The Hall of Echoes breathes.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The ancient chamber, carved from black basalt beneath the throne hall, pulses with the slow, rhythmic throb of blood magic. Veins of crimson crystal spiral up the walls, glowing in time with the heartbeat embedded in the stone floor—thump… thump… thump—like the pulse of some buried god. The air is thick, warm, alive. It coats the tongue with iron, the lungs with power.
This is where bonds are proven.
Where lies are burned away.
And tonight, I must drink from the woman who wants me dead.
Stella.
She stands at the far end of the hall, flanked by two silent guards, her spine straight, her expression carved from ice. She wears a new gown—black velvet, high collar, long sleeves—but I can still see the ghost of Nyxara’s blood on her skin, still smell the faint trace of it clinging to her hair. I want to rage. To tear the memory from the air. But I don’t. I can’t.
Not here.
Not now.
The Council watches from the raised gallery—vampire elders in blood-red robes, werewolf enforcers with silver brands on their cheeks, fae emissaries whose eyes shimmer with cruel amusement. Lord Malrik leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips. He wants her to fail. Wants the bond to be declared false. Wants her executed.
And if she refuses the ritual, he’ll get his wish.
I step forward, my boots echoing against the stone. The guards part. She doesn’t look at me. Not until I stop a foot away.
“You’re late,” she says, voice low, sharp.
“I was dealing with Nyxara.”
“Oh?” Her eyes flick to mine, cold. “Did you enjoy your reunion?”
“I exiled her.”
That gets her attention. Her gaze sharpens. “What?”
“House Nocturne will lose its seat. She’ll be stripped of title, land, and blood rights. By dawn, she’ll be gone.”
For a heartbeat, something flickers in her eyes. Relief? Doubt? I can’t tell.
“And her mark?” she asks.
“Fades in a week. It was temporary. Political. Nothing more.”
“You let her wear it.”
“I let her *believe* it meant something,” I correct. “Because if I’d refused, her father would have declared war. And you—” I step closer, voice dropping—“you would have been caught in the crossfire.”
Her breath hitches. Not from fear. From anger. From the bond, flaring between us, answering the heat in my voice.
“Don’t pretend this is about me,” she snaps. “This is about power. Control. You don’t care about me. You care about your throne.”
“And if I lose it,” I say, “you die.”
She looks away.
Good. Let her think on that.
A hush falls as High Elder Valen steps forward, his voice echoing through the chamber. “By the Accord of 1889, the legitimacy of a royal blood bond must be proven through mutual exchange. The ritual begins now. Drink, and be known. Refuse, and be judged.”
The guards step back.
We are alone in the circle of light.
Stella’s pulse jumps in her throat. I can hear it—fast, wild, afraid. But not of the ritual.
Of *me*.
Of what this will do to her. To us.
I reach into my coat, draw a silver dagger etched with runes. The blade gleams in the crimson light.
“Your turn,” I say, offering it.
She stares at it. “You’re letting me cut you first?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Her lips twist. “You should be.”
She takes the dagger.
Her fingers brush mine.
The bond *screams*.
Heat explodes between us—white-hot, electric. My vision blurs. My fangs throb. My cock hardens in an instant, a traitorous reaction I can’t control. I see her flinch, feel her pulse spike, smell the sudden wetness between her thighs.
She feels it too.
Not just magic.
Desire.
And it terrifies her.
She steps back, gripping the dagger. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she says, voice shaking. “It’s just blood. Just magic.”
“Then prove it,” I challenge. “Cut me. Drink. And show them both how little I mean to you.”
Her eyes blaze.
She moves fast—faster than I expect.
The blade slices across my palm in one clean motion. Blood wells, dark and rich, dripping onto the stone.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She brings her mouth to my hand.
And *drinks*.
The moment her lips touch my skin, the world *shatters*.
It’s not just taste. Not just sensation.
It’s *memory*.
A flash—her as a child, twelve years old, trembling on the ritual stone, her wrist bleeding into the chalice. Me, younger, harder, ordered to drink, to bind, to *claim*. The spell flaring, the magic screaming, the bond forming—*fated*, the Codex had whispered, *fated, fated, fated*.
And then—
Another memory.
Her, years later, alone in a dim room, tracing the scar on her wrist, whispering, “I’ll destroy it. I’ll destroy *him*.”
Another—her dreaming. Me above her. My fangs at her neck. Her body arching, wet, *wanting*.
Another—her standing in my court, defiant, beautiful, *alive*.
And beneath it all—her *voice*, in my blood, in my bones:
“I came here to break the bond.”
I gasp, staggering back, but she doesn’t let go. Her mouth is still on my palm, her tongue lapping at my blood, her body trembling. The bond surges, a tidal wave of magic and hunger and *need*, crashing through me, through her, binding us tighter, deeper, *hotter*.
Her eyes snap open.
She sees it all.
My memories. My guilt. My *hunger*.
And worse—she sees *herself*, through my eyes.
Not a threat.
Not a weapon.
But *mine*.
She rips her mouth away, stumbling back, blood smeared on her lips, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “That wasn’t— That wasn’t real,” she stammers. “It was magic. Illusion.”
“No,” I say, voice rough. “It was truth.”
“I didn’t— I didn’t see—”
“You saw *me*,” I say, stepping closer. “You felt my memories. My thoughts. My *need*.”
Her chest heaves. “It’s the bond. It’s manipulating us.”
“Or revealing us.”
“I don’t want this.”
“But you *do*.” I reach for her. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
She slaps my hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Then finish it,” I say. “The ritual isn’t over. You have to let me drink from you.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think I’m afraid?”
“I think you’re *terrified*.”
She lifts her chin, baring her wrist. The mark pulses beneath her skin, crimson and alive. “Then prove it. Drink. And see what I really think of you.”
I take the dagger from her, my fingers brushing hers again—another jolt, another flare. I slice her wrist in one clean stroke.
Blood wells.
Dark. Sweet. *Mine*.
I don’t hesitate.
I bring her wrist to my mouth.
And I *feed*.
The moment my fangs pierce her skin, the world *burns*.
Her taste—like starlight and storm, like power and pain—floods my mouth, my veins, my soul. Her memories crash into me—her mother’s last words, *“Destroy the Codex. Be free.”* Her years of hunting me, of studying blood magic, of dreaming of revenge. Her body’s betrayal—her wetness, her pulse, her *need*—every time she thought of me.
And beneath it all—her *voice*, soft, broken:
“I don’t want to want him.”
I growl, low and possessive, my free hand gripping her waist, pulling her closer. Her blood sings in my veins, her magic pulses in my chest, her *soul* wraps around mine like a vow.
She gasps, her body arching into me, her thighs pressing together, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. I feel her wetness, her heat, her *hunger*. She’s drenched, trembling, *ready*.
And so am I.
I could take her right here. Right now. Bend her over the stone, rip her dress, bury myself in her heat, claim her the way fate intended.
But I don’t.
I pull back.
Her blood coats my lips. My fangs gleam in the crimson light.
She stares at me, eyes wide, chest heaving, her wrist still bleeding. “Why— Why did you stop?”
“Because you didn’t ask me to,” I say, voice raw. “And I won’t take you unless you *beg* for it.”
The Council erupts.
“The bond is confirmed!” Valen declares. “Legitimate. Fated. Unbreakable!”
The vampires cheer. The werewolves growl. The fae whisper, their eyes alight with scandal.
But I don’t care.
All I see is her.
Stella.
Her lips are parted. Her skin is flushed. Her mark glows like a brand.
And for the first time, she doesn’t look at me with hate.
She looks at me with *fear*.
Not of the ritual.
Not of the Council.
But of *herself*.
Of what she felt when I drank from her.
Of what she wants.
“It’s over,” I say, stepping closer. “You’re safe.”
“Safe?” she whispers. “I just let you drink my blood. I *tasted* yours. I felt your memories, your—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “This changes nothing.”
“It changes everything.”
“I still want to destroy the bond.”
“And I still won’t let you.”
“Then we’re at war.”
“No,” I say, reaching for her. “We’re *bound*.”
She doesn’t pull away this time.
My fingers brush her cheek. Her breath hitches. Her pulse jumps.
And the bond—silent for a century—sings.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
A *lullaby*.
She closes her eyes.
For a heartbeat, she leans into my touch.
And then—
She steps back.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t make me feel this.”
“I’m not making you feel anything,” I say. “The bond is. *You* are.”
She turns, walking toward the archway. “I need air.”
I don’t stop her.
Let her run.
Let her fight.
It doesn’t matter.
The ritual is done.
The bond is proven.
And tonight, for the first time in a century, I don’t feel the darkness.
I feel… *light*.
I follow her at a distance, shadow-walking through the corridors, watching as she storms through the castle, her boots clicking against marble, her breath still unsteady. She doesn’t go to our chambers. Doesn’t return to the safety of the suite.
She goes to the library.
The Royal Archives.
Of course she does.
I watch from the shadows as she slips inside, scanning the shelves, her fingers brushing ancient tomes, her eyes searching for one in particular.
The Blood Codex.
She thinks she can destroy it.
She thinks she can erase what fate forged.
But she’s wrong.
The Codex doesn’t just hold the spell.
It *knows* her.
It sings for her.
And if she touches it—
It will sing for me too.
I step into the light.
“Looking for something?” I ask.
She whirls, eyes blazing. “I should’ve known you’d be stalking me.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what? Myself?”
“From the truth.”
She crosses her arms. “And what truth is that?”
“That you don’t want to destroy the bond.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I tasted it,” I say, stepping closer. “In your blood. In your memories. You want me. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I want *freedom*.”
“And I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
She laughs, sharp and bitter. “You’re the reason I don’t have it.”
“I’m the reason you’re *alive*.”
She looks away.
“You think I don’t know what you’re planning?” I ask. “You think I don’t know you’re searching for the Codex?”
Her breath catches.
“Then stop me,” she challenges. “If you’re so sure, then *stop me*.”
I don’t move.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Search. Read. Learn. But know this—every page you turn, every word you speak, the bond grows stronger. And one day, you’ll realize—
You don’t want to break it.
You want to *claim* it.
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her mark pulsing beneath her sleeve.
And for the first time, I see it.
Not hate.
Not rage.
But *doubt*.
Good.
Let her doubt.
Let her question.
Because once the fire starts—
There’s no putting it out.
I turn to leave.
“Lysander,” she says, voice soft.
I stop.
“Why didn’t you take me tonight? In the Hall. You could have. You *wanted* to.”
I look back at her, gold eyes burning.
“Because I don’t want a prisoner,” I say. “I want a queen.”
And then I’m gone.
But I know she’ll be back.
They always come back.
And when she returns—
She won’t be running from the bond.
She’ll be running *toward* it.
Toward *me*.
And this time, I won’t let her go.