Draven’s body hung in the air, Valerion’s grip like an iron vice around his throat.
The Vampire King’s red eyes burned with pure, unrelenting wrath.
Draven’s lips curled into a bloody smirk. Even with Valerion’s fingers crushing his windpipe, he did not yield.
Then—Azrael’s voice cut through the chaos.
**“STOP!”**
Valerion froze.
For a fraction of a second, just a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his face. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by something colder. Calculating.
The grip on Draven’s throat loosened—not fully, but just enough for the Alpha to wrench himself free. He landed on the ground in a crouch, shoulders heaving, dark brown eyes locking onto Azrael.
She had stopped her father.
She stood there, still in the regal black gown, but the fabric was torn, stained with blood—some of it hers, some of it his. The ballroom’s torches cast flickering shadows over her, illuminating the faint, angry mark on her throat—his mark.
Draven’s jaw tightened.
Something primal twisted in his chest at the sight of her wearing it. But there was no time for that now.
He tilted his head back and howled.
The sound ripped through the ballroom like a war cry, a command. Every lycan in the chamber immediately responded, their instincts snapping into place. They surrounded him.
Eryx, his strategist, reached his side first. “Alpha, we need to leave. Now.” His voice was urgent but steady. “We’re deep in vampire territory—if we stay any longer, the entire kingdom will descend on us.”
Cyrus, always the voice of reason, nodded. “We’ve done enough damage. Let’s go.”
Draven’s nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply. He hated retreating. But this wasn’t defeat. No—this was strategy.
“Do it.” His order was low, but his pack heard it clear as day.
Cyrus and Eryx lunged at the nearest support pillars. Their claws sank into the ancient stone, and with a sickening crack, they ripped them down.
The ballroom quaked.
Stone shattered. Massive chunks of marble crashed into the floor, sending waves of dust and debris roaring through the chamber. Screams rang out as vampires leapt back, some shielding themselves, others preparing to counterattack.
But by the time the dust settled—the lycans were gone.
For a brief moment, the only sound was the faint echo of crumbling stone. Then—
**“Well? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! GO AFTER THEM!”** Valerion’s roar shook the entire hall.
The ballroom is still shaking from Valerion’s voice, his fury palpable in the air. The vampires rush to obey his command, some vanishing into the night in pursuit of the lycans. Meanwhile, Azrael remains frozen, her heartbeat loud in her ears. The mark burns—not painfully, but with a warmth she’s never felt before.
Eva is clung to her, but Azrael barely registered it. The mate bond is creeping into her veins, whispering, pulling. She shoves it down—violently.
“Oh my Gods. Azrael, are you okay?”
Azrael blinked, shaking herself free from her thoughts.
“I…” She hesitated.
Eva pulled her into a tight embrace, her usual playful demeanor nowhere to be found. “That bastard actually dared to mark you. Azrael, you—” She pulled back, her golden eyes narrowing. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”
Azrael clenched her teeth. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”
Eva’s lips parted, but before she could argue—
Raphael steps forward. His expression unreadable at first, but then his lip curls in disgust. “He marked you.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it carries through the ruined ballroom. The gathered vampires, the nobles, the council members—everyone turns toward her.
Azrael lifts her chin, ignoring the way her heart clenches. “And?”
Raphael scoffs. “And? This is shameful. Our bloodline is the purest in existence, and you—you let that beast put his claim on you?”
Valerion’s fingers twitch at his sides, his claws elongating slightly. He doesn’t look at Raphael. His focus is solely on Azrael.
A test. She knows it immediately. Her father is watching, waiting for how she will respond.
So she bares her fangs, tilts her head, and smiles—cold as ice, sharp as a dagger. “If you think I let him, then you’re a fool.”
The room holds its breath.
Raphael’s fingers tighten into fists. “Then why is it still there?”
The mate mark remains, a dark imprint against her pale skin. Proof. A brand. A chain meant to bind her to the very thing she was raised to despise.
Azrael can feel it, that subtle, wretched pull toward him. It’s lingering at the edge of her senses, a primal call she refuses to acknowledge.
She moves, ripping through the tension like a blade. Her claws extend, and in a single brutal motion, she drags them across her own neck—over the mark.
The sharp sting is nothing. She has endured worse. Blood beads against her skin, and she waits—waits for the mark to fade.
But it doesn’t.
It remains. The skin knits back together, her vampiric healing sealing the wound, but the mark does not vanish.
A murmur ripples through the court.
Azrael meets her father’s gaze, silent, waiting.
Valerion’s expression changed. The raw fury in his features softened, just for a moment. A flicker of something rare—concern.
He stepped forward, grazing his fingers over the mark on her throat.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was quieter now, steady but strangely… gentle.
Azrael’s breath caught. She could barely process the question, let alone the way he was looking at her—not as his heir, not as a soldier, but as his daughter.
It had been so long since she had seen this expression on his face. So long since she had heard his voice without the weight of expectation or cold authority.
***The last time he looked at me like that was when I was a child. When mother was still alive.*** She thought to herself.
She nodded slowly. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t.
Something inside her was changing.
She could feel it now, like a string wrapped around her soul, pulling her to—
Draven.
The mate bond.
It was like a fire had ignited within her, a hunger she had never known before. It was wrong. It was impossible. She wanted to reject it, to sever it before it could take root.
Valerion exhales, his wrath temporarily restrained. Then, he turns his gaze to the gathered nobles, the onlookers, the shaken remnants of the ballroom.
“We will not tolerate this insult,” he declares, his voice like rolling thunder. “They broke the sacred truce. Their Alpha has laid claim to my daughter. This means war.”
The vampires roar their approval. The energy in the room shifts—bloodlust, fury, a craving for vengeance.
But Azrael feels something else entirely.
Dread.
Because deep down, in the marrow of her bones, in the corners of her mind, she knows she will see Draven again.
And she knows that the next time they meet...
It won’t be on the battlefield.
It will be because she seeks him out.