The Council chamber smelled like damp stone and old parchment—a scent Taryn had grown to despise over the years. The air was heavy with tension, making her skin prickle. She stood stiffly in front of the council's long oak table, hands clasped behind her back to hide how hard they were clenched.
She hated this. Hated being summoned, hated being told what to do. But refusing the Council wasn't an option. Not if she wanted to stay in one piece.
One of the councilmen, an older man with deep-set eyes and a voice as cold as a winter river, leaned forward. "Taryn, you've been chosen for this task based on your… effectiveness."
Effectiveness. Taryn bit back a scoff.
That was what they always called it—like she was a tool, not a person. They never mentioned the blood on her hands, or how she was the one left behind to patch herself up when things went wrong. No, to the Council, it was always effectiveness—so long as the job got done, what did it matter who got broken along the way?
She'd learned early not to expect gratitude from them. They gave orders, she followed, and when it was over, they'd drag her right back for the next impossible task.
One day they'd send her on a mission she wouldn't walk away from, and they'd barely blink. Because people like her were replaceable. Expendable.
And if she died out there, they'd probably spin some story about her sacrifice to keep the peace. Saints, all of them—at least in their own eyes.
"We need someone with your particular skills. Someone who can move unseen, follow a trail through hostile terrain, and—if necessary—neutralize the threat."
"What's the job?" Taryn's voice was clinical, but underneath, unease stirred. They were talking around the real problem. They always did.
Another council member, a woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, cleared her throat. "The creature you're tracking isn't a simple beast. It has killed humans and vampires alike, disrupting both territories. If it isn't stopped, the ceasefire between our species could shatter."
There it was.
The real reason.
This wasn't just about hunting down a creature. It was about keeping the fragile peace intact—and if Taryn failed, she'd take the blame.
This was how they worked. They liked to dress it up—talk about peace and duty like they weren't just pulling strings to keep everyone dancing the way they wanted. The Council didn't care about peace; they cared about control.
Every mission was the same: they handed her a knife and pushed her toward whatever disaster was closest to tearing things apart. Then they'd sit safely behind their walls while she bled for their agenda. If the mission failed? She'd be the scapegoat. If it succeeded? They'd take the credit and pretend it was all part of their brilliant plan.
That was the thing about the Council—they were good at making you believe you had a choice right up until the moment you realized you didn't.
"Details," she said flatly. "What kind of creature are we dealing with? A feral vampire? A shapeshifter? Something worse?"
"We don't know." The older man's frown deepened. "We've seen traces—bloody bodies, strange marks carved into trees—but nothing solid. The monster is elusive, fast, and dangerous. It kills indiscriminately."
Taryn crossed her arms over her chest, her unease sharpening into suspicion. "And you're just now sending someone after it?"
The iron-haired woman's jaw tightened, but she ignored the comment. "This creature isn't something you can handle alone. Which is why…" She trailed off, exchanging a glance with her fellow council members.
Taryn didn't like that look. Not one bit. She braced herself.
"…we've assigned you a partner," the woman finished.
Taryn's stomach dropped. Of course there was a catch. Before she could press further, another voice spoke from the shadowed corner of the room, low and smooth as silk.
"She's already sizing me up. I like her."
Taryn stiffened, turning sharply toward the sound. Out of the shadows stepped a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and far too comfortable in the Council chamber for her liking. His long black coat shifted with his movements, dark hair framing a face that was both sharp and unsettlingly perfect. His eyes gleamed with amusement, like he'd already figured her out, and the curve of his mouth was a smile just waiting to become a smirk.
Taryn knew exactly what he was.
"A vampire?" she hissed, taking an instinctive step back. "You've got to be kidding me."
The man, obviously enjoying himself far too much, offered a small bow, one hand pressed theatrically to his chest. "Lucien, emissary of the Midnight Coven. At your service."
"You'll forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled," Taryn shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.
Lucien's grin widened, all teeth and charm, dangerous and playful at the same time. "Oh, I can already tell this is going to be fun."
"Enough." One of the council members cut them off with a sharp wave of his hand. "You've both been assigned to this mission, and I expect you to cooperate."
"Cooperate?" Taryn's voice was tight with disbelief. "You've got to be joking." She shot a glare toward the council table, then flicked her gaze back to Lucien. The way he was watching her, like a predator sizing up it's prey, made her blood boil.
They always did this—dangling just enough information to get her hooked, then waiting until it was too late to spring the real trap. A partner, this time. Of course. And not just any partner—a vampire.
They knew exactly how much she hated working with others, and even more so, how much she despised the Midnight Coven. That was the point, wasn't it? They needed someone to take the blame if things went sideways, and pairing her with a vampire ensured no one would trust a word she said if the mission went wrong. They'd just point to Lucien and say, Well, you know how vampires are.
The Council loved their games. They called it cooperation. Taryn called it being set up to fail.
"I'm not dragging dead weight through the forest," she said flatly.
Lucien placed a hand dramatically over his chest, as if her words had physically wounded him. "Ouch." He said, then straightened from his mock pain, grinning like a man who knew exactly how insufferable he was. He offered her a look that was all lazy arrogance. "Don't worry, I'll carry my own weight. Probably yours, too."
Taryn's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "Try it and see what happens."
Lucien's grin widened, his silver eyes gleaming with mischief. "Admit it, warrior—you're afraid you might actually like having me around."
She rolled her eyes, but her stomach knotted. Arrogant. Unpredictable. Just her luck.
Taryn crossed her arms again, but said nothing. She took a slow, deep breath trying to steady herself. She didn't hate vampires. But she had trusted one once—believed her promises, let her guard down. It had nearly cost her everything.
The memory hit her hard, unwelcome and sharp. She'd been younger, greener back then—naive enough to think that trust and respect could exist between their kinds, that peace wasn't just a fragile illusion. She had smiled the way Lucien smiled—too smooth, too confident, as if Taryn's wariness had been amusing to her rather than threatening. And she had let her guard down. That was the part she hated most. She let her get close, believed the promises, believed the lies.
By the time she realized what she really wanted—what she was really doing—it had been too late to stop it. Too late to stop the bloodshed, and too late to stop herself from becoming the Council's pawn all over again. They'd given her the mission, knowing she'd walk right into the betrayal, and then washed their hands of it when everything went to hell.
No, she didn't hate vampires. But she knew better than to trust them.
And now the Council was saddling her with one? Just perfect. It didn't matter how charming Lucien's grin was or how elegantly he moved. Taryn could see it for what it was—an act. A predator's mask, carefully sculpted to disarm and distract.
Because working with a vampire wasn't just inconvenient—it was dangerous. The ceasefire between their people might have held for now, but it was a brittle thing, barely stitched together with promises and mutual exhaustion. If something went wrong on this mission—and it always did—who would take the fall?
The Council wanted her to play nice, wanted her to believe this partnership was a sign of trust between humans and vampires. But she knew better. It was a setup. Vampires were charming when it suited them—and dangerous when it didn't. And if the mission failed, the Council would hang her out to dry. They'd point to the Midnight Coven and say, It wasn't us. We tried cooperation.
She knew better than to trust that the Council has good intentions. And she knew better than to trust Lucien, no matter how many pretty smiles he threw her way. The last vampire she trusted had taught her that lesson the hard way, and she still carried the scars.
Lucien was exactly the kind of man—the kind of vampire—who thought rules didn't apply to him. She could see it in his lazy arrogance, in the way he sized her up with those gleaming silver eyes, as if she was nothing more than entertainment. It was the same look she'd seen once before, and she wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
This wasn't just about survival. It was about control. And Taryn refused to give Lucien—or the Council—any more control than she had to.
"This mission requires cooperation," he said. "You don't have the luxury of refusing."
"Oh, I refuse," Taryn said coldly, before she could think better of it. "Find someone else."
The iron-haired woman's expression hardened, and she folded her hands atop the table, as if the words were nothing more than bureaucratic formality. "You don't have a choice, hunter. Refusal will be treated as insubordination—punishable by exile. Or worse."
Taryn clenched her jaw again so hard it ached. They had her. And they knew it.
"This is absurd," she muttered, glaring at the council. "I work alone for a reason."
"Easy, warrior," Lucien murmured, his voice smooth and dangerous. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. I'd hate for things to get… uncomfortable."
Taryn bristled, every nerve on edge, wishing she had a good excuse to knock the smug expression off his face. But, unfortunately, the council was still watching. And punching her new partner before the mission even began probably wouldn't go over well.
Gods, she hated him already.
Taryn didn't just hate his presence—she hated what it represented. Weakness. Reliance. Things that got you killed.
"This isn't a negotiation," the councilman reminded them sharply. "You leave at first light."
She should've seen this coming. The Council always made sure she didn't get too comfortable. The moment she thought she'd earned even a sliver of control over her own life, they pulled her back in. And they never asked—only ordered. If she refused, they'd find some way to make her regret it. They always did.
She'd tried to leave once, years ago. The scars from that lesson still burned on cold nights. No one walked away from the Council—not without a knife in their back or a target on their head. Insubordination, exile, punishment—those were just polite words for what the Council really meant: Do what we say, or suffer the consequences.
Lucien gave her a slow, lazy smile. The kind that made it perfectly clear he was going to enjoy every second of this—just to annoy her.
"Oh, don't worry," Lucien said, his voice full of faux reassurance. "I'll try not to slow you down."
Taryn clenched her fists. This was going to be hell.