Blood Oath

Reyna’s POV

Darkness.

Thick and suffocating.

I woke up with my head pounding like a drum inside my skull. My throat was dry, my limbs heavy, like I had been asleep for centuries. The air smelled different—damp stone, something metallic, something... rich, like the air before a storm.

My fingers twitched against silk. Soft. Cold. Wrong.

Where was I?

I tried to sit up, but something heavy weighed on my wrists. A whisper of fabric against my skin. Ribbons. Tight enough to hold me but not hurt. Restraints, but almost... delicate.

Panic squeezed my chest.

"Hello?" My voice came out small, scratchy.

No answer.

Then—a sound.

Not footsteps. Not breathing. Just... movement. Like air shifting. Like a shadow stretching.

Someone was here. Watching.

A chill scraped down my spine. I swallowed hard and turned my head—and froze.

He was there.

Not in front of me. Not close enough to touch. But leaning, relaxed, in the corner of the room, just beyond the candlelight.

Tall. Still. Unreadable.

The flickering light didn’t quite reach his face, but I could see the sharp angles—a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked too cruel to ever smile. His skin was pale, almost glowing against the darkness. His hair was black as ink, longer than I expected, messy but in a way that looked intentional.

And his eyes—

Red.

Not normal red. Not human red. Deep, endless, blood-wine red.

A color that belonged to nightmares.

Eyes that were strangely familiar

I sucked in a shaky breath, pressing back against the pillows.

Who was he? Where was I?

He tilted his head slightly, watching. Studying. Like a predator does before it decides if something is worth chasing.

And then he spoke.

"You shouldn't be awake yet."

His voice was low, slow, almost amused. Like silk over steel.

I shivered.

Something in his tone curled around my spine, made my pulse race too fast. My skin prickled with heat, but my bones felt cold.

"Where am I?" My voice wobbled.

He didn't answer right away. Just moved.

A shift of shadow. A flicker of motion so smooth it was almost inhuman.

And then he stepped into the light.

I forgot how to breathe.

His clothes were dark, elegant—a high-collared coat, embroidered with strange silver patterns that shimmered when he moved. The buttons gleamed like polished obsidian. Beneath it, a black vest hugged his torso, the fabric stretched over broad shoulders and a lean, powerful frame.

Too perfect. Too sharp. Too… unnatural.

I knew. I didn’t know how, but I knew.

He wasn’t human.

"Who are you?" My voice came out quieter this time.

He finally smiled—but it wasn't friendly. It was sharp. Cold.

"Draven Nightbourne."

The name slithered through the air like it belonged in an old storybook.

I swallowed. "Why am I here?"

Something shifted beneath me.

I wasn't on a cold floor. Not chained to a wall. I was on a mattress—large, soft, but unfamiliar. The scent of something expensive clung to the silk sheets beneath me. It smelled of old parchment, the woods after a storm, and something deeper, darker—him. The ribbons on my wrists weren’t tied to anything. They just… hung there. As if they weren’t meant to hold me, just to remind me that I was trapped all the same.

His gaze flicked to my wrist.

And before I could react—he moved.

Too fast. One second he was feet away, the next—he was right beside me.

The mattress dipped. His scent hit me first. Like smoke and cedarwood, something deep and old. Like forests in the dead of winter.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

And then—pain.

Sharp. Sudden.

I gasped, jerking, but his hand caught mine—strong, cold, unyielding. His fingers barely pressed into my skin, but they felt like chains.

I looked down—blood.

A thin line of red bloomed across my wrist where his nail had sliced me.

"What are you doing?!" My voice was high, breathless.

But he wasn’t looking at me. He was watching my blood.

And then—it happened.

The glow.

It started as a pulse beneath my skin.

Then the veins in my wrist lit up—gold and silver, twisting like vines, forming strange symbols that flickered and pulsed as if alive.

I screamed.

Not from pain. From fear.

From knowing—something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Draven exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

Like he'd just won something.

His grip on my wrist tightened. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure I couldn’t pull away.

And then he said it.

"The bond has begun."

I stared at him, heart slamming against my ribs. The what?!

His thumb brushed over the cut, smearing the blood, but his focus wasn’t on the wound—it was on the way my veins pulsed with light, twisting and shifting like something alive beneath my skin. My breath hitched, panic pressing tight against my ribs. What was happening to me? My body wasn’t my own. My blood—my very being—was reacting to him, as if it recognized something I didn’t. I tried to yank my wrist away, but his grip held firm, not painful, just... unyielding. Possessive. His gaze flicked up to mine, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable—until suddenly, something shifted. Hunger. Satisfaction. A quiet, knowing victory. My stomach twisted. What had I just walked into?

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering against the grip of his fingers. “What did you do to me?” My voice was barely a whisper, but it cracked under the weight of fear. His expression didn’t change—calm, unreadable, like he had been expecting this. Expecting me. The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his sharp jaw, the glint of his fangs just barely visible behind parted lips. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted my wrist closer, eyes tracing the golden patterns crawling beneath my skin, like ink bleeding through parchment. And then, in that same slow, deliberate voice, he murmured, “I didn’t do anything, little one. This was always inside you.”

His eyes glowed brighter, darker, deeper.

"Your soul is already mine."