My Mate Tried to Steal My Blood for His Throne

The guards unlocked Greyson's chains with trembling hands, their eyes darting between us as if witnessing a suicide mission. The heavy metal clattered to the floor, and they scrambled out of the bonding chamber, slamming the door behind them.

"Run," Greyson growled, his voice muffled behind the muzzle. "They've sent you to die."

I watched as he struggled against the madness consuming him. His body contorted, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he fought the curse. The red haze in his eyes pulsed with each labored breath.

"They want you to tear me apart," I said quietly, stepping closer. "That's what they expect."

"Get out!" he roared, throwing his head back as another wave of the curse hit him. "I can't control it!"

Something stirred within me—a power I'd forgotten I possessed. The Sorceress's essence, dormant but awakening.

"I don't need to run," I whispered, reaching for the dagger hidden in my garter.

Greyson's eyes widened as I sliced my palm, blood welling up—not the crimson of ordinary blood, but a shimmering blue that seemed to contain starlight.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, his voice suddenly clear as he recognized the danger.

Before he could stop me, I pressed my bleeding palm against his feverish forehead. The contact sent a jolt through us both.

"By blood and bond," I murmured, "I claim you as mine."

The effect was instantaneous. Blue light erupted between us, a shockwave blasting through the chamber with such force that the walls trembled. Greyson fell to his knees, screaming as black, tar-like sludge erupted from his pores—the physical manifestation of the Lycan toxicity being purged.

I stood my ground, channeling the power flowing through me, watching as the divine solvent of my blood cleansed the poison from his veins.

When it was over, Greyson collapsed, breathing heavily. The red haze in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a clear, brilliant silver that reflected the chamber's dim light.

"Impossible," he whispered, staring up at me. "No one has ever... you're not just a spirit..."

"No," I agreed, helping him to his feet. "I'm something much more."

---

Greyson's estate stood like a fortress on the outskirts of the city—dilapidated but defiant, much like its owner. The journey there had been silent, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

"This is it," he said finally, pushing open the creaking front door. "Not what you're used to, I imagine."

I stepped inside, noting the dust-covered furniture and the faded grandeur of what had once been a proud home. "It's honest," I replied. "More than I can say for most places in our world."

He watched me warily as I moved through the rooms, expecting disgust or fear. Instead, I found myself drawn to the library—shelves upon shelves of books, many ancient and rare.

"Tea," I said suddenly, turning to face him. "Do you have any?"

Confusion flickered across his face before he nodded. "In the kitchen. I'll make it."

As he left, I began organizing the books, arranging them by subject rather than the random chaos they'd been in. The simple task calmed me, reminding me that order could be created from disorder.

"He wants me dead," I said when Greyson returned with two cups of steaming tea. "Weston. He always has."

Greyson's eyes darkened. "I know." He set the cups down carefully. "I should be the one protecting you, not the other way around."

"Perhaps we can protect each other," I suggested, taking a sip of the tea.

His gaze dropped to my throat as my fingers absently rubbed the skin there—a habit born from memories of having my essence drained.

"Don't," he said softly, reaching out to gently move my hand away. "No one will hurt you like that again."

Something in his touch made me still. There was no pity in his eyes, only a promise—and something else I couldn't quite name.

---

In the Royal Palace, Weston paced before the forge, his face twisted with frustration.

"Again!" he commanded, thrusting another piece of starmetal ore into the flames.

Estella stood beside him, her phoenix pendant glowing as she poured her fire into the metal. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she concentrated.

"It's not working," she gasped, her flames flickering weakly. "The metal won't take the bonding."

"Ridiculous!" Weston snarled, kicking over a bucket of water. "It worked before!"

The smiths cowered in the corner, afraid to speak. One brave soul stepped forward. "Your Highness, perhaps the metal needs something more..."

"What?" Weston demanded.

"Sierra Adams," Estella whispered, her eyes lighting with malicious intent. "Her blood sealed the bond last time."

Weston's expression darkened as he considered this. "We can't have her soul," he muttered, "but her blood..."

"You're suggesting we take it by force?" Estella asked, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

"Why not?" Weston replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "After all, what use is a tool if it can't be used?"

As they plotted in the failing light of the forge, neither noticed the shadow that slipped away from the door—a witness to their conspiracy who would carry news of their plans to those who needed to know.