A few heads inclined, already hanging on his every word and gesture. He knew he had them, and I wondered what, if anything, could possibly stop him now.
“But tell me,” he continued softly, “how many among you were chosen? How many were blessed with that singular devotion the gods so freely exalt, and so sparingly bestow?”
The air changed and emotions shifted. The longing and loss for something greater than their money and power could ever obtain now exposed. Even I was moved by his speech, though for different reasons, as my thoughts landed on Ronan, and how unfair it was that we couldn’t be together. How even a taste ofwhat a true mate bond felt like would have to sustain us until the end of our days.
“For every bonded pair celebrated in song,” Vorthain said, “there are hundreds who wait. Hundreds who build lives with partners they respect, desire, even care for, and yet will always feel the absence of something promised but never delivered.”
His lips curved faintly, and Accalia’s arms crossed her chest, a defensive move meant to look haughty, his speech hitting her directly.
“But why,” he asked gently, “should devotion be a lottery? Why should compatibility, loyalty, and fulfillment be hoarded as divine favor rather than shared as a right? The gods may call this order, but me?”
He scoffed. “I call it inequity. How many alphas marry for alliances? How many omegas accept security in place of certainty? How many betas live their lives convinced they were never meant to be chosen at all?”
My throat tightened as my mind drifted once more to Ronan. Would he be able to marry someone and find some semblance of happiness without me? The thought of him with anyone else made me sick, but so did the idea that he might spend the rest of his life alone and in mourning.
“The gods created a system that elevates a few and leaves the rest to compromise, and then they have the audacity to call it sacred.”
His voice then softened, almost reverent. “We do not seek to destroy mate bonds. We seek to democratize them.”
The room was quiet, the sermon settling into the cracks Vorthain had secretly split in their minds.
“Forgive me but are you seriously telling us you can…createmate bonds?” asked one of the council members. “And no offense, but who exactly are you?”
His fanged grin gave me goosebumps, and I shivered in Victor’s embrace. “I am no one. Just a humble servant, seeking to right the misguided wrongs of the gods and our forebears.”
“He’s our salvation,” Victor sighed, his teeth scraping along the side of my neck. “We’ve lived too long under the yoke of modern sensibilities and pressure to conform. Vampires have always needed more, have always taken what was rightly won through strength, conquest, and superiority.”
He gestured loosely towards Accalia. “Marriage has its uses,” he said, barely disguising the derision in his tone. “Politics, alliances, and what have you. But this?”
His hand pulled at the collar of my dress, then grabbed my hair and tilted my head back, baring my throat to the room. “This is for love. For the power the gods promised us, yet held tantalizingly out of reach.”
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” he asked with a whisper, a question meant only for me.
Before I could answer, his fangs pierced my skin, the bond I had broken with magic strumming back to life in my veins, rebranding me.
A single tear fell down my cheek and I whimpered, falling back against his chest as the room watched, hunger growing in their expressions.
There was no fighting it this time.
I was his.
38
Getting Physical
Ronan
I’d dressed a lot flashier in my youth, a product of the city-state, my friends, and the lifestyle. Patterned silk shirts, gold chains, pleated pants, and rings carved with our family crest and encrusted with precious stones.
Ugh. And my dad had the audacity to equate my car with douchebags when this was what I used to wear?
I still had at least one clean outfit I’d brought with me, my trademark black T-shirt and jeans, and I left it on the bed while throwing the rest in the hamper, heading towards the bathroom.
Seeing all of the products still half-used on the counter got a snort out of me, until I looked up and saw my face in the mirror, barely recognizing myself for a moment.
My hair was starting to get greasy, black strands hanging limply over my forehead and ears. Dark circles had formedunder my yellow eyes, my beard longer than it had ever been. I’d keep it, but it looked messy.
I opened up my drawer, finding the trimmer right where I’d left it ten years ago. But when I clicked it on, the battery was, understandably, dead.
