Chapter 86

Vampires shift in their seats. The announcer himself lets the silence sit too long.

The wind dies.

Blake holds the crest in her hand like it’s nothing—like it’s not a centuries-old mark that only blood-bound mates can touch without burning alive.

The crowd freezes. A second of pure, absolute stillness.

And then—

Chaos.

Heads whip toward her. Toward me. Even Aemon’s body stiffens beside mine, the tension in his shoulders drawn taut like bowstring.

Blake stands at the center of the ruin, dust curling around her boots, unaware. Her loose braid hangs over one shoulder, the blood on her lips long dried. A bruise stains her jaw like a mark of war. She looks half-feral and half-divine.

And she’s holding my crest.

The announcer lets the silence stretch a little bit more, milking it.

Of course he does.

Cael’s been playing this crowd since before most of them were even born.

“Oh,” Cael croons from below. “Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

The crowd stills again.

He paces slow, theatrical steps across the cracked arena floor.

“I’ll be damned,” the announcer purrs, voice curling with glee. “The mighty leader of House Draven… fated to a human. Look at her—The human holds his crest. And she lives.”

The crowd explodes. Gasps. Whispers. A hissed name.

I don’t react.

But inside—I’m screaming.

Blake frowns. Not scared yet. Just sharp-eyed. A Queen before she even knows it. She glances down at the crest, brows pinching, then back up.

Right at me.

My chest contracts.

Cael keeps going, delighted. “And by the look on her face, I’d wager the girl didn’t know what she just did, or the bond. But judging by the other look—” He sweeps a mocking bow.

Every gaze turns to me.

Even hers.

“—I’d bet the older Draven brother most certainly did.”

Blake blinks. One second. Two. She doesn’t drop the crest, but her hand tightens. Like it’s no longer weightless. Like it suddenly just became heavy.

She mouths a word I can’t hear, but I know what it is.

Why?

I swallow, my jaw locking. My lungs stall. It’s the first time I’ve felt afraid in years. Not for myself.

But for the part of her I just broke.

The fucker doesn’t stop. “With that rare blood? Oh, please...” He lets the words hang.

Fangs glint in the audience. Laughter, sharp and awful, cuts through the tension.

Blake’s hand tightens around the crest.

“I already tasted that delicacy,” he says, tone gleeful. “Naturally, Griffin’s already put his fangs in her.”

A growl tears up my throat.

The crowd lets out a hiss of laughter—half-shock, half hunger. The kind only our kind can summon.

Cael basks in it like it’s applause.

“So it’s not like he doesn’t know, right?” He chuckles. “Seems like Griffin’s been keeping more than just war secrets.”

Blake doesn’t move. But her hand clenches tighter. Around the truth now. Not just the crest.

Around the wound I gave her with silence.

I see it hit her.

Her fingers twitch.

Just once.

But I catch it.

The way she blinks. The flicker of something raw in her stare.

And then… she does what only she would do.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t crumble. Doesn’t look at me like I’ve shattered her whole damn world—even though I probably have.

No.

She breathes in.

Slow and quiet.

And lifts her chin.

The entire Court feels it. That silent shift. That heatless flame.

She’s furious.

And regal.

Like a Queen.

Even now.

Even broken and betrayed and bloodied—Blake doesn’t flinch. She becomes steel.

And I—I want to fucking kneel.

Then Cael lifts his chin, like he’s the voice of fucking reason. “But none of us can judge our dear Griffin,” he calls to the crowd, pacing across the dais. “Not me. Not you. Because if we were paired with a rare-blooded human as a mate, we wouldn’t tell anyone either.”

More low laughter. Nods.

Fucking hell.

“But sending his fated mate into this brutal test?” Cael shrugs, a grin slashing across his face. “Now that—”

“—could only come from the Draven family,” some motherfucker finishes from the audience, and the crowd explodes again.

Laughter swells. Agreement hums through the arena like electricity. The word ruthless floats between mouths, tossed like a compliment.

I stay still, still as marble.

Because if I move, I will rip out his throat. Their throat.

“At least,” Cael calls over the noise, “Griffin was sure the human would give her life for him!”

My lungs seize.

The crowd cheers. Another voice—one of the competitors—shouts up from the pit—“He expected her to die in there!”

Cael barks out a laugh and repeats it into the amplifying rune. “He expected her to die? Oh, poor human.”

The crowd roars with delight, giddy with cruelty.

But I don’t hear them anymore.

Because I hear her.

Even from across the arena—through the firelight, through the sea of bodies—I hear Blake’s heart skip a beat.

I know her rhythm too well now. I know the way it dances when she’s plotting, the way it hammers when she’s hurt. The way it goes sharp and thin when she’s cornered.

This beat is none of those.

This one is shattered.

And yet her face… gives nothing.

Not one crack.

But I can feel it. What she’s holding in.

The ache.

The betrayal curling cold behind her eyes.

Cael looks at me. And I meet his gaze. I glare down at him. He clears his throat and wipes the sweat suddenly forming at his hairline.

His voice strains against the silence my stillness creates.

“Now… now let’s not mock the Leader of House Draven,” he says quickly, and a nervous chuckle follows from the front rows. “No one here—no one—has a fated mate who did what that brave human just did.”

He tries to keep his tone light. But I hear the catch in his voice. He knows what I’ll do to him later.

Still, he can’t help one last jab. Cowards like him never can.

“Truly impressive—for a human,” he says, lips twitching.

The crowd murmurs. Some sneer. Some clap. Some look at Blake like she’s a blood bag. Others like she’s legend.

Because vampires love a spectacle.

And she just gave them one they’ll be talking about for centuries.

“Now.” Cael raises his arm. “With the highest score this round has seen… victory goes to House Draven!” he shouts. “Thanks to the performance of Leader Griffin’s fated mate.” He grins.

A moment of charged silence.

Then applause breaks like a wave.

They don’t clap for me.

They clap for her.

They clap because she bled. Because she endured. Because she rose.

Blake hasn’t moved since the crest came free in her hand. But now—slowly—she lowers it to her side and lifts her chin.

Then she looks at me.

Her hazel eyes are fire and frost and something I can’t name.

Not hatred. Not pain.

Wrath.

The kind that doesn’t explode.

The kind that waits.

She stares at me like she already knows I’ll try to explain.

Like she’s already decided she won’t listen.

And for the first time in thousands of years, I understand what it means to regret.