The grand hall of Ravenshade was unusually warm that morning—sunlight danced through the stained-glass windows, birds chirped outside, and yet, the air inside was thick with something far less innocent.
Celestine Delacroix had dressed for war disguised as seduction.
Her gown clung to her curves like a second skin, a soft lavender silk that shimmered with every calculated step she took toward the Duke. Her lips were painted rose, her smile dipped in honey—but it was her eyes that betrayed her true intent. Sharp. Predatory.
"Your Grace," she purred, approaching Alaric with delicate grace, "you've been avoiding me. Am I such a terrible choice for a bride?"
Alaric looked up from the scrolls in his hand, his expression unreadable. "That's not for me to decide. The Council already has."
Celestine's laugh was light, but the glint in her eyes was steel. "Still, I thought perhaps… I could persuade you otherwise."
Before anyone could react, she reached up, brushed invisible lint from Alaric's shoulder, and let her fingers trail down his chest with casual familiarity.
From across the room, Seraphine froze.
She had been speaking to Carlos, her voice quiet and pleasant, but at the sight before her—the audacity of Celestine's touch on his chest—her blood turned molten.
Her hands trembled slightly, hidden by the folds of her dress.
But Seraphine did not speak. Did not glare. Did not flinch.
She simply smiled.
Carlos, ever observant, narrowed his eyes.
He leaned closer to her and whispered near her ear, "Are you going to let her win without a fight?"
Seraphine inhaled slowly, schooling her features. "It's not a fight if I was never a contestant."
Carlos chuckled softly. "Then pretend. Make him see you."
Before she could reply, Carlos slid his arm around her waist and pulled her gently against his side. "Darling," he said aloud, just enough for Celestine and Alaric to hear, "you look pale. Have you eaten anything this morning?"
Seraphine blinked—caught, but not unwilling. She slipped into the role with ease, her voice sugary sweet. "I suppose I've been too distracted."
Carlos grinned and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear with practiced intimacy. "Then I'll feed you myself if I must."
The air in the room changed.
Alaric's gaze flicked over to them, lingering on the way Seraphine leaned into Carlos's touch, the soft laughter she gave, the way her eyes twinkled like they used to only for him.
A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes.
But Celestine wasn't done.
She leaned further into Alaric's side, her hand now flat against his chest, her face angled up as if waiting—no, inviting—a kiss.
"You don't have to pretend, Alaric," she whispered, loud enough for Seraphine to hear. "We both know what the Council wants. And what you need."
Alaric didn't move away.
He allowed it.
He let it happen.
Seraphine felt something twist inside her chest, an invisible blade sinking deep. Her face didn't change, but her heart screamed.
She looked away.
Carlos felt the shift in her body, the way her warmth cooled.
He leaned closer and whispered against her temple, "Don't break, my lady. Not in front of her. She doesn't deserve it."
Seraphine closed her eyes for a beat and nodded.
Across the room, Alaric's jaw tensed. His eyes met Seraphine's for one fleeting second—and in that second, everything between them burned.
Jealousy. Anger. Desire. Regret.
He stepped away from Celestine with the grace of a ghost.
"I have work to do," he said, voice clipped, cold.
Without sparing another glance at anyone, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
Celestine stood there, lips pursed in irritation.
Carlos smiled victoriously.
And Seraphine?
She stood still, eyes fixed on the place where he had stood, her heart quietly unraveling.
The moon hung low, casting silver streaks across the stone floors of Ravenshade. The manor was silent, blanketed in the stillness of sleep. But behind one particular door, hearts beat far too loudly to be resting.
Seraphine stirred in her bed, her back turned toward the chamber entrance, her body curled into itself as if shielding her heart from the day's torment. Her fingers clutched the blanket, her eyes open, unblinking. The image of Alaric and Celestine still haunted her vision.
A sudden, sharp knock shattered the silence.
Before she could answer, the door swung open—forceful, impatient.
Alaric stood at the threshold, his cloak thrown back, his chest heaving with barely restrained emotion.
"Why did you let him touch you like that?" His voice was low and hoarse, like thunder before the storm. He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
Seraphine sat up, startled, her breath catching in her throat. "What are you talking about?"
"Carlos," Alaric hissed, his eyes glowing faintly crimson. "He held you like a lover. Right in front of me."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "And you," she snapped, voice rising, "let Celestine drape herself over you like a snake in heat. She touched your chest. She nearly kissed you—and you stood there and let her!"
Alaric stepped closer, his voice trembling now—not from anger, but from something far more vulnerable. "Do you think it didn't kill me inside? Watching you lean into another man just to prove a point?"
Seraphine stood from the bed, eyes blazing with hurt. "Then why play her game? Why not push her away? Or is it easier to pretend I'm just... nothing?"
"You're not nothing!" he snapped.
"Then act like it!" she cried.
Silence roared between them.
Alaric's shoulders finally slumped, the weight of the world visible in the curve of his spine.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, softer now. "Seraphine, I... This situation—it's tearing me apart. Every time I look at you, I want to hold you, to claim you. But I can't. Not yet. Not while the Council watches our every move."
She turned her back to him, arms crossed. "Then leave."
But instead of stepping away, he crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his voice like velvet laced with ache. "I came here tonight because I couldn't bear another second without touching you."
Her breath hitched.
"I promise," he whispered into the crook of her neck. "I won't let Celestine touch me again. I'll play the Council's game if I must, but only you... Only you will ever have me."
Tears welled in Seraphine's eyes, but she blinked them away. Her heart betrayed her as it thudded wildly, her body already leaning back into his warmth.
She turned slowly in his arms, looking up into his dark, tormented gaze.
"Don't make promises you can't keep," she murmured.
He touched her cheek with reverence. "This one—I will keep."
Without another word, his lips crashed onto hers—desperate, apologetic, claiming.
She answered with equal fire, her hands threading through his hair, pulling him deeper, as if she could pour all her fears and hopes into that kiss.
Alaric backed her toward the bed, his movements no longer hesitant. His fingers found the laces of her gown as he murmured against her lips, "Let me prove it to you. That you're the only one I crave."
She nodded, breathless.
When he laid her down, it wasn't like the stolen moment they once shared. It was a storm, a promise, a surrender. He kissed every part of her with reverence, as if committing her to memory once again.
And then, with her consent, he fed—his fangs sinking into her neck, drawing from her the essence he had long denied himself.
Seraphine gasped, her fingers tightening on his back as the feeding bound them deeper, their auras tangling in an ancient, primal dance. Pleasure laced with power surged between them.
Then they became one—not just in body, but in soul.
There, in the quiet embrace of night, they shed the masks of rebellion, strategy, and pretense.
And for once, in the shadows of Ravenshade, they were simply Alaric and Seraphine.
Lovers.
Fighters.
Fated.
At dawn, Alaric moved back to his chamber.