Chapter 2

Damien didn't return to our chambers until well past midnight.

I lay perfectly still beneath the silk sheets, my breathing slow and measured—a convincing imitation of sleep. For our kind, rest was more meditation than necessity, but Damien had always found comfort in the ritual of it. The bed dipped as he slid in beside me, and with him came the faint scent of jasmine and something darker. Her perfume. It clung to his skin like a confession.

My nails bit into my palms beneath the covers. The pain kept me from trembling.

"Seraphina?" His palm traced down my spine, cool and familiar. "I'm sorry I couldn't be with you tonight. There was an incident at the northern border—a rogue nest causing trouble. The council demanded I handle it personally."

The lies slipped from his lips as easily as blood from a wound.

"I'll make it up to you." His mouth brushed against my shoulder. "Next week, I'll take you to the château in Bordeaux. Just the two of us. And that ruby parure you admired at the auction—consider it yours."

He thought I could be bought with trinkets. That jewels and empty promises could fill the chasm he'd carved into my chest.

When he reached for me, pulling me against him, my body went rigid as marble. The rage flooding through my veins burned hotter than any bloodlust I had ever known. The blood oath pulsed with sharp, stabbing pain—as though it, too, recognized the desecration of our bond.

I focused on his breathing as it gradually slowed, deepening into the stillness of vampire rest. Only when I was certain he had surrendered to it did I slip from the bed.

Something ancient was stirring within me. Something older than grief, colder than fury.

I moved through the manor like a shadow, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floors. Damien's private study was at the end of the east corridor—a room I had never been invited into. The door was locked, of course. I tried my birth date. Incorrect. His turning anniversary. Incorrect. Finally, I entered today's date—our anniversary, which was also that boy's birthday.

The lock clicked open.

How pathetically predictable.

The study smelled of aged leather and his cologne—sandalwood and smoke. Once, that scent had meant safety. Now it only turned my stomach.

His desk was immaculate, but I knew Damien. Beneath the veneer of order, he hoarded secrets like a dragon hoards gold. I found the hidden compartment in the third drawer—a false bottom that gave way under pressure.

Inside was a leather portfolio, thick with documents.

The first was a medical report from Dr. Aldric Vance—our coven's physician. The header read: Comprehensive Fertility Suppression Protocol. My hands began to shake as I read further.

Patient: Seraphina Ashford-RavencroftTreatment: Nightly administration of diluted sanctified water compound, masked in ceremonial wine.Purpose: Permanent suppression of vampiric reproductive capability.Notes: Subject shows no awareness. Continue protocol indefinitely.

The words blurred before my eyes.

Every night for six years, Damien had handed me a crystal glass of what he called "our private vintage"—a blend he claimed was reserved only for bonded pairs. He would watch me drink it, his eyes soft with false affection, and I had felt special. Cherished.

I had been swallowing poison.

The next document was a birth certificate. Sebastian Damien Thorne. Father: Damien Ravencroft. The date of birth was three months after our bonding ceremony—which meant Vivienne had been pregnant before he'd ever spoken the blood oath with me.

There were photographs, too. Damien in a delivery room, cradling a newborn. Damien teaching the boy to walk. Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, ordinary Tuesday evenings—a whole life I had never been part of.

My chest felt hollow, scraped clean.

The final document was a letter in Damien's own hand, addressed to the Coven Elders. A draft, never sent. It outlined his intention to present Sebastian as his legitimate heir, citing my "unfortunate barrenness" as grounds to bring in the boy through formal adoption. The Lady Seraphina remains unaware, he had written. She is compliant and devoted. She will accept whatever I tell her.

I set the papers down carefully. My hands had stopped shaking. In their place was something far more dangerous: stillness.

I retrieved the compact scanner from my coat pocket—I had not come unprepared—and copied every document. Every photograph. Every damning word. When I finished, I replaced everything exactly as I had found it and erased all traces of my presence.

I did not return to our bedroom.

Instead, I went to the guest quarters in the west wing—a suite unused for decades, the air thick with dust and silence. I stood at the window, watching the moon sink toward the horizon.

My phone vibrated. An unknown number.

The message contained a single photograph: Damien kneeling before Vivienne, pressing his lips to her pregnant belly. The timestamp was dated seven years ago—before he had ever looked at me twice.

Beneath it, a text: A barren bride makes a poor Lady. Know your place.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Then I opened my secure messaging app and typed a single line to my oldest friend: Eliza. Tomorrow. The usual place. I need to know how to break a blood oath.

I pressed send and set the phone aside.

The woman who had believed in fairy tales and eternal love? She died tonight, somewhere between the medical reports and the photographs.

What remained was something else entirely.

I caught my reflection in the window glass—pale hair, paler skin, and eyes like chips of winter ice.

"You wanted a compliant wife," I whispered to the empty room. "You should have chosen one who didn't learn from her enemies."