Azrael stood alone in her chambers, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. The silence pressed in around her, thick and suffocating, yet her mind was anything but quiet. Her golden eyes, gleaming with restrained fury, stared at her own reflection in the tall, ornate mirror before her.
She was naked, her pale skin untouched by time, smooth and flawless—except for it.
Draven’s mark.
She gathered her long black hair in her fist and pulled it to the side, exposing the tainted flesh at the curve of her neck. The wound was faint, yet unmistakable. A brand of possession. A claim she had not given him.
Her fingers traced over it, her touch trembling.
And gods, she could feel him.
The mate bond was there, pulsing beneath her skin like a sickness, a poison seeping into her very soul. She could feel his presence, distant yet unshakable. A pull that clawed at her insides, whispering in a voice not her own.
Go to him.
Seek him out.
Her body betrayed her. Her skin was too hot, her breathing too shallow. Her mind was no longer her own—it was filled with him, with flashes of rough hands, searing heat, brown eyes dark with hunger. Her body yearned for him, screamed for his touch. She dug her nails into her palms, willing it away.
No.
With sudden fury, she whirled toward the table beside her, snatching the dagger resting atop it. The silver gleamed under the candlelight, sharp and unforgiving.
She didn’t hesitate.
She dragged the blade across her palm, splitting the flesh open. Blood welled up, rich and dark, but almost instantly, the wound sealed. Her lips curled into a snarl. Not enough.
She lifted the knife to her neck.
And she cut.
The first slash burned. The second was worse. Over and over, she carved into the flesh, breath heaving, eyes locked on the mirror as the gashes dripped crimson down her collarbone. The scent of blood filled the air, thick and metallic.
But no matter how deep she cut, how much she bled—the mark remained.
She could still feel him.
Azrael let out a scream of pure frustration. Her rage surged like a tempest, wild and uncontrollable. She flipped the tall standing mirror and sent it flying across the room, shattering into a million pieces. She screamed as she picked up and tossed the furniture. With a furious snarl, she threw the dagger across the room. It sliced through the air, aimed recklessly toward the doorway—
—only to be stopped mid-flight.
The blade hovered, frozen mere inches from Eva’s forehead. Strands of Eva’s platinum blonde hair curled around the hilt, lowering the weapon gently to the floor before releasing it.
Eva stepped forward, her icy blue eyes sharp with concern as she took in the wreckage of the room—shattered glass, overturned furniture, the blood smeared across Azrael’s skin.
"Azrael," she breathed. "What in the world are you doing to yourself?"
Azrael didn’t answer. She stood there, bloodied and trembling, her chest rising and falling in erratic bursts.
And then—
Eva moved.
She rushed to Azrael and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a fierce embrace.
Something inside Azrael shattered.
Her body stiffened, but then, as if the weight of everything crushed her all at once, she broke. A choked sob ripped from her throat, followed by another, and another. She clutched onto Eva, her hands gripping the back of her dress as if she would disappear if she let go.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She didn’t even remember the last time she cried.
Centuries, perhaps.
Eva stroked her back in slow, soothing circles. "There, there," she murmured. "Let it all out."
For a long moment, Azrael let herself be weak. She let herself be the girl she used to be before all of this, before her mother’s death, before her father’s endless trials, before she was turned into the cold, ruthless creature the court demanded of her.
Finally, when her sobs quieted into mere ragged breaths, Eva pulled back slightly, her hands still firm on Azrael’s shoulders.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Azrael shook her head at first, but then, through clenched teeth, she whispered, "It won’t go away."
Eva frowned. "What?"
Azrael took a shaky breath, her golden eyes burning. "The mark. I’ve tried everything. I cut myself, I burn it with magic, but it won’t go away." Her voice cracked as she slammed a fist against her own chest. "And this—this thing inside me, this bond—it's making me feel things that I don’t want to feel!"
Eva said nothing, letting Azrael pour it all out.
Azrael’s lips curled in disgust. "I feel him, Eva. I feel him even now." Her fingers clutched at the mark. "It’s like a sickness, spreading inside me, corrupting me. And I can’t—I can’t stop it."
Eva’s face softened.
Azrael shook her head violently, stepping back. "I hate him. I hate what he did. And now I—now I—" Her voice faltered. She clenched her fists. "I want it gone."
She let out a broken breath and pressed her palms to her face, as if she could scrub away the truth of it all.
Eva sighed and stepped closer, reaching up to gently wipe the tears from Azrael’s cheeks with her thumbs.
"Azrael," she whispered, her voice unusually soft. "It’s going to be okay."
Azrael let out a bitter laugh. "No, it’s not."
"It will," Eva insisted.
Azrael’s eyes flickered up, searching Eva’s face. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Eva leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against Azrael’s cheek, before pulling her into another warm embrace.
Azrael closed her eyes.
For a moment, she let herself believe the lie.
Then Eva pulled back, brushing a stray strand of hair from Azrael’s face. "Come. Let’s get you cleaned up. The court is waiting for you."
Azrael stiffened.
The court.
Reality came crashing back down on her.
Her father. The nobles. The whispers. The accusations.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening.
Eva turned toward the large wardrobe, opening it and scanning through the lavish fabrics. "I’ll find something that can cover that cursed mark."
Azrael nodded numbly.
But in the back of her mind, panic whispered.
What will they say?
Her father had already declared war, his fury shaking the castle itself. The court would demand answers. Demand to know how their princess had been tainted.
What if they see right through me?
Azrael clenched her fists.
No.
She would not let them see her shaken.
With slow, deliberate steps, she moved toward the washbasin to cleanse herself of blood and tears.
She steeled herself.
When she faced the court, she would be the princess they feared.
Even if, deep down, something inside her was already unraveling.