I wake before dawn, tangled in black silk sheets that smell like him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet. My body is stiff, my mind sharper. The softness of last night—the fleeting warmth, the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all a prison—has burned away in the cold light of reason.
I am not his.
I am not safe.
And I am running out of time.
I sit up, scanning the room. The fire is dead. The balcony door is still closed. The pouch of my stolen tools lies where I left it on the nightstand, untouched. Good. Kaelen kept his word. For now, I have weapons. For now, I have a chance.
I dress quickly in the spare black gown laid out for me—high collar, long sleeves, no room for error. I tuck the silver dagger into the hidden seam at my thigh. The lockpicks go into my sleeve. The shadow-dust I slip into the small pocket sewn beneath the bodice. I won’t be caught defenseless again.
As I fasten the last button, the door opens.
Lysander steps in, already dressed in a tailored black coat, his hair slightly tousled as if he hasn’t slept. His eyes lock onto mine—gold, sharp, assessing.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“Surprise,” I reply, lifting my chin. “Didn’t expect me to survive another night in your court?”
“I expected you’d try to escape.”
“And?”
“And I’d have stopped you.”
“You think you could?”
He crosses the room in three strides, stopping inches from me. I don’t step back. I won’t give him that. His scent wraps around me, stronger now—power, dominance, the faintest trace of hunger. My pulse jumps. My mark flares, a dull throb beneath my sleeve.
“I know what you are,” he murmurs, voice low. “Half-witch. Half-vampire. A hybrid the Council erased from history. But I also know what you *want*.”
My breath catches. “And what’s that?”
“To destroy the Blood Codex. To erase the bond. To be free of me.”
I don’t deny it. I can’t. His gaze is too sharp, too knowing.
“And if I did?” I challenge. “If I burned that book to ash? What then?”
“The bond would break.”
“And I’d be free.”
“And you’d die.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He reaches out, not touching me, but his fingers hover near my wrist. “The bond isn’t just magic, Stella. It’s *life*. It’s woven into your blood, your soul. Sever it without consent, and your body will reject itself. You’ll bleed from the inside out. It’ll take hours. And I’ll be the last thing you see.”
A chill runs through me. I’ve read the old texts. I’ve studied the laws. But nothing mentioned this. Nothing warned of death.
“You’re lying,” I whisper.
“Am I?” He steps back. “Then prove it. Try to break it. See what happens.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m not. But I won’t let you kill yourself for pride.”
Before I can respond, a knock sounds at the door.
“Enter,” Lysander says.
The door opens, and a servant in silver-trimmed black livery steps in, holding a scroll sealed with crimson wax.
“Your Majesty,” the servant says, bowing. “The Council has issued the proclamation.”
Lysander takes the scroll, breaks the seal, and unrolls it. His expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker in his eyes—something like satisfaction.
“Well?” I ask, my voice tight.
He hands me the scroll.
I snatch it, scanning the elegant script. My stomach drops.
By order of the Supernatural Council, King Lysander Thorne of the First House hereby acknowledges the return of his fated mate, Stella Vey, daughter of the late Lady Seraphina of the Northern Coven and an unknown vampire sire. The bond between them is recognized as legitimate and binding under the Accord of 1889. The couple shall present themselves at the Grand Hall at noon to affirm their union before the court and the allied packs.
“Fated mate?” I snap, crumpling the scroll. “That’s a lie!”
“It’s politics,” Lysander corrects. “And it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
“You’re telling the entire court I’m your *mate*? That we’re *bound*?”
“We are bound.”
“By magic, not choice!”
“To the Council, it’s the same.” He steps closer. “If they believe you’re my mate, they won’t see you as a threat. They’ll see you as *protected*. As *mine*.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Then act like it,” he says, voice low. “Because if you defy this, if you refuse to play the part, they’ll execute you for treason. And I won’t stop them.”
I stare at him, fury burning through me. He’s using me. Turning me into a puppet in his political game. But he’s right—without this farce, I’m dead.
“Fine,” I spit. “I’ll play your game. But don’t think this means I belong to you.”
“We’ll see,” he murmurs. “By the end of today, even *you* might believe it.”
He turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I throw the crumpled scroll into the fireplace.
Let it burn.
But the words are already seared into my mind.
Fated mate.
A lie. A performance. A trap.
And yet—when he touched me last night, when the bond flared, I didn’t feel trapped.
I felt… seen.
No. Not seen. Claimed.
I press my fingers to my temple, trying to steady myself. This is manipulation. Psychological warfare. He’s using the bond, using my body’s reaction to him, to break my will.
But I won’t break.
I can’t.
Not when my mother died to protect the truth of my birth.
Not when the Blood Codex holds the spell that bound me—*and the proof that Lysander didn’t mark me by choice.*
I need that book.
And today, with the court distracted by this farcical announcement, might be my best chance to find it.
At noon, I stand beside Lysander at the top of the Grand Hall’s marble steps, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing down on us. The hall is packed—vampire nobles in dark elegance, werewolf enforcers in leather and steel, fae emissaries shimmering in iridescent silk. The air hums with tension, with curiosity, with hunger.
Lysander stands tall, regal, his expression unreadable. I wear a gown of black velvet with silver embroidery—his colors, his choice. My hair is pinned up, my face carefully neutral. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.
“Ladies and lords of the Council,” Lysander begins, his voice echoing through the hall, “I stand before you not as a king demanding allegiance, but as a man fulfilling a destiny long denied.”
He turns to me. “Ten years ago, a bond was forged in secrecy—a bond meant to be erased. But fate had other plans. The girl marked that night did not die. She lived. She grew. And today, she stands before you—Stella Vey, my fated mate, the woman whose blood sings in my veins, whose soul calls to mine.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some look awed. Some suspicious. Some—like the werewolf Alpha, Lord Malrik—glare with open contempt.
I keep my face still, but inside, I’m screaming.
Fated mate. Blood sings. Soul calls.
Lies. All of it.
And yet—when he says those words, when his gaze holds mine, I feel it. The bond pulses, warm and insistent. My skin flushes. My breath hitches.
He feels it too. I see it in the slight flare of his pupils, the way his jaw tightens.
He’s not just acting.
He *believes* this.
“By the laws of the Accord,” he continues, “our union must be acknowledged. Our bond must be affirmed. And so, before you all, I claim her—not as property, not as prize, but as equal. As partner. As *mine*.”
He reaches for my hand.
I don’t pull away. I can’t. Not here. Not now.
His fingers close around mine—cool, strong, possessive. The bond flares, a jolt of heat shooting up my arm. My knees weaken. My breath stutters.
And then—
“How *touching*.”
The voice is smooth, dripping with venom.
Lady Nyxara steps forward from the shadows, dressed in crimson silk that hugs every curve. Her hair is a cascade of black waves, her lips painted blood-red. And on her neck—fresh, glistening—shines Lysander’s bite mark.
The crowd gasps.
Malrik smirks.
And my stomach drops.
“Lysander,” she purrs, stepping up the steps until she’s only feet away. “You never told me you had a *mate*.”
Lysander’s grip on my hand tightens. “Nyxara. This is not the time.”
“But it’s *such* a lovely announcement.” She turns to me, smiling like a viper. “Congratulations, darling. Though I must say… he never mentioned you when he was in my bed.”
My blood runs cold.
“Liar,” I snap.
“Am I?” She lifts her wrist, revealing a silver bracelet engraved with the Thorne crest. “He gave me this. Said I was the only one who ever made him feel alive.”
Lysander’s jaw clenches. “That was a political gesture. Nothing more.”
“And the nights?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. “The blood-sharing? The way you moaned my name when you bit me?”
I look at him. “Is this true?”
“She’s a pawn,” he says, voice low. “A distraction. I never cared for her.”
“But you *used* me,” she says, stepping closer. “You fed from me. You let me wear your mark. You let me believe—”
“Because I had to,” he interrupts, cold. “To maintain alliances. To keep the peace. But you were never my mate. And you never will be.”
She laughs, sharp and bitter. “Then why does your mark still burn on my skin?”
Before he can answer, she flicks her wrist.
A vial of dark liquid arcs through the air.
I react on instinct—raising my hand, whispering a witch’s ward.
But I’m too slow.
The vial shatters against my chest, drenching the front of my gown in thick, crimson fluid.
Blood.
His blood.
The scent hits me like a punch—rich, intoxicating, *alive*. My mouth waters. My pulse spikes. My mark flares, burning through the fabric, searing my skin.
And then—worse—the blood soaks into the velvet, clinging to my body, outlining the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist. The fabric turns dark, heavy, *revealing*.
The hall falls silent.
I stand there, humiliated, exposed, drenched in the proof of his intimacy with another.
“Oops,” Nyxara says, smiling. “Clumsy me.”
Lysander moves in a blur—grabbing her wrist, slamming her against the marble pillar. “You dare?” he snarls, fangs bared. “You *dare* defile her?”
“Defile?” she laughs. “I just showed her the truth. You don’t *want* her. You *need* her. And she’ll never be enough.”
He releases her with a shove. “Get out of my sight.”
She straightens her dress, smirking. “With pleasure. But do enjoy your *fated mate*… while she lasts.”
She turns and walks away, the crowd parting for her like she’s royalty.
I stand there, trembling, the blood cooling on my skin, my body humming with unwanted arousal.
“Stella,” Lysander says, turning to me. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Just… don’t.”
I turn and run.
I don’t look back.
I don’t stop until I reach the private wing, until I slam the door of our chambers behind me. I rip off the blood-soaked gown, throw it into the fireplace. I scrub my skin with a damp cloth, but the scent lingers—his blood, her triumph, my shame.
And then—
A knock.
“Go away,” I snarl.
The door opens anyway.
Lysander steps in, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk.”
“About what? How you let her wear your mark? How you fed from her? How you let her believe she meant something to you?”
“It was political,” he says. “A temporary alliance. The mark fades in a week. It means *nothing*.”
“Then why didn’t you deny it?”
“Because denying it would’ve started a war. She’s the daughter of House Nocturne. One word from her, and half the vampire houses would’ve turned against me.”
“So you let her humiliate me instead?”
He steps closer. “I didn’t let her do anything. And I *will* deal with her. But right now, we have a bigger problem.”
“Oh? What could be worse than this?”
“The Council has ordered a Blood Sync Ritual. Tonight. In the Hall of Echoes. We must drink each other’s blood—to prove the bond is real.”
My breath stops. “What?”
“If we don’t comply, they’ll declare the bond false. And you’ll be executed for deception.”
I stare at him. “You’re telling me I have to *drink your blood*? That I have to let you drink *mine*?”
“It’s the only way.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you die.”
I back away. “You’re using me. Every step of this—your lies, your performance, this ritual—it’s all to control me.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “It’s to *protect* you. But if you won’t trust me, if you won’t play the part, then you’re already dead.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say.
He stops.
“If I do this… if I go through with the ritual… what happens after?”
He looks at me, gold eyes burning. “Then we survive. Together.”
And then he’s gone.
I stand there, heart pounding, the scent of his blood still clinging to my skin.
I have no choice.
But as I prepare for the ritual, as I lace myself into a fresh black gown, one thought burns brighter than fear, brighter than rage:
I will make you pay for this.
And if the Blood Sync Ritual gives me a chance to taste his blood, to feel his magic, to learn his weaknesses—
Then so be it.
Let him think I’m playing his game.
Let him think I’m his fated mate.
Because by the time he realizes the truth—
I’ll already have destroyed him.