Moon light filtered through the velvet drapes in soft silver threads, dust motes dancing like fragile spirits in the hush of her chamber. Caralee stirred, her limbs heavy with the familiar ache of another sleepless day. She lay there for several long breaths, her body sunk deep into the plush bedding, but her mind—restless, racing—felt caged, scratching at invisible walls that refused to yield.
It had been this way since that fateful visit to the dungeon.
No matter how many days had passed since that terrible day, the memory haunted her with relentless clarity. Donovan's anguished gaze. The weight of her own compulsion. The sound of his heartbeat thundering in her ears as she fled from what she had seen. She had sworn she would return to that cold, merciless place—but her soul had never truly left.
The days since had melted into one another, blurring like watercolors left out in the rain. She moved through them as though wading through thick, invisible syrup. Each evening began the same—woken by dutiful hands, dressed in gowns too fine for her trembling spirit, and ushered off to lessons she could hardly bring herself to care for.
History. Etiquette. Vampire culture. Ceremonial customs. Dueling drills. Magical theory. Courtly diplomacy. Each instructor praised her dedication, her sharp mind, her elegance of form—but none of them saw the quiver of unease beneath her skin, the tight coil of dread twisting tighter with every passing hour. None of them heard the silent scream that echoed in the hollow of her chest.
She learned of blood bonds, of the sacred rites binding feeders and their vampires together in ways deeper than flesh. She learned of astral magic—rare, potent, secretive—whispered to run through the veins of her bloodline like silver fire. She learned of powers known only to the House, the ancient line she had never known she carried.
And through it all, Donovan's face never left her mind. His voice, hoarse and raw in that dark chamber, haunted her waking hours. What had he done? What had bound him this, without his knowing? Every lesson in blood magic felt like a blade twisting in her heart, each word of warning from her tutors only deepening the pit in her stomach.
She asked after Lydia several times that week—anxiously, quietly, so as not to seem too desperate—but her inquiries were met with the same dismissive replies. Tending to matters in the king's absence. Overseeing preparations. Nothing to worry about. But Caralee did worry. Lydia's absence hung over her like a shadow that stretched long and cold. She had come to depend on the older woman's steady presence, her quiet guidance. Without her, the walls of this place felt even more suffocating.
And then the news had come.
Merrick had returned.
The announcement was made that morning. A ripple of activity spread through the household like wildfire. Servants scurried through corridors with hurried steps, arms full of polished silver, fine linens, and fragrant oils. Every surface was dusted twice over. Every candle was lit and checked for even the slightest flicker. Even the air seemed to hum with anticipation.
Caralee's heart had dropped into her stomach.
The duel she had prepared for all week had been postponed—by royal request. Merrick had sent word that he wished for her presence at dinner upon his return. No audience. No distractions. Just the two of them.
She had longed to see him. She had missed the sound of his voice, the comfort of his touch. And yet, the thought of facing him now twisted her insides into knots. Would he see through her the moment their eyes met? Would he sense the weight she carried, the secret she had tried so desperately to bury?
Her lessons that day had been mercifully brief, her instructors instructed to offer only light review. Yet not a word had settled in her mind. By midday, her maids had whisked her away to begin preparations for the evening, their hands working in a flurry of practiced ease—combing her hair, bathing her skin in scented oils, fastening her into a gown of deep sapphire silk that shimmered like a midnight sky.
Still, Lydia did not appear.
The absence gnawed at her, sharper than ever. Caralee finally dared to ask again as one of the younger maids fastened the delicate clasps of her gown.
"Where is Lydia?" she whispered, barely trusting her voice to hold steady.
The maid's hands paused for the briefest moment—just long enough for Caralee to catch it. "She's seeing to the king's affairs, my lady. She's been given many tasks in his absence. But she will return soon, I'm sure of it."
Caralee turned her face toward the mirror, studying the pale, porcelain mask staring back at her. Lips painted red as blood. Eyes rimmed with smoky kohl. A queen in every way but truth.
But she knew better.
She could feel the walls closing in, could feel the tightening noose of expectation choking her breath. Tonight, there would be no hiding behind lessons or distractions. Tonight, she would have to face him. The man who had stolen her away. The man who had turned her into this… creature. The man who had promised to protect her, yet held the man she loved in chains beneath their feet.
Her hands trembled as she touched the jeweled necklace laid against her throat—a gift from Merrick the morning after her turning. A symbol of his claim. A chain, no matter how beautiful.
The maids finished their work and excused themselves, leaving her alone in the quiet glow of the candlelit chamber. She stood for several long moments, staring at her reflection as if searching for some hidden answer in the glass.
She found none.
Taking a steadying breath, she turned toward the door. The hour had come. Merrick awaited.
And heaven help her—so did the truth.