The key burns against my thigh.
Not literally. It’s cold silver and obsidian, tucked into the hidden pocket sewn beneath the bodice of my gown. But it feels like fire—like a brand, like a promise, like the slow burn of the bond that won’t let me forget his touch.
His fingers on my wrist.
His breath on my lips.
His voice, rough and low: “Not this time.”
I press my palm to the stone wall as I move through the servant’s passage, grounding myself. The corridor is narrow, lit only by flickering sconces that cast long, trembling shadows. My boots make no sound. My breath is steady. My dagger is ready. I’ve done this a hundred times—slipping past guards, bypassing wards, stealing what I need from the heart of enemy territory.
But never like this.
Never with my body still humming from a man’s near-kiss. Never with my mind replaying the way my hands gripped his coat—not to push him away, but to pull him closer. Never with the truth clawing its way up my throat:
I wanted it.
Not the bond.
Not the magic.
Him.
I shove the thought down, hard. I can’t afford weakness. Not now. Not when I’m so close.
The Royal Archives are ahead—a massive, iron-bound door set into the black basalt wall, sealed with a blood-lock and shadow wards. The key in my pocket will open it. But I can’t use it here, not yet. The lock is enchanted to scream if tampered with during daylight hours. I need darkness. I need silence. I need time.
And I need to be alone.
I press my back against the wall, listening. The castle is quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant echo of the wind through the spires, the low thrum of blood magic in the stones. The guards changed shifts an hour ago. The next patrol won’t pass for another thirty minutes.
Enough time.
I step into the corridor, moving fast, silent. My fingers brush the key through the fabric, whispering a witch’s chant under my breath. The wards respond—faint, reluctant. The lock hums, a low, pulsing thrum that vibrates in my bones. I press the key to the door.
Click.
The wards disengage.
The door swings open.
Darkness yawns before me.
I step inside.
The Archives are a cathedral of forbidden knowledge—endless rows of towering shelves carved from black oak, stacked with ancient tomes bound in leather, bone, and skin. Floating candles hover in midair, casting flickering light over spines etched with runes, titles in languages older than sin. The air is thick with dust and power, with the scent of ink, parchment, and something darker—blood magic, old and hungry.
And at the center of it all—
The Blood Codex.
I’ve seen it in dreams. In visions. In the whispers of the bond.
A massive book, bound in crimson leather, its cover inlaid with silver veins that pulse like a heartbeat. The Thorne crest glows faintly at its center. It rests on a pedestal of black stone, chained with silver links etched with runes. The air around it shimmers, warped by magic, by time, by fate.
And it’s singing.
Not aloud. Not in words.
In my blood.
A low, insistent hum, like a lullaby, like a call. The mark on my wrist flares, warm and alive. My breath hitches. My pulse jumps. My skin flushes.
It knows me.
It’s been waiting.
I move toward it, slow, cautious. My boots echo against the stone. The candles flicker. The shadows shift. Every instinct screams at me to run, to turn back, to leave this place before the magic consumes me.
But I can’t.
I came here to destroy it.
To burn it to ash.
To erase the spell that bound me, the lie that made me his, the truth that my mother died to protect.
I reach the pedestal.
The chains hum with power. The runes glow faintly. The Codex sings louder, a pulse in my veins, in my skull, in my soul.
I press my palm to the cover.
And the world *shatters*.
Not pain. Not fire. Not magic.
Memory.
A flash—my mother, Seraphina, her dark hair falling like a curtain, her eyes fierce, her voice a whisper: “Destroy the Codex. Be free.”
Another—Lysander, younger, harder, kneeling before a council of elders, his voice cold: “The bond is temporary. It will fade.”
Another—me, twelve years old, strapped to the ritual stone, screaming as fangs pierce my wrist, as blood is drawn, as the spell flares to life.
Another—me, years later, standing in a dim room, tracing the scar on my wrist, whispering: “I’ll destroy it. I’ll destroy *him*.”
And then—
Another.
Lysander, not as a monster, not as a king, but as a man—alone in a candlelit chamber, his fingers brushing the mark on his wrist, his voice raw: “She’s alive. She’s *alive*.”
I gasp, stumbling back, ripping my hand away.
The visions stop.
The singing fades.
But the truth remains.
He didn’t know I survived.
He thought I was dead.
And when he saw me—when the bond flared—he didn’t see a weapon.
He saw *me*.
I press a hand to my temple, breathing through the shock. This changes nothing. He still marked me. He still used me. He still plays this political game, pretending I’m his fated mate when all he wants is control.
But…
What if it’s not a lie?
What if the bond *is* fated?
What if the Codex *did* choose me?
No.
I won’t believe it.
I can’t.
Because if I do, if I let myself believe that this—this fire in my blood, this ache between my thighs, this *need*—isn’t just magic, isn’t just manipulation…
Then I’m lost.
I reach for the chains, whispering a witch’s chant. The runes flicker. The silver links groan. One by one, they begin to dissolve, melting into smoke.
Almost.
Just a little more—
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The voice is low, smooth, *familiar*.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn.
Lysander stands in the doorway, tall and dark, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes burning gold in the dim light. He doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t look surprised.
He looks… *inevitable*.
“You followed me,” I say, voice tight.
“No.” He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I knew where you’d go.”
“And you let me take the key.”
“I did.” He moves closer, slow, deliberate. “I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“And?” I snap, backing toward the pedestal. “Did you get your entertainment? The half-breed thief, caught in the act?”
“I got more than that.” He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet. “I got proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That you’re not just here to survive. You’re here to destroy me.”
“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 Codex? Why did your breath catch when you touched it?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
The bond didn’t just flare.
It *sang*.
And not just to me.
To *him*.
I saw it in his eyes when he walked in—the flicker of recognition, the pulse of the mark on his wrist, the way his breath hitched when he saw my hand on the cover.
He felt it too.
“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 gasp.
We both freeze.
The door bursts open.
Lady Nyxara steps inside, draped in crimson silk, her hair 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.
“How *touching*,” she purrs, stepping forward, her eyes locked on us. “Did I interrupt something… *intimate*?”