BONDED TO THE VAMPIRE PRINCE

The mirror reflected a girl who looked like she belonged in a painting—not a living, breathing one.

Wren pressed her palms flat against the vanity, studying her own face. Calm. Composed. The perfect porcelain mask her stepmother had polished over the years.

Her amber eyes were the only thing that betrayed her. Restless tonight. Almost defiant.

Two days.

In two days, she would become the wife of a prince she'd never met.

In two days, her life would no longer belong to her.

Behind her, the door swung open without a knock.

"Still staring at yourself?" Lady Mira's voice dripped like honey over vinegar. "One would think you're already practicing your queenly waves. The wedding is in two days, Sera. Not two years."

Wren didn't flinch. She'd learned long ago that reaction was fuel.

"I was simply resting, Stepmother."

"Resting." Mira circled her like a hawk sizing up a mouse. Her silk robe whispered against the floor. "How domestic. How perfectly ordinary. I suppose that's why the late king chose you for his nephew. Not for beauty—clearly—but for your manageability."

A sharp pinch of satisfaction twisted in Sera's chest, but she kept her smile small.

Manageable.

If only they knew.

Mira stopped behind her, placing a cold hand on Sera's shoulder. Their reflections stood side by side—Mira, still striking at forty-five, all sharp angles and sharper ambition; Wren, softer, but with something restless flickering behind her amber eyes.

"Your stepsister is devastated, you know," Mira cooed. "She always dreamed of a northern prince. And now you—plain, obedient you—get the crown. The kingdom. The title." A pause. "The lonely bed."

Wren jaw tightened imperceptibly.

She knew the prince of the Northwestern Kingdom didn't love her. She'd never even met him. The marriage was a treaty signed in ink and sealed with her name—a transaction between dead kings and living obligations.

He probably had mistresses. Or a cold heart. Or both.

But what Mira didn't know—what no one knew—was that Wren didn't want a prince.

She wanted fire.

She wanted a day where she wasn't good. Wasn't responsible. Wasn't the girl who curtsied on time and bit her tongue until it bled.

And two days before she traded her freedom for a crown, that wild, reckless part of her was screaming louder than ever.

The door creaked again.

Lydia—her stepsister—slid in like a shadow, eyes glittering with something toxic. She wore a gown two shades too pale, as if she'd dressed for a funeral.

"Mother," Lydia said, not looking at Wren, "the seamstress arrived. She wants to know if the bride's gown should be adjusted—or if we're letting her walk down the aisle looking like that." She flicked a manicured nail toward Wren reflection.

Mira laughed—a brittle, musical sound. "Oh, let her be, darling. The prince won't notice. He'll be too busy counting the minutes until he can return to his mistresses."

Lydia circled to Wren other side, flanking her like a vulture. "I heard he has three mistresses. One in every northern province. Can you imagine? Sharing your husband with three other women?"

Wren kept her expression blank. "I imagine he'll be too busy ruling a kingdom to entertain all of them."

"Oh, sweet sister." Lydia's voice dripped with false sympathy. "You really are naive, aren't you? Men like Prince Adrian don't rule. They play. And you'll be the dull little wife waiting at home while he's out having fun."

"Is that what you wanted?" Wren asked quietly. "To be the dull little wife?"

Lydia's smile faltered.

"I wanted a prince who would actually want me," she snapped. "Not one who chooses a bride because two dead kings signed a treaty."

The words came out sharper than she intended.

Wren expression softened for half a second.

Then Lydia added bitterly, "But I suppose you wouldn't understand what it's like to be wanted. You've never been anything but convenient."

---

Mira stepped between them, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Lydia, darling, don't be so cruel. Wren is about to become a princess. She'll have servants to keep her company."

"Servants and mistresses," Lydia corrected, her smile returning. "Don't forget the mistresses."

"How could I?" Wren murmured. "You mention them every five minutes."

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "I'm only preparing you for reality. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?"

"Yes." Lydia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Grateful that I'm not the one marrying him. Because if I were—" She paused, letting the implication hang.

Wren tilted her head. "If you were what?"

"If I were marrying Prince Adrian, I would make him love me."

Mira laughed. "Oh, darling. You can't make a man love you."

"I could," Lydia insisted, her voice rising. "I'm beautiful. I'm charming. I know how to please a man. Unlike her." She jabbed a finger toward Wren. "She's been trained to be obedient, not desirable. The prince will take one look at her and run back north."

Mira patted her daughter's arm. "Now, now. There's no need to be cruel."

But she didn't correct her.

She never did.

Wren watched them both. The perfect duo. United in their cruelty.

And for a moment, she felt the familiar weight of their words pressing down on her chest.

Plain. Obedient. Forgettable.

She'd heard those words so many times they'd become a lullaby. A chant. A curse she couldn't break.

But tonight—for some reason—they didn't land.

Tonight, something different stirred inside her.

Maybe it was the wine she'd sneaked before dinner.

Maybe it was the way the moonlight fell across her vanity.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the voice inside her head that had been whispering louder and louder each day:

You don't have to be good.

You don't have to be quiet.

You don't have to be theirs.

---

Mira's hand found Wren's shoulder again—cold, possessive, sharp-nailed.

"We're all doing you a favor, dear." Her voice was syrup and arsenic. "A queen who expects love? How quaint. How childish. The sooner you accept that your marriage is a transaction, the happier you'll be."

Wren looked at her reflection.

The perfect princess stared back.

Then slowly—very slowly—she smiled.

Not her practiced smile.

Not her obedient smile.

Something sharper. Something that flickered like a match in the dark.

"You're right, Stepmother," she said, her voice velvet over steel. "I don't expect love."

She stepped past them, pausing at the door.

"But I also don't expect to be forgotten."

---

Lydia scoffed. "Who could possibly remember you? You've spent your entire life being invisible."

Wren turned back.

Her amber eyes burned.

"Perhaps," she said softly. "But I've been thinking about that. I've been thinking about it for a very long time."

"What are you talking about?" Lydia demanded.

Wren smiled—slow, dangerous, wild.

"Two days," she said. "In two days, I become someone's wife. Someone's property. Someone's thing."

She stepped closer to Lydia, close enough to see the fear flicker behind her stepsister's eyes.

"But tonight—and tomorrow night—I'm still mine."

Lydia's mouth opened, but no words came.

Mira's eyes narrowed. "What are you planning?"

Wren laughed—a low, reckless sound that seemed to surprise even her.

"Nothing, Stepmother. I'm just reminding myself that a cage is only a cage if you never test the bars."

She walked out before either woman could answer.

Her heart pounded as she strode down the corridor.

What are you doing?

What are you thinking?

You can't—

She stopped in front of her chamber door.

Her hand trembled on the handle.

Then she thought of Mira's cold smile.

Lydia's cruel words.

The prince she'd never met.

The lonely bed waiting for her.

And something inside her—something she'd buried for years—cracked open.

If the prince won't love me—

Then I'll find someone who will.

She pushed open the door.

Even if I have to burn this kingdom down to find him.

---

The chamber was dark.

But Wren didn't light a candle.

She walked to her wardrobe, threw it open, and pulled out a dark cloak she'd hidden months ago.

Then she reached beneath her mattress and found the pouch she'd been filling with gold coins—one by one, month by month, year by year.

A fortune.

Enough to buy an estate.

Or one wild night.