Page 18 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

“Your family’s magic is old. Perhaps the oldest. That makes it strong.

Unfiltered. Most witches access magic through spells, rituals, tools.

Your lineage can access it directly from the source from which all magic comes from, without that necessity.

You can draw from the elements, from primal instincts and from emotion.

It makes you incredibly valuable, and incredibly dangerous. ”

“Is that why I can’t control it? Why it keeps going off?”

“Partly. Your mother used binding spells to suppress your abilities so the Coven couldn’t find you, and now that those bindings are breaking down, the magic is flowing erratically. Like a river that’s been dammed suddenly breaking free.”

She absorbs this, her face a picture of conflicting emotions. She’s wondering if she should believe a word I say. “And the Coven wants to use me as, what, a magical battery?”

“In essence. The Accord allows them to draw on your power for their rituals, their spells. The stronger you become, the more they can take.”

And take they will. More than just her power.

“That’s fucked up,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I agree simply. “It is.”

“Can it be broken? The contract?” Her voice is quiet now, careful, as if she’s afraid to hope.

I hold her gaze steadily. “Every contract has loopholes. But the Coven has had centuries to close them. People have tried before, Rose. It rarely ends well for them.”

“Does that mean that everyone who has had the mark, everyone who has been bound to the Coven like this, is from my bloodline.”

I wonder who she’s thinking of. But I don’t ask.

“No. The Coven covets your bloodline, but it has made the same deal with other families, other souls in need of protection, over the generations.” There is a very good reason the Crescent Moon Coven is the most powerful of all the witches, of all the supernaturals, they’re the most ruthless.

The compulsion has worn off, but she doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she sits very still, processing everything I’ve told her.

“Is that what happened to you?”

“My family has served the Coven for nearly as long as yours,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended. I rarely speak of this, even to those who already know the history. It feels too personal, too close to the bone. But Rose is watching me, and I find myself wanting to give her this truth.

“What, vampires need protection too?” She leans back in her chair, studying me with newfound interest.

“We weren’t always vampires.” I trace a pattern on the wooden table, following the grain with my fingertip. “My family was nobility once. Human nobility. During the Black Death, when half of Europe was dying, we were desperate for any salvation. The Coven offered it… for a price.”

Rose’s expression shifts, skepticism softening into something closer to curiosity. “They turned you?”

“Not immediately. First, they protected our lands, our people, using magic to keep the plague at bay while neighboring estates were decimated. We survived, thrived even, while others perished. But protection came with conditions. Service. Loyalty. Eventually, immortality, bestowed by a vampire. Not as a gift, but as a means to ensure our family would be useful to them indefinitely.”

“So you’re trapped too,” she says, more statement than question.

I offer a thin smile. “We all serve something, Rose.”

“Don’t get it twisted, Lucien. I don’t serve anyone.”

“Are you sure about that, Rose Smith?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “We aren’t so different, you and I. Both bound by contracts we didn’t sign, serving masters we didn’t choose.”

“You’ve surrendered.”

The accusation stings precisely because it holds truth.

“Have I? Or have I simply learned to pick my battles?” I lean closer, dropping my voice.

“The Coven isn’t monolithic, Rose. There are factions, rivalries, weaknesses.

Knowing when to comply and when to resist, that’s the game that’s kept me alive. ”

“Sounds like a shitty game.”

“Most games are, when you’re playing with power-hungry supernaturals.”

She studies me, head tilted. “Is that why you’re telling me all this? So I’ll learn to play their game too?”

“I’m telling you because most who come here either embrace the system eagerly or break under it. You do neither. Foolish, perhaps, but admirable.”

Her lip twitches in what might almost be a smile. “High praise from the Coven’s lapdog.”

Her refusal to be cowed, even by me—especially by me—is both frustrating and fascinating. Most students tremble in my presence, aware of what I am, what I could do. Rose looks at me as if I’m just another obstacle to overcome.

Without realizing it, we’ve both leaned farther across the table, drawn together by the conspiratorial nature of our conversation.

I notice small details I hadn’t before, the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the tiny scar at the corner of her mouth, the way her pupils are dilated slightly.

She smells of coffee, cinnamon, and life and death. Her heartbeat is fast but steady.

It’s… distracting.

“So what happens now?” she asks. “What am I supposed to do with this information? And why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me the whole story?”

Because you’re perceptive.

But I can’t tell her the truth yet. Can’t tell her that the Coven wants her for more than just her bloodline’s magic. No, the Coven wants far more than that. And if Rose knew, there’s no telling what she’d do. That’s a risk I cannot take.

Not yet.

Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second, then back up. The energy between us shifts, and suddenly I’m thinking of something that has nothing to do with contracts or covens. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this pull, this dangerous gravity.

“What would you do, if you were me?” Her question is barely above a whisper.

Before I can answer, Rose gasps, her back arching as her face contorts in pain, her fingers clawing at the table.

“Oh no,” she chokes out, and then the magic surges.

The ground beneath us trembles. Books rattle on their shelves, then begin to topple, one after another.

I move instinctually, vampire speed launching me around the table just as a massive encyclopedia tears free from the top shelf, hurtling toward her head.

My body collides with hers, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other raised to shield us both as books rain down around us.

I cover her with my body as heavy volumes crash to the floor.

The surge lasts only seconds, but it feels like time stands still. When it finally subsides, we’re surrounded by fallen books, papers scattered like snow across the library floor. Rose is breathing hard, her heart hammering against my chest.

I should move away. I should put distance between us. Instead, I remain, feeling the warmth of her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the faint tremors that run through her as the magic recedes.

“Are you alright?”

She nods.

Neither of us moves.

I find myself inches from Rose’s face, one hand braced on the bookshelf beside her head, the other still around her. I should step back. I don’t.

This is wildly inappropriate. She is assigned to me, a ward of the academy, someone I’m meant to observe and report on.

And yet.

Wickersly’s warnings repeat in my mind. The Coven would view this as a betrayal, a complication, a weakness they could exploit. I’ve survived this long by being useful, reliable, detached. By never allowing myself to want anything they could take away.

Her lips part slightly, an invitation I have no right to accept. My own hunger rises, not just for blood but for connection, for the energy that seems to radiate from her very being.

God help me, I want to kiss her.

My hand slides from her wrist to her palm, our fingers intertwining. Her eyes hold a question in them I’m about to answer.

A shadow slips between the bookshelves, followed by the soft padding of paws, as Galanthis materializes from the stacks, his yellow eyes fixed on us with eerie intelligence. He sits, tail curled neatly around his paws, and stares with the judgment only a cat can have.

I jerk back as if burned, dropping Rose’s hand and putting three feet of distance between us in an instant. Galanthis is no ordinary cat. Whatever he sees, the Coven will know.

My face resumes its careful mask as I straighten my clothing, smooth my hair. “Professor Winn might be able to recommend stabilizing techniques for those surges.” I take a step back.

Rose blinks at the sudden shift, confusion giving way to understanding, then a flash of hurt quickly buried beneath her own protective armor. “Right,” she says flatly. “Wouldn’t want to damage any academy property.”

Galanthis watches us, unblinking, his tail twitching once.

“I have matters to attend to,” I say, already backing away.

“Of course you do.” Her voice is back to its usual sullen tone now, the vulnerability of moments ago lost.

I nod once, lingering a moment too long, my gaze betraying the reluctance my words cannot express. Then I turn and walk away, leaving her among the fallen books, feeling Galanthis’s yellow eyes following me long after I’ve left the library behind.