The dream comes again.
Dark stone. Cold chains. The weight of a man’s body pressing me down. Fingers in my hair. Fangs at my throat. Not pain—pleasure. A slow, devastating drag of teeth against skin, a whisper of blood drawn, and then—
Ecstasy.
I wake with a gasp, my body arching off the mattress, my hand flying between my thighs. My fingers are wet. My pulse hammers in my neck, in my wrists, in the mark that burns beneath my sleeve. The room is dark, the fire long dead, the moon a sliver in the sky. But I’m burning.
Again.
It’s been three nights since the Blood Sync Ritual. Three nights of pretending. Of playing the fated mate. Of smiling at nobles who watch me like vultures, of nodding when Lysander calls me “my queen” in that low, velvet voice that makes my spine tingle. Three nights of lying beside him in the royal suite, fully clothed, fully alert, fully aware of every breath he takes, every shift of his body, every time his hand brushes mine by accident—or not.
And every night, I dream of him.
Not the monster who marked me. Not the king who uses me. But *him*. Lysander. His mouth. His hands. His fangs. The way his voice drops when he says my name. The way his eyes darken when I challenge him. The way his body moves—like power given form.
And the dreams—they don’t stop at biting.
Last night, he didn’t just drink from my wrist.
He knelt between my thighs. His mouth on my skin. His tongue where no one has ever been. And when I came—screaming his name—the bond flared so hard I woke up trembling, my nightgown soaked, my mark glowing like a brand.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the image. To erase the heat. To erase the *want*.
This isn’t me.
I am not some starved animal, desperate for the touch of the man who ruined my life.
But my body doesn’t care.
It remembers his blood. It remembers the ritual. It remembers the way his memories flooded mine, the way I saw myself through his eyes—not as a threat, not as a weapon, but as *his*. As something precious. As something *claimed*.
I roll onto my side, staring at the empty space beside me. He’s already gone. No note. No warning. Just the faintest impression on the pillow, the lingering scent of storm and blood.
He didn’t sleep here last night.
Good.
I don’t need him watching me. Don’t need him seeing the way my breath hitches when he’s near, the way my skin flushes at his voice, the way my body betrays me with every heartbeat.
I push off the bed, my bare feet hitting cold marble. The room is silent. Too silent. I cross to the wardrobe, pulling out the black gown laid out for me—high collar, long sleeves, modest, safe. I dress quickly, tucking my dagger into the seam at my thigh, my lockpicks into my sleeve. The shadow-dust stays in my pocket. I might need it later.
As I fasten the last button, the door opens.
Lysander steps in, already dressed in a tailored black coat, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes sharp. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his gaze sweeping over me like a physical touch.
“You’re up,” he says.
“Surprise,” I reply, lifting my chin. “Didn’t expect me to survive another night without you?”
“I didn’t sleep in the suite,” he says, voice neutral. “I was in the war room. Malrik’s packs are moving. He’s calling for a Council vote—demands you be stripped of status and executed for deception.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“The vote is today. At noon.”
“So this is it. You’re handing me over.”
“No.” He steps closer, close enough that I can smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild beneath it all. “You’re attending. You’re standing beside me. And you’re proving—again—that the bond is real.”
“By doing what? Drinking your blood in front of everyone again?”
“No.” His gaze drops to my wrist, where the mark pulses faintly beneath the fabric. “By surviving the Council’s presence. By not running. By not fighting.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you die.”
I glare at him. “You keep using that word like it means something.”
“It means *everything*.” He reaches out, not touching me, but his fingers hover near my wrist. “The bond is still unstable. It’s reacting to stress. To threat. To *him*.”
“Malrik?”
“He’s a predator. He smells your fear. He smells your arousal. And he’s going to use it against you.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“You think you’re the only one who can scent blood?” he murmurs. “Werewolves can scent *everything*. Fear. Anger. Lust.” His eyes flicker, gold and knowing. “And right now, you’re drenched in it.”
I freeze. “That’s not—”
“It’s true,” he says, voice low. “Your body knows what you’re trying to deny. And if Malrik sees it—if he smells it—he’ll call for your execution on the spot. He’ll say you’re unstable. A threat. A liar.”
“Then help me,” I snap. “Do something. Suppress the bond. Block it.”
“I can’t.” He steps back. “Only *you* can control it. Only *you* can stop fighting it. The more you resist, the more it fights back. The hotter it burns.”
I press a hand to my temple. “So what am I supposed to do? Just… let it happen?”
“No.” His gaze holds mine. “You’re supposed to stop lying to yourself. Stop pretending you don’t want me. Stop pretending this is just magic.”
“It *is* magic.”
“Then why does your body react before the bond flares?” he challenges. “Why do you dream of me? Why does your breath hitch when I walk into a room? Why does your pulse spike when I touch you?”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Because he’s right.
The bond isn’t the only thing making me wet.
It’s *him*.
And that terrifies me more than any execution.
“I need to prepare,” I say, turning away. “I’ll see you at the Council.”
He doesn’t stop me.
But as I reach the door, his voice follows me, dark and possessive:
“Don’t run, Stella. Don’t hide. Stand beside me. And let them see—*let them all see*—that you’re not afraid.”
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll see the truth in his eyes.
The truth I’ve been running from.
That I don’t hate him.
I *want* him.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
The Council Chamber is a cathedral of power.
Black marble floors reflect the floating candles above, their flames burning crimson and cold. Long tables stretch down the hall, filled with vampire nobles in dark elegance, werewolf enforcers in leather and steel, fae emissaries shimmering in iridescent silk. At the far end, the High Council sits elevated—elders in blood-red robes, their eyes ancient, their voices law.
And in the center—two thrones.
One for the king.
One for his mate.
I walk beside Lysander, my heels clicking against the stone, my spine straight, my face neutral. I feel their eyes—assessing, hungry, suspicious. A half-breed. A hybrid. A threat. And worse—the king’s *fated* mate. The woman whose blood sings in his veins.
Malrik sits at the head of the werewolf delegation, broad-shouldered, scarred, his silver brand glowing faintly on his cheek. His wolf-gray eyes lock onto mine as we approach, and I feel it—his gaze like a physical touch, probing, testing.
He smells me.
And he knows.
I can see it in the slow curve of his lips. In the way his nostrils flare. In the predatory gleam in his eyes.
He knows I’m aroused.
And he’s going to use it.
We reach the thrones. Lysander takes his seat. I take mine—close enough that our arms brush, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the slow, steady pulse of his power.
High Elder Valen rises, his voice echoing through the hall. “By order of the Accord, this Council convenes to address the legitimacy of King Lysander Thorne’s claim to a fated mate. Lady Stella Vey has been accused of deception, of manipulating the Blood Sync Ritual, of falsifying the bond. How does the king respond?”
Lysander doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t hesitate.
“The bond is real,” he says, voice calm, commanding. “It was forged ten years ago, sealed by blood, recognized by the Codex, proven in the Hall of Echoes. My mate is no liar. She is no fraud. She is *mine*.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
Malrik leans forward. “Prove it.”
“The ritual was witnessed,” Lysander says. “The bond glowed gold. The magic confirmed it.”
“Magic can be faked,” Malrik counters. “Blood can be drugged. And a woman with witch’s blood can weave illusions.” He turns to me, his voice sharp. “Lady Vey. Do you consent to a scent test? Let the Council smell your truth.”
My blood runs cold.
A scent test.
It’s a werewolf tradition—a public humiliation disguised as justice. They’d have me stand before them, exposed, while they inhale my fear, my lies, my *arousal*.
And if they smell desire—
I’m dead.
I look at Lysander.
He’s already moving.
“No,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “My mate will not be subjected to your primitive rituals.”
“Then how do we know she’s not lying?” Malrik demands. “How do we know this isn’t some political farce? That she’s not just another of your conquests?”
“Because I tasted her,” Lysander says, voice dropping to a growl. “I drank her blood. I felt her memories. I know her *truth*.”
“And what truth is that?” Malrik challenges.
Lysander turns to me.
His gaze burns.
“That she wants me,” he says, voice echoing through the hall. “That she dreams of me. That every time I touch her, her body betrays her. That she’s *drenched* with need—and not just from the bond.”
The chamber erupts.
Gasps. Whispers. Snarls.
And me?
I’m on fire.
Heat floods my body—low, insistent, *unstoppable*. My skin flushes. My breath hitches. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the wetness, the ache. The mark on my wrist flares, burning through the fabric, searing my skin.
He said it.
He *knew*.
And now everyone knows.
Malrik smiles, slow and cruel. “Then let’s see it.”
He stands, stepping down from the werewolf table, his boots echoing against the stone. He walks toward me, his eyes locked on mine, his nostrils flaring.
“Let’s see if the king speaks truth,” he says, voice low. “Let’s see if his *mate* is as untouched as she claims.”
Lysander is on his feet in an instant, a snarl ripping from his throat. “Touch her, and I’ll rip out your heart.”
Malrik stops, smirking. “Then prove it without force. Let the bond speak.”
And then—
It happens.
The bond *flares*.
Not a slow burn. Not a pulse.
A *wave*.
Heat explodes through me—white-hot, electric, *violent*. My vision blurs. My breath snags in my throat. My back arches, my chest rising, my nipples pebbling against the fabric of my gown. My thighs press together, but it’s no use—the wetness is already there, soaking through the silk, clinging to my skin.
I can’t stop it.
I can’t hide it.
And Malrik sees it.
His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. And then—he *laughs*.
“Look at her,” he says, voice dripping with venom. “Flushed. Shaking. *Dripping* with it. And you expect us to believe she’s your fated mate? She’s just another whore, Thorne. Another conquest. And you’ve brought her here to humiliate us all.”
The chamber erupts.
Vampires snarl. Werewolves growl. Fae whisper, their eyes alight with scandal.
I sit there, humiliated, exposed, my body screaming with unwanted arousal, my mark glowing like a brand.
And then—
Lysander moves.
Not toward Malrik.
Toward *me*.
He leans in, close, his lips brushing my ear, his voice a velvet threat.
“You’re not the only one who feels it,” he murmurs.
And then he pulls back.
And walks away.
I sit there, trembling, the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filling my nose, my lungs, my soul.
He left me.
He walked away.
And as the Council erupts around me, as Malrik smirks, as the whispers grow louder, one thought burns brighter than shame, brighter than rage:
I will make you pay for this.
But deep down, beneath the armor, beneath the fury—
I know the truth.
He didn’t leave me.
He *claimed* me.
And the worst part?
I let him.