She sinks down slowly, the silk of her dress pooling around her like spilled ink. Her chin remains tilted up, defiant even in submission. Fucking perfect.
I grip the athame tightly and draw the blade across my palm in one swift motion. The cut is clean, precise, and deep enough to bleed freely but not enough to scar. The pain is nothing. I’ve felt worse during morning workouts. Blood wells up instantly, dark and rich in the candlelight.
Seraphina watches, transfixed, as I dip my finger into my own blood. Her breath hitches when I reach for her, exposing the delicate hollow of her throat. The dress I sent her was designed for this moment—cut low enough to give me easy access to the sacred spot where the mark must be placed.
“With my blood, I claim you,” I recite, tracing the ancient symbol at the base of her throat. My blood is warm against her skin, marking her as mine.
“Blood binds. Blood seals. Blood remembers,” the elders chant.
I watch my blood sink into her skin, disappearing like it’s being absorbed into her very being. The mark glows faintly for a moment. A trick of the candlelight, or something more fucking primal, I’m not sure—before settling into a dark red stain against her pale throat.
“The Sinner has Chosen,” one of the elders announces. “The blood has sealed the bond.”
Beside us, Cassian is completing the same ritual with Valentina, whose face is a perfect mask of cold fury even as she allows him to mark her throat. On our other side, Asher traces the symbol onto Ophelia’s skin with trembling fingers, his usual cockiness replaced by something that looks almost like reverence.
My father steps forward, his masked face turning toward me. “The final step remains,” he says, voice tight with barely controlled rage. “The consummation must be witnessed.”
Seraphina’s eyes widen, her body going rigid against mine. I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “Relax, Little Sinner. Not that kind of consummation.”
The elders form a tighter circle around us as another masked figure approaches with a silver chalice filled with dark red wine. The ceremonial cup is ancient, passed down through generations of Black Crown ceremonies.
I take the chalice, feeling it's cold weight in my hands. The wine inside is almost black in the dim light, thick and rich with tradition.
“With this cup, I seal my claim,” I recite, pushing the mask up and taking a deep drink of the wine. It’s bitter and sweet at once, laced with herbs that warm my blood instantly. I feel the heat of it spreading through my veins, making my head buzz and my cock even harder.
I hold the cup to Seraphina’s lips, my free hand cupping the back of her neck. “Drink,” I command, my voice rough with desire.
Her eyes lock with mine as she parts her lips, allowing me to tip the chalice. The wine stains her mouth blood-red as she swallows, a single drop escaping to trail down her chin. I catch it with my thumb, pushing it back between her lips. She sucks instinctively, her tongue warm against my skin, and I nearly groan aloud.
“The bond is sealed,” the elders chant. “What is Chosen cannot be unchosen. What is marked cannot be unmarked.”
And just like that Seraphina Carvelli is irrevocably tied to me.
Never to leave again.
Never to belong to anyone else.
Just my obsession with my sister burning hot and deep in my gut.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 10
Seraphina
My throat still burns from the wine as I storm through the Devereux mansion, my heels clicking against the marble. Every person I pass either stares openly or quickly averts their eyes—the mark on my neck might as well be a brand. In a way, it is.
“Get out of my way,” I snarl at some random Society bitch who doesn’t move fast enough. She scurries aside like I’ve threatened to stab her.
Maybe I should. Maybe I should have grabbed one of the daggers and just start slashing my way through this nightmare. Starting with Lucien’s fucking throat.
My brother’s throat. Jesus Christ.
The nausea hits me again, a wave so strong I have to pause and brace myself against the wall. My fingers leave smudges on the pristine cream wallpaper, and I take a sick pleasure in that tiny act of defiance. Let them clean up after me. Let them remember I was here.
I need to get out of this house before I completely lose my shit. The ceremony ended twenty minutes ago, and the guests are still milling about downstairs, drinking champagne and pretending they didn’t just witness some archaic blood ritualthat binds me to my own goddamn half-brother. The thought makes my stomach heave again.
I push away from the wall and continue down the hallway, following the twists and turns I remember that will lead me back to the entryway. When I was younger, I thought the Devereux mansion was just a big fancy house, not the fucking lair of the devil himself.
