Blood Freed (Vampire-Cursed #4)

2. Chapter 2

2

Chapter 2

Soren

P ain blazes through my wrists and ankles. Silver. The burn of enchanted restraints sears into my flesh.

My eyes adjust to the earthy walls of this cell. Not so different from the ones in our vampire hold, though the witches favor a more natural approach. Their wards pulse with a soft, steady hum – a sound that would be almost soothing if it wasn’t designed to contain creatures like me.

The sharp, astringent scent of binding herbs fills my nostrils – sage, blackthorn, and something else I can’t quite identify. They’ve spared no expense in ensuring I stay put. A ghost of a smile crosses my lips despite the pain. The irony isn’t lost on me – I finally succeeded in freeing Mia from her prison, only to end up in one myself.

I shift slightly, testing the restraints. The silver chains rattle against the metal frame of the bunk I’m on, sending fresh waves of agony through my body. The Maker’s Bond still tears at me from within, Maxwell’s last command fighting against my betrayal. The only consolation is that the intensity of it has diminished to a tolerable level. But between that and these chains, I’m not going anywhere.

The soft hum of the wards increases slightly, responding to my movement. They’ve crafted this cell specifically to hold supernatural beings – I can feel the magic pressing against my skin like a physical weight.

The cell door opens with a soft creak. Three witches enter, their movements deliberate and cautious. The one in front catches my attention immediately – tall and lean, with dark eyes that seem to pierce right through me. His dark hair brushes the collar of his long black jacket, which flows around him like living shadows.

The other two flank him – a stocky man with close-cropped brown hair and a woman whose silver-streaked black hair is pulled back in a severe bun. Their faces are masks of careful neutrality, but their stances betray their wariness.

Something about the leader sets my teeth on edge. It’s not just the natural tension between our kinds or my current predicament. There’s a heaviness to his presence that makes the air feel thick, like trying to breathe underwater. The wards in the cell pulse stronger, responding to his proximity.

“So,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “you’re the vampire who took our Mia.”

I bite back a sharp retort. Arguing about semantics won’t help my situation. The chains bite deeper as I adjust my position to face them properly.

The leader’s eyes narrow slightly at my movement. The shadows in the corners of the cell seem to deepen, though the lighting hasn’t changed. Magic radiates from him in waves – not the warm, vital energy I’ve come to associate with Mia, but something cooler, more calculated.

My instincts scream at me to bare my fangs, to posture and threaten – anything to counter this show of dominance. But I force myself to remain still. One wrong move, and I might never get the chance to explain what really happened.

The tall witch steps closer, his boots silent against the earthen floor. “I’m Morgan Shadowmaster of the Coven Conclave.” His lips curve in what might be called a smile…if smiles were made of ice. “I trust the accommodations are…suitable?”

I keep my expression neutral. Five centuries of vampire politics have taught me when to hold my tongue.

“Now then,” Shadowmaster continues, “let’s discuss your time with Mia Blackwood. How long was she held at your facility?”

“I helped her esc—”

“A simple number will suffice.” His tone cuts through my response like a blade.

I clench my jaw. “Eleven months, three weeks, four days.”

He nods to the woman, who scratches notes onto a small pad. The wards pulse stronger, making my skin crawl.

“And during this time, what methods did you use to suppress her magic?”

“That’s not—”

“The methods, vampire.” The shadows around him writhe slightly.

I take a calming breath. “Standard dampening fields. Runic suppressors. Nothing that caused permanent harm.”

The stocky witch snorts. Shadowmaster’s eyes narrow fractionally.

“Were you present during the blood extractions?”

“Yes, but I was trying to—”

“A yes or no will do.” His satisfaction bleeds through his professional veneer. “Did you personally participate in these extractions?”

The silver burns deeper as I shift. “Yes.” It’s not something I’m proud of, but it was better than the alternative; Lucien’s methods were cruel.

“And did you consume her blood?”

“No!” The word comes out sharply.

Shadowmaster raises an eyebrow. “No? Not even once? That seems… unlikely.”

“I would never,” I lie because the thought of her blood makes my fangs extend. But to take it if she was unwilling?

I couldn’t.

“The truth will eventually reveal itself,” he says.

I realize with growing certainty that they’ve already decided my guilt. Every question is designed to confirm what they already believe. My role in Mia’s escape is irrelevant to them – they’re building a case for execution.

The interrogation fades as memories of our escape flood back. Mia’s face, pale but resolute in the moonlight. Her hand gripping mine as we ran through the facility’s grounds. And then those moments in the vehicle when we’d seen her rescuers driving toward us. The Maker’s Bond had consumed me.

“Come with me!” she’d said. “We can fix you. They’ll save you!”

I knew it could never happen, knew it would lead to a moment like this. But watching her run to her family’s arms, seeing her safe. That made it all worth it. The pain. The uncertainty of what I’m facing now. I’d do it all again just to see her like that.

Now, I feel an unexpected peace. She made it. After nearly a year of watching her suffer in that cell, of maintaining my cold facade while secretly wanting to free her, she’s finally safe. The Maker’s Bond can rip me apart for my betrayal – I don’t give a fuck.

But what about the voice?

The voice that came out of nowhere, that felt like it was speaking to my soul. That moment when I’d been ready to let the Bond take me, to succumb to Maxwell’s command and the agony of my betrayal…

The Maker’s Bond had torn through my body like molten silver, my muscles seizing as I gripped the steering wheel. Death would have been a mercy compared to defying a maker’s direct command. I’d felt my chest crumpling, my vision dimming at the edges.

But then – her voice. Not spoken aloud, but resonating in my mind with a clarity that cut through everything else.

Soren.

The force of her presence had been staggering. Where the Maker’s Bond was all pain and compulsion, this was…different. Warm. Vital. Like drinking sunlight, if such a thing were possible for a creature like me. Her energy had coursed through me, not healing exactly, but anchoring me to this world when everything else was trying to tear me apart.

For those few precious seconds, I’d felt everything – her fear for me, her gratitude, her…care. The depth of it had shocked me. After centuries of emotional walls and careful distance, the raw honesty of her feelings had stripped away all my defenses.

That connection had given me the strength to keep going, to keep my heart beating despite Maxwell’s command trying to stop it. Just long enough to see her reach safety.

Even now, sitting in this cell with Morgan Shadowmaster’s cold stare boring into me, I can still feel an echo of that moment. The memory of her presence lingers like a whisper in my mind. And as for the Maker’s Bond…now that my defiance is complete, it’s faded. No longer necessary.

Shadowmaster’s voice cuts through my memories. “…and, of course, the Assembly has been notified of your capture.”

My attention snaps back to him. The Blood Assembly? A chill runs down my spine as I catch the slight emphasis he places on certain words, the careful construction of his questions. These aren’t just any interrogation tactics.

“They’re quite interested in speaking with you about your…actions,” the witch continues, his dark eyes studying my reaction. “Particularly regarding the facility uncovered during recent rescue efforts.”

The facility. That’s Lucien’s domain; his “storage facility” for witches whose blood shows promise in taming the Bloodbane.

Do they think that was me? That I had a hand in it?

But you did. For a year.

Guilt floods me.

“Tell me,” Shadowmaster’s voice drops lower, “did Maxwell Kern authorize your position at the facility?”

“What?” I snap, suddenly galvanized into a response. “What does he have to do with this?”

“That remains to be seen.” He eyes me for a moment. “He is your maker, yes?”

How does he know that? The maker lines aren’t exactly secret, but nor are they common knowledge. And certainly not something that a witch should know. Yet here he is, wielding vampire politics like a scalpel, cutting straight to the heart of my betrayal.

“You seem surprised,” Morgan notes, the shadows around him writhing slightly. “Perhaps you thought the witch covens remained ignorant of vampire hierarchies? Of the importance of Makers’ Bonds?”

I keep my face carefully blank, but my mind races. Lucien’s influence is all over this interrogation – and my gut is telling me that this is not going to go well for me.

The stocky witch shifts his weight, hand moving toward what I assume is a concealed weapon. They’re watching my every reaction, waiting for something. A confession? A slip that would confirm whatever Lucien has told them?

“The Assembly,” I say carefully, “might be interested to know who’s been sharing such detailed information about our internal affairs.”

Shadowmaster’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I imagine they would. Unfortunately, you won’t be speaking with them until we’re done with you.”

The silver burns deeper with each passing moment, but I keep my spine straight, my expression composed. Even when every nerve-ending screams for relief, I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

“And why would that be?” I keep my voice steady and my expression neutral.

“The Conclave will convene in two days to hear your case,” Shadowmaster announces, his tone carrying a weight of finality. “Until then, you’ll remain here under guard. The charges include kidnapping, forced blood extraction, and conspiracy against the witch covens.”

I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.

“Mia’s testimony will be required, of course.”

My carefully maintained composure cracks at her name. “Is she…?” The words catch in my throat. “Is she alright?”

Something flickers in Shadowmaster’s eyes – surprise, perhaps, at this display of genuine concern. For a moment, the shadows around him go still.

“She’s recovering,” he says finally, his tone more measured. “The healers are tending to her.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a sharp pang of worry. I want to ask more, need to know if she’s truly safe, if she’s told them about my role in her escape. But I can’t afford to show more vulnerability than I already have.

I raise my chin and meet Shadowmaster’s gaze steadily, forcing my features back into their careful mask of indifference.

“Good,” I say.

“I’ll leave you to think about your past behavior,” he says coldly. “And maybe what your future might hold.” With that, he turns on his heel. The door closes behind him with a heavy thud. The wards pulse once, strongly, before settling back into their steady hum.

Alone again, I let my head fall back against the wall. Every movement sends fresh waves of pain from the silver restraints, but physical discomfort is the least of my concerns right now. Morgan’s words echo in my mind – two days until the Conclave convenes. Two days to face whatever justice the witches deem appropriate for my “crimes.”

So ironic. For centuries, I’ve navigated vampire politics with careful precision, maintaining a delicate balance of power and influence. Now, here I sit, caught between vampire law and witch justice, all because I couldn’t watch one woman suffer any longer.

Mia.

Her name fills my thoughts, drowning out the pain of the restraints, the lingering effects of the Bond, even the uncertainty of my fate. I remember the fierce determination in her eyes as we planned her escape, the way she refused to let fear paralyze her when everything was at stake.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel that moment of connection when her presence flooded my mind, anchoring me against the Maker’s Bond’s attempt to destroy me. No one has ever reached me like that.

The Conclave can pass whatever judgment they see fit. They can believe whatever version of events Lucien has fed them. But given the choice again – knowing it would lead me here, to this cell, facing execution – I would still help her escape.

The silver burns, but not as much as the thought of never seeing her again.