The air in the Archives turned to ice the moment Nyxara spoke.
One heartbeat, I was drowning in the nearness of Lysander—his breath on my lips, his hand on my wrist, the bond screaming through my veins like a live wire. The next, I was shoved back into the world, into the cold marble floor, into the truth: I was nothing. Just another pawn in a game I didn’t understand.
Nyxara stood there, radiant in crimson silk, her neck marked with *his* fangs, her smile sharp as glass. She didn’t look triumphant. She looked… satisfied. Like she’d walked in on a secret she’d been waiting to expose.
Lysander stepped back from me, his expression unreadable. Gold eyes flickered to her, then back to me. No apology. No explanation. Just silence.
“You’re supposed to be exiled,” I said, voice tight, pressing a hand to my racing heart.
“And I was,” she purred, stepping deeper into the chamber. “For three hours. Then your *king* recalled me.” She tilted her head, letting the light catch the fresh bite. “Said he needed me for a ritual. A *private* one.”
My stomach twisted.
Liar. Manipulator. But worse—*believer*. She didn’t just wear his mark. She wore it like a crown. Like she thought it meant something.
Like she thought she mattered.
“That’s not true,” Lysander said, voice low. “I recalled you to deliver a message. Nothing more.”
“Mm.” She smiled. “Then why did you let me keep the mark?”
“Because it fades in a week. It means nothing.”
“It means *everything* to me,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to me. “And to those who watch.”
I didn’t wait for more. I turned, grabbed the Codex, and shoved it back onto the pedestal. The chains reformed with a whisper of magic, sealing it once more. My hands trembled—not from fear, but from fury. From the way my body still hummed with the echo of his touch, the way my lips still burned from the ghost of his near-kiss.
I pushed past Nyxara without a word.
She didn’t stop me.
But her laugh followed me down the corridor—soft, cruel, knowing.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I sat by the balcony door, wrapped in a black silk robe, watching the moon slice through the clouds like a blade. The city below pulsed with crimson lanterns, the heartbeat of the Shadow Court. Somewhere out there, Malrik was moving. Somewhere, Nyxara was smirking. And somewhere, Lysander was watching.
I could feel him. Not just the bond—though it throbbed beneath my sleeve, a dull, insistent ache. But *him*. His presence. His power. The way the air shifted when he was near, like the world held its breath.
I pressed my fingers to my lips.
He hadn’t kissed me.
But it had felt like a claiming.
And I had let him.
A knock at the door.
I didn’t turn. “Go away.”
It opened anyway.
Boots against marble. Slow. Deliberate.
“You’re not in your room,” Lysander said.
“Surprise,” I replied, still staring at the moon. “Didn’t expect me to stay in the cage you call a suite?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped beside me, his silhouette sharp against the night. He wore only a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his coat slung over one arm. No crown. No armor. Just a man. A monster. A king.
“Nyxara’s mark fades in seven days,” he said. “It’s temporary. Political.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then why did you let her wear it? Why did you recall her? Why did you—” I cut myself off, pressing my palm to my temple. “Never mind. I don’t care.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
He turned to me, gold eyes burning. “You care because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’re afraid of *this*.” He reached out, not touching me, but his fingers hovered near my wrist. “Of what you feel when I’m near. Of what you want. Of what you *are*.”
“I’m not yours.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “But you want to be.”
I stood, turning away. “Get out.”
He didn’t move. “The Council has ordered a new ritual. For the next three nights, we must share the royal bedchamber. No separation. No evasion. The bond must be tested—its strength, its stability, its *truth*.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s— That’s not—”
“Non-negotiable.” He stepped closer. “If we don’t comply, they’ll declare the bond false. And you’ll be executed for deception.”
“You’re using me.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“By forcing me to sleep beside you?”
“By keeping you alive.” He turned, walking toward the bed. “The ritual begins tonight.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You will.” He laid his coat over a chair. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have you restrained. And I’d rather you come willingly.”
I stared at him. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re my fated mate.” He pulled back the black silk sheets. “Now get in the bed, Stella. Or I’ll put you in it.”
I didn’t move.
He didn’t either.
The silence stretched, thick with tension, with memory, with the unspoken thing between us—the thing that wasn’t just magic, wasn’t just fate, but *hunger*.
Finally, I walked to the bed.
Not because he ordered me.
But because I needed to know.
Needed to know if the fire was real.
If the ache was mine.
If the want—this deep, desperate, traitorous want—was just the bond… or if it was *me*.
I slipped beneath the sheets, fully clothed, back to him. I didn’t speak. Didn’t look. Just lay there, rigid, every nerve ending screaming.
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t speak.
Just lay beside me, a foot of space between us, his breath steady, his presence overwhelming.
Hours passed.
The moon moved across the sky.
The bond pulsed, slow and steady, like a second heartbeat.
And then—
Heat.
Not the slow burn. Not the pulse.
A *wave*.
It started in my wrist, flared up my arm, and exploded in my core. My breath snatched in my throat. My skin flushed. My thighs pressed together, trying to stifle the wetness, the ache. The mark glowed beneath my sleeve, searing my skin.
I wasn’t alone.
Lysander gasped.
Not in pain.
In *need*.
“Stella,” he breathed, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The bond was alive. Hungry. *Demanding*.
And then—movement.
He rolled toward me.
Not fast. Not violent.
Slow. Deliberate. Inevitable.
His hand found my waist, fingers pressing through the fabric, pulling me toward him. I should’ve fought. Should’ve kicked. Should’ve screamed.
But I didn’t.
I turned.
And met his eyes.
Gold. Burning. *Feral*.
“This isn’t you,” I whispered, voice trembling. “It’s the bond.”
“Then why do I want you?” he growled, his other hand sliding to my neck, thumb brushing my pulse. “Why does my cock harden when you look at me? Why does my fangs ache to taste you?”
“It’s magic.”
“It’s *us*.”
He leaned in.
His lips brushed my neck.
Not a bite.
A *promise*.
My breath hitched. My body arched toward him, desperate, traitorous. My hands gripped his shirt, not to push him away—but to *pull him closer*.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured, his mouth moving to my ear. “Say the word, and I’ll let you go.”
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because I didn’t want him to stop.
And he knew it.
His hands moved—tugging at the buttons of my gown, peeling back the fabric, baring my shoulder, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. His mouth followed, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck, my shoulder, the swell of my breast.
“Lysander,” I gasped, my hips lifting, seeking friction.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”
“I— I can’t—”
“Say it.”
His hand slid down my stomach, beneath the hem of my gown, fingers brushing the edge of my panties. I was drenched. Soaked. My thighs trembled.
“Please,” I whimpered.
“Please *what*?”
“Don’t— Don’t make me—”
“Make you what?” His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, brushing my clit. I cried out, back arching, hips grinding against his hand. “Make you feel this? Make you *need* me?”
“Yes— No— I don’t—”
“You want me,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve wanted me since the moment you walked into my court.”
His fingers circled my clit, slow, torturous. My breath came in ragged gasps. My thighs trembled around his hand. The bond flared, white-hot, electric, *violent*.
“If you mark me again,” I gasped, tears burning in my eyes, “I’ll kill you.”
He stilled.
Looked at me.
Really looked.
And then—
He pulled his hand away.
Rolling onto his back, chest heaving, fangs bared, cock straining against his trousers.
“Then I’ll wait,” he said, voice raw. “Until you beg for it.”
I lay there, trembling, tears spilling down my cheeks, my body still humming with need, with want, with *hunger*.
He didn’t touch me again.
Didn’t speak.
Just lay there, a foot of space between us, his breath unsteady, his presence overwhelming.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I didn’t hate him.
I didn’t want to destroy him.
I wanted to *keep* him.
And the worst part?
He knew it.
The second night was worse.
The bond flared at midnight, hotter, hungrier, *stronger*. I woke to the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filling my nose, my lungs, my soul. His arm was already around me, pulling me against his chest, his cock hard against my ass, his fangs grazing my neck.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and desire. “Let it happen.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, my hands gripping his arm, not to push him away—but to *hold on*.
“You can.” His hand slid beneath my nightgown, fingers slipping between my thighs. I was already wet. Soaked. “You’re ready. You’re *mine*.”
“No—”
“Yes.” He thrust two fingers inside me, deep, hard, and I cried out, hips arching, body clenching around him. “You feel that? That’s not magic. That’s *you*.”
He curled his fingers, hitting that spot, and I came—screaming his name, back arching, thighs trembling.
He didn’t stop.
Kept thrusting, kept curling, kept whispering, “Mine. Mine. *Mine*.”
And when I was spent, trembling, drenched, he pulled his hand away.
Turned me.
And kissed me.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
Hard. Possessive. *Claiming*.
His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting me, owning me, marking me in a way no fang ever could.
And I kissed him back.
Not because the bond forced me.
But because I wanted to.
Because I *needed* to.
Because for the first time in ten years, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I felt like a woman.
And when he finally pulled away, breathless, eyes burning, he whispered, “Say it.”
“Say what?” I gasped.
“Say you’re mine.”
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
So he rolled away.
Left me burning.
Left me wanting.
Left me *his*.
The third night, I didn’t sleep at all.
I sat by the balcony door again, wrapped in my robe, watching the moon. The bond pulsed, slow and steady, like it was waiting. Like it knew.
He entered silently, boots against marble, coat slung over his arm. He didn’t speak. Just walked to the bed, pulled back the sheets, and lay down.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, still staring at the moon.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
I turned.
Walked to the bed.
Slid beneath the sheets.
And turned to face him.
“If I let you touch me,” I whispered, “will you promise not to mark me?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached out.
And touched my face.
And the bond *screamed*.