I laugh, both aroused and impressed by her promise. "Now that was almost romantic. Should I be flattered that you're already planning such an intimate death for me? Most wives just fantasize about pushing their husbands down stairs."
By morning, she may still hate me. She will certainly still plot my demise. But she will do so as mine—bound by blood, by magic, by the fated mate bond that ties our souls together, and by the knowledge that her body has betrayed her even as her mind rebels.
And for now, that's victory enough. Tomorrow, I'll begin discovering exactly what other secrets she's hiding beneath that diplomat's daughter facade. The hunt for her true self has only just begun, and I find myself looking forward to it with an eagerness I haven't felt in centuries.
Seraphina of House Lumina—my enemy, my mate, my obsession.
CHAPTER 10
THE BOND
SERAPHINA
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows. For one disoriented moment, I forget where I am. Then the weight of a foreign arm across my waist jolts me back to reality.
Malakai. My husband. My mate. My enemy.
His breathing is deep and even, his face peaceful in sleep. I ease away from his touch, careful not to wake him. My body protests with every movement, muscles aching in places I didn't know could ache. Between my thighs, I'm sore in a way that reminds me exactly what happened—the claiming, the knotting, the way my body betrayed me over and over.
I slide from the massive bed, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. The bathroom chamber is lavishly decadent, all black marble and silver accents, shadows dancing in corners even the morning light can't reach. I find my reflection in a polished mirror and barely recognize myself. My neck is mottled with bruises, evidence of his possession. My scent gland throbs with phantom pain where his fangs hovered but never pierced. My eyes look haunted, older somehow.
What disturbs me most is the lingering echo of something I refuse to name—a twisted, traitorous part of me that wasn't entirely repulsed by what happened. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
The soft clearing of a throat startles me, and I grab for a weapon that isn't there.
Three women stand in the doorway, servants, their eyes carefully averted. The oldest steps forward, a bundle of clothing in her arms. I glance past her to the empty bed behind them, Malakai is nowhere to be seen.
"My lady," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've come to help you prepare for the day."
I wrap my arms around myself, hating the vulnerability of my nakedness. "I don't need help."
The woman, perhaps in her fifties with iron-gray hair and eyes that have seen too much, bows slightly. "Lord Malakai has instructed that you are to be attended at all times."
Of course, he has. Another way to control me, to deny me even momentary solitude.
"Where is he?" I ask, nodding toward the empty bed.
"Lord Malakai left early, my lady. He mentioned court matters that required his immediate attention."
I should feel relief at his absence, but instead, a strange unease settles in my chest.
"We can help you wash."
I consider refusing, but the prospect of hot water is too tempting. I nod and turn to the tub of black marble that the other servants have started to fill with steaming water.
The servants move without speaking a word and once the tub is filled they help me into the bath. Their hands are gentle as they wash my hair, as they scrub my skin with soft cloths and fragrant soap. Not once do they comment on the bruises that mark my body, or the scratches from Malakai's shadows, or the telltale soreness of an Omega who's been thoroughly claimed and knotted. They've seen such things before, I assume.
When I scrub my own skin too hard, the oldest servant gently takes the cloth from my hand. "You're hurting yourself, my lady."
"What's your name?" I ask, needing something to focus on.
"Lisa, my lady. I served Lady Morgana before you."
"Malakai's grandmother." The woman whose wedding dress I wore yesterday.
Lisa nods. "The last true Shadow Lady. There's been no proper mistress of the household since her passing."
"I am not your mistress," I say coldly. "I am a prisoner."
