The Dangerous Pull

The castle’s corridors stretched endlessly, bathed in the soft glow of torchlight. Shadows danced across the cold stone walls, whispering secrets long forgotten. Azrael moved with quiet poise, her steps measured, her mind far less so. The events of the past night still clung to her thoughts like a persistent specter.

Beside her, Eva strolled in effortless elegance. She was a vision of contrast against the darkened halls—draped in white, as she always was. Platinum blonde hair cascaded down her back, moving with an unnatural grace, shimmering faintly as though kissed by moonlight. It was more than hair. It was something living, something attuned to her very essence.

When she was calm, it flowed like a river of silk. But when stirred, it moved—lifting, shifting as though charged with unseen power. And now, as Azrael spoke, it quivered ever so slightly.

"A hesitation?" Eva repeated, icy blue eyes sharp with intrigue. "From a Lycan?"

Azrael exhaled, displeased at the memory. "Do you think I'm making things up?"

"Not at all," Eva mused. "I'm just merely… unsettled. Lycans aren't known for second-guessing their kills, least of all an Alpha." Her gaze flickered with thought. "Unless he was toying with you?"

Azrael’s expression darkened. "He wasn't."

Eva inclined her head, considering. "Then what?"

Azrael had no answer. The question had gnawed at her the entire ride back, and still, it remained unanswered.

Before she could dwell further, a familiar voice disrupted the air.

"Now, this is a rare sight."

Azrael did not have to turn to recognize it. Raphael.

He stood a few paces ahead, dressed in his usual dark attire, his snow-white hair falling just past his shoulders. He wore his smirk like a second skin, leaning against a pillar with an easy arrogance. His golden gaze, however, was not on Azrael. It was fixed entirely on Eva.

A slow smirk curled his lips. “My two favorite women.”

Eva sighed. “And yet, the feeling is never mutual.”

Azrael smirked but didn’t bother hiding her annoyance. “What do you want, Raphael?”

He ignored her, his attention locked onto Eva. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I do that with things that irritate me,” Eva said flatly.

Raphael ignored the harsh comment and proceeded to complement her.

"You grow lovelier by the day, my dear," he murmured, pushing off the pillar and closing the space between them. "Tell me, does that beauty remain untouched, or shall I be the first to—"

Eva’s hair stirred. Not gently. Not subtly. The ends lifted, rippling as though caught in an invisible breeze.

"Finish that sentence," she said, her voice calm yet cold, "and you will find my response most unpleasant."

Raphael chuckled. "So fiery beneath all that ice." He tilted his head, unfazed. "You refuse me now, but when I am king—"

Eva’s hair crackled. It rose around her shoulders, the air charged with unseen energy. "Is that a threat?"

Raphael raised his hands in mock surrender. "Calm yourself, little storm. I mean no harm."

Azrael had endured enough so she stepped in between them. “Should your appetite require satisfaction, brother," she drawled, “Go entertain one of the whores that never hesitate to spread their legs for you.”

Raphael feigned hurt, pressing a hand dramatically over his chest. “Sister, your words wound me.” Then, with a low chuckle, he straightened and winked at Eva before strolling past them.

Eva exhaled sharply. “He’s unbearable.”

Azrael hummed. “You get used to it.”

“I’d rather not.”

Azrael didn’t blame her.

—

The weight of the bond was suffocating.

Draven paced within the great hall, every inch of him coiled with frustration. He could feel it, this invisible chain, tightening with each passing hour. His thoughts had never been his own, not since that night. Not since her.

He had battled many vampires. Killed them without hesitation. And yet, when he had her beneath him—when he should have delivered the finishing blow—he had stopped.

It made no sense.

It was unnatural.

He sat at the long wooden table in the war room, trying—and failing—to focus. The voices around him blurred, their words slipping through his grasp like water.

Reports. Patrols. Borders. Defense strategies.

None of it mattered.

Not when her scent still clung to the back of his mind like a ghost.

A vampire. His mate was a damned vampire.

The thought made his skin crawl, made his muscles tense with frustration he couldn’t unleash. He had been trying to ignore it, to resist the unbearable pull clawing at his chest. But the more he fought it, the worse it became.

And people were noticing.

His second-in-command, Cyrus, stood beside him, arms crossed, his sharp green eyes studying him. He had kept silent during the meeting, but Draven knew that wouldn’t last long.

When the meeting finally ended, Draven strode toward his chambers, his breaths shallow. The tension in his body was unbearable, every nerve fraying under the weight of something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

By the time he reached his quarters, the pressure was too much.

A snarl tore from his throat as he lost control. The shift came violently, bones breaking and reshaping as thick fur spread across his skin. The beast within him roared, and he let it take over, let it rage. Clawed hands tore through furniture, shattered glass rained to the floor, and the heavy wooden table splintered under his strength.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

His mind was filled with her. The way she had fought, the scent of her blood, the way something deep inside him screamed to claim what was his.

The doors swung open.

Cyrus stepped inside—and immediately froze.

The room was a disaster. Shattered furniture, torn fabric, the scent of destruction thick in the air. And in the center of it all, Draven stood in full Lycan form, his massive frame heaving with deep, ragged breaths, brown eyes burning.

Cyrus didn’t react with fear—he never did. Instead, he slowly stepped forward, his voice calm. “Draven.”

The Lycan growled, his claws flexing, but he didn’t attack.

“Draven, you need to get a hold of yourself,” Cyrus said firmly.

Draven’s breathing was harsh, uneven, but he forced himself to focus. Forced the beast back. Slowly, painfully, his body began to shift, muscles shrinking, fur retracting. His bones realigned with agonizing precision, and finally, he stood there, human once more.

But he wasn’t calm.

He was wrecked.

Cyrus exhaled, glancing around at the destruction. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Draven ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. “I feel like I’m losing my damn mind.”

Cyrus watched him carefully. “Explain.”

Draven hesitated. Then, with a slow, exhale, he muttered, “Ever since I caught her scent, I’ve been trying to resist. I've been trying so hard but the more I fight it, the stronger it gets. It's driving me crazy.”

Cyrus frowned. “What are you talking about?"

Draven turned, meeting his Beta’s eyes with a grave look.

“I found my mate.”

Cyrus blinked. Then, after a beat, a slow grin spread across his face. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Draven didn’t answer.

Cyrus chuckled, shaking his head. “And you are meant to be miserable about it?" He shook his head, bemused. "Isn't this a blessing?”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken weight.

And when Draven finally spoke, his next words caused Cyrus to freeze and his smile faded.

“My mate is a vampire.”