The silence after he left was worse than the shouting.
Not the silence of the chamber—I’d already fled that vipers’ nest, slipping through shadowed corridors like a ghost, my boots soundless against cold marble, my breath shallow, my skin still burning from the heat of the bond, from Malrik’s taunts, from *his* words in my ear: “You’re not the only one who feels it.”
No. It was the silence inside me that terrified me.
The absence of rage.
The absence of hate.
Because for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I wasn’t screaming inside. I wasn’t plotting revenge. I wasn’t reciting the names of the dead like a prayer.
I was thinking about *him*.
About the way his breath had warmed my ear. The way his voice had dropped, rough and low, like he was holding back something darker, hungrier. The way his hand had almost—*almost*—brushed my thigh before he turned away.
And worse—worse than any betrayal, worse than any humiliation—I *missed* him.
I missed the weight of his presence. The pull of the bond. The way my body still hummed with the echo of his voice, like a string plucked and left to vibrate.
I press my palms to my eyes, leaning against the wall of the narrow servant’s passage I’ve ducked into. My heart hammers, not from fear, not from anger—but from *want*. A deep, aching throb between my thighs, a tightness in my chest, a whisper in my blood: Go back. Find him. Let him touch you.
No.
I won’t.
I can’t.
I am not some enchanted fool, bewitched by a vampire king’s voice and a cursed bond. I am Stella Vey. Daughter of Seraphina. Hunter of lies. Destroyer of chains.
And I have a mission.
The Blood Codex.
If I can find it, if I can destroy it, none of this matters. Not the bond. Not the Council. Not the way my body betrays me every time he’s near. I can burn it all down and walk away.
But I can’t do it blind.
I need the key.
The Royal Archives are locked by blood and shadow—only those with royal permission or a master key can enter. The key is kept in the Chamber of Records, a small, heavily guarded room just off the main library. And tonight, during the shift change, the guards rotate. For three minutes, the eastern post is unmanned.
Three minutes.
That’s all I need.
I push off the wall, straightening my spine. My gown is still damp in places—from sweat, from arousal, from the lingering heat of the bond—but I don’t care. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, adjust the silver dagger in my thigh sheath, and slip the lockpicks into my palm. My shadow-dust is ready, sewn into the lining of my bodice. I’ve done this a hundred times before. Infiltration. Theft. Escape.
But never with this much at stake.
Never with my body trembling for the man I’m trying to destroy.
The Chamber of Records is down a narrow hall, past the grand library, guarded by two vampires in silver-trimmed armor. They stand rigid, faces blank, eyes scanning the corridor. I press myself into the shadows, watching. Waiting.
Midnight.
The chime echoes through the castle.
And then—movement.
The eastern guard steps back, handing his post to a replacement. The outgoing guard turns, walking down the hall. The new guard takes position.
But for three seconds—just three—there’s a gap.
I move.
Like smoke. Like shadow.
My boots make no sound. My breath is silent. I press the shadow-dust into my palm, whispering a witch’s chant under my breath. The air shimmers, just for a moment, bending around me, cloaking me in illusion. I slip past the guard, into the alcove beside the door.
One breath.
Two.
Then I’m at the lock.
My fingers work fast—twist the pick, feel for the tumbler, shift the tension wrench. The lock is old, reinforced with blood magic, but I’ve studied its design. I know its weaknesses. I’ve practiced on replicas.
Click.
The door opens.
I step inside, closing it behind me. The room is small, lit by a single floating candle. Shelves line the walls, filled with scrolls, ledgers, sealed decrees. And in the center, on a pedestal of black stone—
The key.
It’s larger than I expected—wrought from silver and obsidian, shaped like a serpent coiled around a dagger. The Thorne crest glows faintly at its base. It hums with magic, a low, pulsing thrum that vibrates in my bones.
I reach for it.
And freeze.
Because the moment my fingers brush the air above it, the bond *flares*.
Not the slow burn. Not the pulse.
A *jolt*.
Heat explodes through my wrist, up my arm, straight to my core. My breath snags. My knees weaken. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the wetness, the ache. My vision blurs. And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Boots against stone.
I don’t have time to hide. Don’t have time to run.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Lysander.
He fills the doorway, tall and dark, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes burning gold in the dim light. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He looks… *satisfied*.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, voice low, smooth as smoke.
My heart slams against my ribs. I step back, hand going to my dagger. “You set a trap.”
“No.” He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I left the key unguarded. I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“And?” I snap, backing toward the shelf. “Did you get your entertainment? The half-breed thief, caught in the act?”
“I got more than that.” He moves closer, slow, predatory. “I got proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That you’re not just here to survive. You’re here to destroy me.”
I don’t deny it. Can’t.
“You marked me,” I say, voice shaking. “You bound me to you when I was a child. You used me for your father’s politics and walked away. And now you expect me to *thank* you? To *love* you? To *obey* you?”
“I expect you to stop lying,” he says, stepping closer. “To stop pretending this is just about revenge.”
“It *is* about revenge.”
“Then why did you hesitate?” he asks, voice dropping. “Why did your hand tremble when you reached for the key? Why did your breath catch when you felt the bond flare?”
I glare at him. “Because it’s magic. It’s not *me*.”
“Then why does it only flare when you’re near *me*?” he challenges. “Why does it burn hotter when you touch something that belongs to me? Why does it *sing* when you think of me?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
The bond doesn’t react to just any vampire magic. It doesn’t flare when I pass a guard, when I touch a blood-sealed scroll, when I walk through the throne hall.
It flares for *him*.
And not just the magic.
Me.
My body. My breath. My pulse.
It wants him.
And I want to hate myself for it.
“You don’t own me,” I say, voice raw.
“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But the bond does.”
“Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not just a spell,” he says, voice low. “It’s *fate*. The Codex knew you before you were born. It sang for you. It sang for *us*.”
“There’s no such thing as fate.”
“Then why did my father order the ritual?” he asks. “Why did he choose *you*? A half-breed child, hidden, protected, *hunted*? He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your face. But the Codex did. And it told him: *Bind her. She is the key.*”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The bond wasn’t just political,” he says. “It was *prophetic*. The Codex foresaw war. Foresaw chaos. Foresaw a time when only a hybrid with royal blood could unite the courts. And it chose you.”
I stare at him. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps closer, close enough that his breath ghosts over my lips. “Then why do you dream of me? Why does your body respond before the magic even flares? Why do you *ache* for me?”
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.
“You came here to destroy the Codex,” he says, voice soft. “But what if it’s not your enemy? What if it’s your *destiny*?”
“I don’t believe in destiny.”
“Then believe in this.”
He reaches out.
And touches my wrist.
Not the mark.
Not the fabric.
Bare skin.
And the bond *screams*.
Heat explodes through me—white-hot, electric, *violent*. My vision blurs. My breath hitches. My body arches toward him, desperate, traitorous. I can feel his pulse in my veins, his breath in my lungs, his need—*his need*—burning through me like a fever.
His other hand cups my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “You feel it,” he murmurs. “Not magic. Not fate. *Us*.”
I try to pull away. Try to fight. But my body won’t obey. My knees weaken. My hands grip his coat, not to push him away—but to *pull him closer*.
“Stop,” I whisper, but it’s not a command. It’s a plea.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “Not this time.”
He leans in.
His lips hover over mine.
So close.
So close I can taste him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet.
And then—
A knock.
We both freeze.
The door opens.
Kaelen steps in, his gray eyes scanning the room, lingering on our closeness, on my flushed skin, on Lysander’s hand still on my wrist.
“Your Majesty,” he says, voice neutral. “The northern watch reports movement at the border. Malrik’s packs are advancing.”
Lysander doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me. “Then mobilize the sentinels. I’ll be there shortly.”
Kaelen nods. “And the key?”
Lysander finally pulls back, but his gaze holds mine. “Leave it.”
Kaelen hesitates. “Sir—”
“Leave. It.”
Kaelen looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes—warning? Pity? Then he nods and steps out, closing the door behind him.
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
Lysander still hasn’t let go of my wrist.
“You’re letting me keep it?” I ask, voice unsteady.
“I’m not stopping you,” he says. “Take it. Read it. Learn the truth. But know this—every page you turn, every word you speak, the bond grows stronger. And one day, you’ll realize—”
“I don’t want to break it,” I whisper.
He smiles. Not a smirk. Not a threat.
A *promise*.
“Exactly.”
He releases my wrist.
And walks away.
I stand there, trembling, the key cold in my hand, the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filling my nose, my lungs, my soul.
I should feel victorious.
I have the key.
I can access the Archives.
I can find the Codex.
I can destroy the bond.
But all I feel is *loss*.
Because for the first time, I didn’t want him to let go.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
I clutch the key tighter, pressing it to my chest like a talisman. My breath is still unsteady. My skin still burns. My mark still pulses beneath my sleeve.
I have a mission.
I have a plan.
But as I slip the key into the hidden pocket of my gown, as I step out of the Chamber of Records, as I move through the shadows toward the Archives—
One thought burns brighter than fear, brighter than rage:
I will make you pay for this.
And if the Blood Codex holds the truth—
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.
And myself with him.