The morning after Mira’s warning, the bond hummed beneath my skin like a secret.
Not a scream. Not a demand. But a quiet, golden pulse—steady, warm, alive. It no longer fought me. It no longer flared with violence or hunger. It simply *was*. Like the air in my lungs. Like the blood in my veins. Like the truth I could no longer deny:
I was his.
And I was okay with that.
I stood by the balcony, wrapped in a black silk robe, watching the sun rise over the Shadow Court. Crimson lanterns dimmed as the sky bled from indigo to rose, the city stirring beneath the spires. The scent of blood-poached tea and shadow-kissed bread drifted from the kitchens. Somewhere, a werewolf howled. Somewhere, a vampire fed. Somewhere, Malrik plotted.
But none of it mattered.
Not today.
Because today, Lysander and I were going to the Archives.
To rewrite the bond.
Not break it.
Not run from it.
But *change* it.
Make it ours.
Not a curse. Not a chain. A *promise*.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I felt like a queen.
Lysander entered silently, boots against marble, coat slung over one arm. He didn’t speak. Just stepped beside me, his presence a storm barely contained. The wound on his side had scabbed over. The bleeding on his wrist had slowed. But his gold eyes still burned—fierce, hungry, *inevitable*.
“You’re quiet,” he said, voice low.
“I’m thinking,” I replied, still watching the sunrise.
“About the ritual?”
“About everything.” I turned to him. “About my mother. About the Codex. About the life I thought I wanted—freedom, revenge, destruction. And about the life I didn’t know I needed.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just reached out, slow, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His fingers brushed my cheek, thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. “And what is that life?”
“This,” I whispered. “You. Us. Not because the bond forces it. But because I *choose* it.”
He stilled. “Say it again.”
“I choose you,” I said, voice steady. “Not because I’m afraid. Not because I’ll die if I don’t. But because I can’t imagine a world without you in it.”
The bond *sang*.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *vow*.
He pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t about possession.
It was about *truth*.
And when he finally let me go, when he looked at me with gold eyes burning, he said the words that changed everything:
“Then let’s rewrite it. Together.”
We left the suite in silence, hand in hand, the bond pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. Kaelen met us in the corridor, his gray eyes scanning us, lingering on the bandage around Lysander’s wrist.
“The Archives are secure,” he said. “No one enters without your approval.”
“Good,” Lysander said. “No interruptions. No spies. No *Nyxara*.”
Kaelen nodded. “She’s gone. Exiled. Stripped of title, land, blood rights. By dawn, she’ll be beyond the walls.”
I didn’t feel triumphant.
Didn’t feel victorious.
Just… relieved.
One less lie. One less threat. One less shadow between us.
We moved through the castle—long corridors lit by flickering sconces, towering arches carved with ancient runes, the distant echo of voices and footsteps. The court watched us pass—vampires in velvet, werewolves in leather, fae in shimmering silk. Their eyes followed, assessing, hungry, suspicious. The photo of me—half-naked, flushed, Lysander’s hand on my thigh—was still whispered about, still fueling scandal. But something had shifted.
They weren’t calling me a whore anymore.
They were calling me *queen*.
And I hated how much I liked it.
The Archives loomed ahead—a massive, iron-bound door set into the black basalt wall, sealed with a blood-lock and shadow wards. The key in my pocket burned against my thigh, cold silver and obsidian, a promise, a weapon, a beginning.
Lysander stopped before it, turning to me. “You’re sure?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”
He nodded, pressing his palm to the door. Blood seeped from his wrist, dripping onto the lock. The wards hummed, then disengaged. The door swung open.
Darkness yawned before us.
We stepped inside.
The Archives were a cathedral of forbidden knowledge—endless rows of towering shelves carved from black oak, stacked with ancient tomes bound in leather, bone, and skin. Floating candles hovered in midair, casting flickering light over spines etched with runes, titles in languages older than sin. The air was thick with dust and power, with the scent of ink, parchment, and something darker—blood magic, old and hungry.
And at the center of it all—
The Blood Codex.
A massive book, bound in crimson leather, its cover inlaid with silver veins that pulse like a heartbeat. The Thorne crest glows faintly at its center. It rests on a pedestal of black stone, chained with silver links etched with runes. The air around it shimmers, warped by magic, by time, by fate.
And it’s singing.
Not aloud. Not in words.
In my blood.
A low, insistent hum, like a lullaby, like a call. The mark on my wrist flares, warm and alive. My breath hitches. My pulse jumps. My skin flushes.
It knows me.
It’s been waiting.
We moved toward it, slow, deliberate. My boots echoed against the stone. The candles flickered. The shadows shifted. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to turn back, to leave this place before the magic consumes me.
But I couldn’t.
I came here to destroy it.
But now—
I came to change it.
Lysander stopped before the pedestal, his hand hovering over the chains. “The ritual requires both of us. Our blood. Our voices. Our will. If we don’t both consent—if one of us resists—the Codex will reject the change. The bond will remain as it is.”
“And if we both agree?”
“Then the bond becomes ours. Not a curse. Not a chain. A *promise*.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was supposed to be.
And found it wasn’t there anymore.
It was in his.
“Then let’s do it,” I said.
He nodded, drawing a silver dagger from his belt. He sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the chains. The runes flared, glowing crimson. The silver links groaned, then began to dissolve, melting into smoke.
One by one, they fell.
Until the Codex was free.
He handed me the dagger.
I didn’t hesitate.
I sliced my palm, letting blood drip onto the cover. The silver veins pulsed, glowing gold. The air around it shimmered, warped by magic, by time, by fate.
And then—
It opened.
Not with a creak. Not with a groan.
With a *sigh*.
Like it had been waiting for us.
The pages were blank at first—white parchment, untouched, pure. But as we stepped closer, words began to form, etched in blood-red ink, flowing like a river:
“The bond is not broken. It is reborn.”
Lysander took my hand, his voice low, steady. “Repeat after me.”
He began to chant—ancient words in a language older than sin. I echoed them, my voice trembling at first, then stronger, surer. Our blood dripped onto the pages, sizzling, merging, becoming one. The bond flared—white-hot, electric, *violent*—but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just held on.
Because this time, I wasn’t fighting it.
I was *embracing* it.
The pages filled with our words, our blood, our vow. The silver veins pulsed, glowing gold. The air around us shimmered, warped by magic, by time, by fate.
And then—
It was done.
The Codex snapped shut.
The silver veins dimmed.
The air stilled.
And the bond—
It didn’t scream.
It didn’t flare.
It *sang*.
Not a curse.
Not a chain.
A *lullaby*.
Lysander pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t about possession.
It was about *vow*.
And when he finally let me go, when he looked at me with gold eyes burning, he said the words that changed everything:
“It’s done. The bond is ours.”
I didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. Just leaned into his touch, my breath hitching, my pulse jumping.
And then—
A knock.
Soft. Familiar.
“Enter,” Lysander said, not letting go of me.
The door creaked open.
Kaelen stepped in, his expression unreadable. But his gray eyes—sharp, assessing—locked onto us. Onto the Codex. Onto our joined hands.
“My king,” he said, voice grim. “There’s… something you need to see.”
My stomach twisted.
“What is it?” Lysander asked.
Kaelen didn’t answer. Just held out a crystal scroll—glowing, pulsing, *alive*.
Lysander took it, scanned the contents.
And for the first time since I’d known him, his jaw tightened.
“What?” I asked, voice low.
He didn’t answer. Just handed me the scroll.
I took it, scanning the elegant script.
And froze.
It wasn’t a decree.
It wasn’t a summons.
It was a *photo*.
Not paper. Not parchment.
Magically preserved. Crystal-clear.
Lysander.
Shirt open.
Lying in a bed.
Nyxara, half-naked, her head on his chest.
His hand on her thigh.
Her lips curved in a smirk.
And the caption, glowing in crimson magic:
The king’s true mate.
My breath stopped.
My heart shattered.
“Where did this come from?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“Nyxara,” Kaelen said, voice grim. “She had a glamour lens. The photo was sent to every noble house, every werewolf pack, every fae envoy before dawn.”
I looked at Lysander. “Did you know?”
His gaze was cold. “No.”
“Then how—”
“Glamour,” he said. “Illusion. A lie crafted by a desperate woman who wanted to break us. Just like the last one.”
“And if it’s not?” I challenged. “What if this one’s real? What if you *did* sleep with her? What if you—”
“Then I’d be dead,” he 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.”
I stared at him. “You’re saying it’s impossible.”
“I’m saying it’s *true*.” He turned his wrist, showing me the mark—the same crimson sigil that burned on my skin. It was still bleeding, but faintly, like it was fighting to live. “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.”
My breath caught.
“And if I accept it… if I stop fighting it… will it stop hurting you?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I die.”
I closed my eyes.
And when I opened them, they were filled with tears.
“Then I choose you,” I 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*.
But the photo—
It was still there.
Still glowing.
Still *real*.
And worse—
The court would believe it.
Malrik would use it.
The Council would doubt us.
And I—
I didn’t know if I could survive the lie.
“I need air,” I whispered, turning.
“Stella—”
I didn’t look back.
I ran.
Not to the chambers.
Not to the balcony.
Not to the Archives.
To the armory.
I didn’t care about the bond.
Didn’t care about the Council.
Didn’t care about the war.
I just needed a weapon.
I burst into the armory, the heavy door slamming behind me. Racks of blades, daggers, stakes lined the walls. I didn’t hesitate. Grabbed a silver dagger, tested the weight. Perfect.
Then another.
And another.
I tucked them into my sleeves, my bodice, my thigh sheath. I didn’t care if they were seen. Didn’t care if they were taken. I just needed to *feel* them. To *know* I wasn’t powerless.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Stella.”
I turned.
Mira stood in the doorway, her silver hair shimmering, her violet eyes filled with concern. The Seelie exile. The fae spy. My only ally in this court of vipers.
“You saw it,” I said, voice flat.
She nodded. “The photo. The lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” I whispered. “He slept with her. He *wanted* her.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “He didn’t. That photo was faked. Glamour. Illusion. The bed isn’t even in the castle. It’s from a brothel in the blood market.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Nyxara used a glamour lens. She took an old image, altered it, made it look real.” Mira reached out, touching my arm. “Lysander didn’t sleep with her. He never has.”
“Then why—”
“Because he needed to maintain an alliance. Because he needed to keep the peace. But he never touched her. Never let her into his bed. Never let her—”
“But the mark,” I said, voice breaking. “She wears his mark.”
“A temporary one. Political. It fades in a week. It means *nothing*.”
“And the first photo?”
“Real. But not what you think. He didn’t force you. You *let* him touch you. You *wanted* it.”
“I was weak—”
“No,” she said, voice firm. “You were *awake*. For the first time in ten years, you were *alive*. And he saw it. Felt it. *Claimed* it.”
I pressed a hand to my temple. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe this,” she said, stepping closer. “He’s not like the others. He’s not using you. He’s *fighting* for you. And if you run now—”
“Then what?” I snapped. “Then he’ll come after me? Drag me back? Force me to be his?”
“No,” she said, voice soft. “He’ll let you go. And he’ll die.”
I froze. “What?”
“The bond,” she whispered. “If you leave. If you reject it. If you walk away—he’ll wither. His power will fade. His heart will stop. He’ll die in agony. And you’ll be the last thing he sees.”
My breath caught.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She stepped back. “Then go. Run. Pack your bag. Escape. And see what happens.”
She turned and left.
I stood there, trembling, the daggers cold against my skin, the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—still clinging to my clothes.
I could leave.
I could run.
I could be free.
And he would die.
And I would be the last thing he saw.
I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was supposed to be.
And found it wasn’t there anymore.
It was in his.
And he was already breaking it.
I walked back to the suite slowly, each step heavier than the last. The photo was still on the minds of the court, still whispered about, still laughed over. But I didn’t care.
I just needed to see him.
When I opened the door, he was there—standing by the balcony, back to me, coat slung over one arm, head bowed.
“You’re back,” he said, voice low.
“I’m not running,” I said, stepping inside. “But I’m not staying because you want me.”
He turned. “Then why?”
“Because I need to know the truth.” I walked to him, close, my eyes locking onto his. “Did you sleep with Nyxara?”
“No.”
“Did you let her into your bed?”
“No.”
“Did you ever want her?”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. “The only woman I’ve ever wanted is standing in front of me. The only woman I’ve ever *needed*.”
“And the photo?”
“Glamour. Illusion. A lie.”
“And the first one?”
“Real.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Every second. Every touch. Every gasp. And I’d do it again. A thousand times. A million. Just to hear you say my name like that.”
I didn’t pull away.
Didn’t fight.
Just leaned into his touch, my breath hitching, my pulse jumping.
And then—
I whispered the words I never thought I’d say:
“I’d let you.”
He stilled. “What?”
“I’d let you touch me again,” I said, voice raw. “I’d let you kiss me. I’d let you—”
“Mark me?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer.
Just looked at him.
And for the first time, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
And I saw myself in his eyes.
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
Not a pawn.
But *his*.
And maybe—just maybe—
I was okay with that.