s slap. “Thank you.”
“You took a blade for me,” she said, voice breaking. “I’d say we’re even.”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.” I stepped closer, cupping her face. “Because I’d do it again. A thousand times. A million. Just to keep you safe.”
She closed her eyes.
And when she opened them, they were filled with tears.
“Then don’t make me watch you die for me,” she whispered. “Because if you do—”
“I won’t,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “I promise.”
She buried her face in my chest, her fingers gripping my coat, her body trembling. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Then don’t,” I murmured, holding her tighter. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
She didn’t answer.
Just held on.
And the bond—silent for a century—sang.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *vow*.
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.