CHAPTER 17
THE GROUND BENEATH ME is cold and damp when I wake, rough stone pressing against my cheek.
My head feels like it’s been split open, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of pain through my temples that make even opening my eyes an effort.
When I manage it, near darkness greets me.
I push myself into a sitting position, wincing as pain lances through my skull.
The room spins before settling into focus. I blink slowly, trying to make sense of my surroundings through the haze of disorientation.
The chamber is dimly lit by torches mounted on rock walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling.
Water drips somewhere in the distance, each drop echoing in the cavernous space.
Judging by the musty smell of earth and the complete absence of natural light, I’m underground—deep underground.
Memory returns in jagged fragments. The ambush. Keller’s death. Rhodes being turned, followed by Wei. Lexa’s scream.
I try to move, only to find my wrists bound behind my back with what feels like metal shackles. They’re tight enough to bruise but not enough to cut off circulation, rattling against the floor as I shift in search of anything I can use.
The torches are mounted too high to reach, even if I could stand. My weapons are gone, not just the ones I surrendered on the rooftop, but the hidden blades and picks I keep concealed in my clothing.
They’ve been thorough.
The tracker in my arm pulses steadily, a subtle reminder that I’m not completely alone. Redmoore will be looking for me. If the device is still functioning this far below ground, they’ll find me. Eventually.
All I need to do is stay alive until then.
“Sleeping beauty is awake,” a smooth voice drawls from afar. “I was beginning to think Dmitri had hit you too hard.”
I jerk my head up to see Cain lounging on an ornate chair across the chamber, watching me with predacious amusement.
The gardenia burns seem to have completely vanished, leaving him unnervingly pristine.
He’s changed into a loosely fitted white shirt the exact hue of his hair, its soft fabric billowing at the sleeves and cinched at the wrists with silver clasps that gleam like relics.
The collar hangs open just enough to offer a glimpse of his sculpted chest—intentional, no doubt—lending him an effortless air of nobility and allure.
His trousers are impeccably fitted, his polished black boots clicking softly against the stone floor with each shift of his posture.
Every detail of his attire speaks of the type of elegance that is centuries out of date, almost archaic.
And every move he makes speaks of a performance, as if he believes himself a god.
Down here in this shadowed sanctum, he probably is.
“Where am I?” My voice comes out in a hoarse rasp, my throat still tender from his grip.
“My humble abode,” Cain gestures grandly to the stone chamber around us. “Well, one of many. Do you like it?”
I do not comment.
“Did you keep your word?” I demand with desperation. “Did Lexa and the others get away safely?”
“Indeed I have,” he says, rising from his seat and approaching me with unhurried steps. “As promised, what survivors remained were released. Whether they survived the journey back is beyond my concern.” His lips curve into a wicked smile. “The unseasoned can be so volatile.”
Relief washes through me, though I’m careful not to show it.
Lexa is resourceful. If anyone could get themselves and the others to safety, it’s her.
“You said you want my daywalking ability,” I recall, pulling at my restraints. The cuffs bite deeper, sending a warning flare of pain up my arms. “That’s impossible. It’s part of my nature; it can’t be transferred. If it could, every vampire would have tried draining me by now.”
He crouches before me, his face uncomfortably close. “As tempting as that sounds, no draining is required.” His eyes gleam with something between hunger and fascination. “Though I’ve heard dhampir blood is extraordinarily delicious. I might just have to try.”
He traces a finger along my jaw, his touch cold and invasive. I jerk my head to the side, disgust curling in my gut. He chuckles, amused by the reaction.
“So full of fire,” he murmurs, his hand still not retreating. He moves it to my throat. There’s no pressure—just a still, possessive touch, a quiet reminder of his strength. “This will be fun.”
“How?” I ask, louder than I intended. “How will you do it?”
He stands, beginning to pace the chamber with theatrical flair, his hands slicing through the air like a performer taking the stage. “With a touch of magic and the sacred connection of a soulbond.” His tone is thick with mockery, clearly finding nothing sacred about it.
I’ve heard of soulbonds before, formed when vampires bear a child together.
Unlike our sterile peers, born vampires—Whiteshades—like my mother can give birth, but only once in their immortal lifetime.
When this happens, a mark appears in the form of a tattoo, inked not by needle but by magic.
Through it, intense emotions may bleed across, instincts sharpen, and vulnerabilities echo.
Because my father was human, he never received a mark, but he told my brother and me that my mother did—she was able to sense all of his strongest feelings, from joy to suffering.
Nothing in his heart was ever hidden from her.
Soulbonds are therefore regarded as a hallowed link within vampire society, even by those who have never experienced one firsthand.
It’s likely also why vampires rarely choose human partners, if at all. Losing your soulmate means you’ll be left all alone, widowed, with no chance of ever forming a new bond again.
Vampires are immortal, everlasting, while all humans inevitably die.
“You’re forgetting something,” I say, shifting to blunt the pressure on my bound wrists. “Bonding requires mutual consent. You can’t just force it.”
A fond memory resurfaces.
“Born vampires, like my mother, choose when to form the bond that allows conception,” I told Max, my head resting on his chest as he gently ran his fingers through my hair. “It’s not automatic like with humans.”
“Natural birth control?” Max joked, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
“I know, right? No accidental pregnancies.”
I had my doubts at first.
Being a dhampir, I wasn’t sure if this vampire phenomenon applied to me. Had I inherited my mother’s control? Or would my human side leave things to chance, messy and unpredictable?
But after our first night together, I felt it. A conscious choice, like a switch I could flip at will. And in that moment, I realized something terrifying and liberating all at once: I have more control over creation than I ever thought possible.
Control that is now threatened to be taken from me.
What was always described as a beautiful, deliberate choice between lovers, Cain is twisting into something grotesque and coerced.
Soulmates are considered spouses for life. The union carries weight beyond the legal bonds humans recognize, tied directly to parturition. If he manages to pull this off, I won’t just be married to him.
I’ll be soulbound to him.
Cain is circling me like a shadow in pursuit of the perfect angle to swallow the light.
“I can’t force you,” he says, voice silked with malice.
“But I can make you choose me anyway. Consent is a malleable thing, Seraph. Given the right incentives.” He tilts his head, watching me with the calm of someone who already knows the outcome.
“Your friends. Your brother. That lovely captain who keeps barking orders like she’s not bleeding under it all. Your mother.”
I go still. The mention of my mother hits like a blade pressed to the center of my chest. My fists clench tight, my wrists straining against the bindings. She’s alive? How long has he been keeping her?
Cain closes the distance between us with excruciatingly slow strides.
He regards me with an impertinent gaze before dropping to a crouch in front of me.
His red eyes lock onto mine, unblinking and merciless.
With one hand, he reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, the touch cold as death.
“How much of your willpower do you think they’ll survive before it starts to break you?” His tone is almost condoling now, coaxing, like he’s offering comfort instead of threat. “You can rest assured, Seraph, that I won’t lay a finger on them unless you make me.”
He slides his hand down from my hair to the side of my neck, his thumb tracing a taunting path just beneath my jaw. “Just know that every moment you refuse me, every breath you take in defiance, brings the consequences closer. One scream at a time. One death at a time.”
His smile is cruel as he leans so close I can feel the chill of his breath on my skin. “You’ll say yes. Not because I force you, but because I’ll leave you no other choice.”
“You’re insane,” I whisper, fighting against rising panic.
“Visionary,” he corrects, wagging a finger at me.
Measured footsteps echo from the corridor. A man whose features are obscured by a hooded cloak emerges, carrying a wooden box inlaid with silver symbols that make my skin crawl just by looking at them.
“Meet Lucien, a practitioner of blood magic from the old country,” Cain says with a flourish, his tone disturbingly casual as if introducing an old friend at dinner.
“He’s been most helpful in deciphering eldritch rituals.
And soon, he’ll be playing traffic controller on our little love connection, securing a one-way ticket to daywalking for yours truly.
” He spreads his arms wide, as if embracing a glorious future.
“Can you imagine it, Seraph? Me, strolling through parks at noon. Kicking back on a beach at dawn. Watching sunsets without crippling. Think of the tan I could get! I might even start a collection of summer hats.”
His flippancy has me fighting the urge to retch.