THE ASSASSIN'S VOW
Seraphina
The Shadow Court guards escort me through corridors of polished black stone, their armor absorbing what little light filters through the narrow windows. I keep my chin high, my steps measured, my face a perfect mask of dignified resignation. Years of training have prepared me for this—appearing composed while plotting murder.
The suppressants I took this morning burn in my stomach like acid. Nine years of daily pills to hide my Omega nature, and now they're failing at the worst possible time. I can feel my body betraying me—the way my skin prickles with awareness whenever Malakai's Alpha scent lingers in a corridor we pass, the way my instincts urge me to bare my throat in submission even though every rational thought screams resistance.
My Omega biology recognizes him as a mate. My mind recognizes him as a target.
The contradiction is going to drive me insane.
When we reach my assigned chambers, a guard opens the ornate black door with a bow that might almost seem respectful if not for the smirk playing at his lips.
"Your accommodations, Lady Seraphina," he says. His Beta scent carries notes of contempt poorly masked by false courtesy. "Lord Malakai hopes you'll find them... comfortable."
I sweep past him without acknowledgment, entering a room that is surprisingly luxurious—all midnight blues, deep purples, and silver accents. A four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped with velvet so dark it seems to swallow light. Elaborate tapestries depicting Shadow Court victories hang on the walls. A not-so-subtle reminder of whose territory I'm in.
The door closes behind me with a heavy thud—the lock clicks.
Only then do I let my mask slip. I raise both my hands to see them tremble. My heart hammers against my chest and the room spins, growing smaller, the design seeming to suck the air from my lungs with its darkness and deadly beauty. The scent of Malakai clings to everything here—that intoxicating blend of dark cedar, winter smoke, and something ancient and dangerous that makes my Omega instincts purr even as my conscious mind recoils.
My skin is too hot. Too tight. I press a hand to my neck, feeling my pulse race beneath my fingers. The suppressants are already breaking down. I can feel them churning in my stomach as my body finally starts rejecting nine years of chemical manipulation.
Omega heat doesn't come gently when you've suppressed it this long. It comes like a tidal wave, drowning you.
I have maybe three days before the first symptoms hit in earnest—the fever, the slick, the desperate ache low in my belly. A week at most before my body forces a full heat cycle, longer and more agonizing than any natural heat because of the suppressant buildup in my system.
And when that happens, with an Alpha nearby, with my mate nearby, with the biological imperative of the mate bond pulling at my very cells—I'll lose all control. I'll beg for his knot. I'll present for him like every Omega instinct I've suppressed is screaming for me to do right now.
I twist my mother's ring—three turns clockwise, three counterclockwise. Breathing. Just breathing.
I can do this. I've endured worse. I've killed people while bleeding out from a gut wound. I can survive my own biology trying to force me into submission.
Three days. Maybe less.
The clock is already ticking.
I need to react and not think.
I grab a delicate silver-painted vase from a nearby table and hurl it against the wall. It shatters satisfyingly, water and night-blooming flowers scattering across the floor. My chest heaves as the water touches the tip of my shoes.
I'm shaking with fury, the rage I've been suppressing since Malakai's throne room finally boiling over. The audacity of him—treating my brother's life like a bargaining chip, looking at me like I'm already his possession, making those vulgar insinuations in front of an entire court. And worst of all, knowing. Somehow that bastard Alpha knows what I am, sees through nine years of careful suppression, senses the Omega I've hidden since I was fifteen.
I pace the room, cataloging exits and potential weapons by instinct, a habit ingrained through years of training that few at court would ever suspect. One door, locked. Three windows, narrow but perhaps wide enough to squeeze through if necessary. A forty-foot drop to the courtyard below—survivable with proper technique. The furniture is mostly too ornate to be practical, but there's a letter opener on the writing desk that could serve as a weapon. A bathing chamber connects through a door on the eastern wall.
From my sleeve, I withdraw one of my hidden daggers—a slim blade balanced for throwing. The weight of it in my palm is comforting, grounding me in what I know how to do. Kill. The weight of it reminds me I'm not helpless, not just some Omega to be claimed and mounted. I flick my wrist, sending it spinning across the room to embed itself in the center of a tapestry depicting a Shadow Court lord standing triumphantly over a fallen Light Court warrior.
A perfect hit. The blade pierces directly through the victorious lord's eye.
I retrieve the blade and return it to my sleeve, then catalog the room properly this time—not with the panicked assessment of a trapped woman, but with the cold precision of what I actually am.
Three guards outside. I counted their footsteps during the escort, and heard the shift change at sunset. The window locks are ornamental, designed to keep people from looking in, not to prevent someone trained from getting out. The stones outside form a climbing path to the rooftop gardens. From there, the eastern wall. Past that, the servants' quarters where no one questions an extra shadow moving in the pre-dawn darkness.
Three potential approaches present themselves: poison during the wedding feast when his guard is down and he's performing for the courts. Blade during the claiming when he's physically vulnerable and distracted by rut. Or—the cleanest option—a staged accident after the bond settles and he believes me tamed, when weeks or months have passed and I've identified his patterns, his weaknesses, his blind spots.
The third approach is the one Asher taught me. The patience that separates assassins from murderers. Anyone can stab someone in a rage. It takes skill to wait months, building trust, learning routines, until you can make death look like tragedy rather than murder.
I am a weapon. I am the Silent Blade. And Malakai has no idea what he's actually claimed.
