I wake to the scent of storm and blood.
My eyes snap open, heart slamming against my ribs. The room is dark, lit only by a sliver of moonlight slicing through heavy black drapes. I’m lying on a bed—too large, too soft, draped in black silk and silver-threaded lace. The air is cool, but my skin still burns from the bond’s flare, from his touch, from the way my body responded to him like some starved animal.
I sit up too fast. A wave of dizziness hits me. I press a hand to my forehead, breathing through it. The last thing I remember is his voice in my ear—“Welcome home, Stella.” The words coil in my gut like poison.
Home? This is a prison.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching cold marble. My boots are gone. My coat too. Only my black dress remains, slightly torn at the shoulder where the guards grabbed me. I run my fingers over the fabric, checking for hidden tools—my lockpicks, my vial of shadow-dust, the silver dagger sewn into the hem. All gone.
Of course they are.
I push to my feet, scanning the room. High ceilings, obsidian walls inlaid with veins of glowing crimson crystal. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with ancient tomes bound in leather and bone. A fireplace crackles low, embers pulsing like a slow heartbeat. And across the room, a balcony door stands slightly ajar, the night wind whispering through.
And there—on the threshold—stands a shadow.
He’s not moving. Not speaking. Just watching me with those molten gold eyes, half-lit by the moon. Lysander.
My breath catches.
He’s stripped off his coat, wearing only a black silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His arms are crossed, muscles taut beneath pale skin. His expression is unreadable, but the air between us thrums with something raw, unspoken.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low, smooth as smoke.
“Surprise,” I snap, backing up a step. “Didn’t expect me to survive your little magic shock?”
“No,” he says, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind him. “I expected you to fight it. I didn’t expect you to *collapse*.”
“The bond flared. You felt it too.”
“I did.” He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild beneath it all. “It’s been silent for a century. Now it’s screaming. And you’re the reason.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you came to me. You walked into my court, knowing what I am. Knowing what we are.”
“I came to end it.”
“And yet, here you are. In my bed.”
My skin heats. “You carried me here.”
“You fainted.”
“Because of you.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re angry.”
“I’m furious.”
“Good.” A ghost of a smirk. “Anger means you’re still fighting. Means you haven’t surrendered.”
“I’ll never surrender to you.”
“Then you’ll die.”
The words hang in the air like a blade.
“What?”
He steps closer. “The Council has convened. Werewolf packs are mobilizing. The Northern Vampire Houses are calling for war. They see your presence as a threat—a hybrid with a royal blood bond. They want you dead.”
My stomach drops. “So kill me. Get it over with.”
“I could,” he says, voice soft. “But I won’t. Because you’re the only thing standing between peace and bloodshed.”
“Me?”
“The Council has ruled. To prevent war, we must present a united front. A bonded pair.”
I stare at him. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about politics.”
“You want me to *pretend* to be your mate?”
“Not pretend.” His gaze drops to my wrist, where the mark still pulses faintly beneath the fabric. “The bond is real. The magic recognizes you. The court will recognize you. And for the next thirty days, you will live as my consort—share my quarters, attend my councils, perform the rituals.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t force me.”
“I don’t have to.” He steps even closer, close enough that his breath ghosts over my lips. “You’ll do it because if you don’t, the war starts tonight. And you’ll be the first to die.”
I want to slap him. I want to scream. But the truth is—his words make sense. I’ve spent ten years hunting the bond, but I’m not stupid. If the Council sees me as a threat, they’ll eliminate me before dawn. And if war breaks out, thousands will die—witches, werewolves, hybrids like me.
And I came here to save lives. Not start a massacre.
I look away. “What happens after thirty days?”
“We reassess.”
“And if I refuse then?”
“Then the bond breaks.”
“And I’m free.”
“And you die.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Breaking a blood bond without mutual consent causes necrosis. Your veins will blacken. Your heart will stop. You’ll die in agony.”
“That’s not in the records.”
“The Blood Codex isn’t public knowledge,” he says. “But I’ve seen it happen. To others who tried to sever their bonds. It’s not pretty.”
My hands curl into fists. “So I’m trapped.”
“You’re protected.”
“I don’t want your protection.”
“Too bad.” He turns, walking toward a wardrobe. “Your things will be returned. New clothes. A servant will attend you at dawn.”
“I don’t need a servant.”
“You’ll have one.” He pulls out a black silk robe, tosses it onto the bed. “Wear this tomorrow. The Council expects formality.”
“I’m not your puppet.”
“No,” he says, pausing at the door. “You’re my prisoner. But if you play your role well, you might survive it.”
And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there, trembling. Not from fear. From rage. From the way my body still hums with the echo of his touch, the way my traitorous pulse stutters at the memory of his voice.
I walk to the bed, grab the robe, and throw it into the fireplace.
Flames swallow it instantly.
Good.
I pace the room, running through my options. My weapons are gone. My mission is compromised. I can’t access the Archives without the key, and now I’m under constant surveillance. But I’m not helpless.
I press my palm to the wall, whispering a witch’s chant under my breath. Shadow magic responds to me—slow, reluctant, but it answers. The veins of crimson crystal dim slightly, then flare. I feel the pulse of the castle’s wards, the flow of blood magic in the stones. This place is alive. And I can listen to it.
There’s a way in. There’s always a way.
I’m still standing there when the door opens again.
It’s not Lysander.
It’s Kaelen.
The werewolf Beta steps inside, tall and broad, his gray eyes scanning the room before settling on me. He’s still in his uniform—black leather, silver insignia—but his expression is neutral, almost cautious.
“You’re up,” he says.
“Did he send you to watch me?”
“I volunteered.”
“Why?”
He steps closer, hands loose at his sides. “Because you’re the first person in two hundred years who’s made the king lose control.”
I stiffen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The bond flared. You fainted. He carried you here.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t touch people,” Kaelen says quietly. “Not like that. Not unless he has to. But he carried you like you were something fragile. Something *his*.”
“I’m not his.”
“Maybe not by choice. But the bond says otherwise.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Or a key.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want, Kaelen?”
He reaches into his coat, pulls out a small velvet pouch. Tosses it to me.
I catch it, frowning. “What is this?”
“Your things. The guards took them. I got them back.”
I untie the pouch. My lockpicks. My shadow-dust. My silver dagger.
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“Because I don’t believe in cages,” he says. “And because I’ve seen what happens when power goes unchecked. I won’t let him turn you into a weapon. Or a trophy.”
“And Nyxara?”
He smirks. “She’s a distraction. A pawn. She thinks she’s in control. She’s not.”
“And you?”
“I’m loyal. But not blind.”
I look at him, really look. There’s no deception in his eyes. Only quiet strength. A protector. Not a predator.
“Thank you,” I say, voice low.
He nods. “Don’t get caught with those. And don’t trust the servants. One of them is Nyxara’s spy.”
“Noted.”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to survive him… you’ll have to stop fighting the bond. Or it will destroy you.”
And then he’s gone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the pouch in my lap. My tools. My freedom. For now.
But Kaelen’s words linger.
Stop fighting the bond.
Impossible. Unthinkable.
And yet—when Lysander touched my face, when the bond screamed, I didn’t feel pain.
I felt… home.
No. Not home. Hunger.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the heat of his thumb, the way my body arched toward him, the wetness between my thighs that I couldn’t hide.
This isn’t just magic.
This is desire.
And it’s not one-sided.
I know he felt it too. Saw it in the flare of his pupils, the hitch in his breath, the way his hand lingered on my skin.
He wants me.
And that—more than the bond, more than the politics—is the most dangerous thing of all.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The fire crackles. The wind whispers.
And somewhere in this castle, Lysander Thorne is watching. Waiting.
Thirty days.
Thirty days of forced proximity, of rituals, of pretending to be his.
Thirty days to find the Blood Codex.
Thirty days to destroy the bond.
Thirty days to survive him.
And as I close my eyes, one thought burns brighter than fear, brighter than rage:
I will not let him break me.
But deep down, beneath the armor, beneath the fury—I know the truth.
He already has.