Silver Teeth
Burn the veil, steal the name,
Dress the fear, walk through flame.
They want the brand, not the bite—
But I was made to love out loud and fight.
— BRAND ME, Abaddon’s Vassals
SCENE: POST-GALA BREAKFAST – THE NEXT MORNING
The penthouse kitchen looked like a war zone in a very expensive magazine spread.
Glitter still clung to every surface. Half the dishes were enchanted and mildly resentful. A mimosa pitcher floated lazily above a pan of vampire-safe waffles. Max was deep in a heated debate with Robin over whether glamoured syrup could be used in combat.
Steve stood barefoot, mug in hand, leaning against the counter with Eddie pressed up behind him, chin on his shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He hadn't let go all morning.
Sapphire walked in like she hadn't just kissed three diplomats and threatened a blood senator last night. "Who put blood oranges in the resurrection blender?"
"That was me," Argyle called, shirtless and smiling from the couch. "Trying a new drop for the next remix."
Jonathan rolled his eyes and passed him coffee. "You accidentally resurrected the espresso machine."
Chrissy—still glowing faintly from the afterparty—held up her phone. "Gala's footage has been edited and circulated. The bit with your speech, Steve? Already being used by the Pact for Soulmark Equality."
Steve blinked. "Wait, like... officially?"
"Officially," Nancy confirmed from the other side of the room, holding a croissant like a dagger. "Your name's already trending next to half a dozen legislation threads."
Will looked up from his sketchpad. "You're becoming a symbol."
That sank in slow. Steve felt Eddie's arms tighten around him.
Sapphire smirked. "Welcome to the revolution, sweetheart."
And just for a moment—amid the laughter, the toast-crunching, the sparkling wards—something deep and distant began to shift.
SCENE: AFTER THE BREAKFAST – FIRST FALLOUT
Later that afternoon, after most of the kids had passed out in a pile of limbs and throw blankets, Steve was alone in the upstairs studio with Sapphire and Chrissy, half-listening to a remix of last night's gala performance.
Then the message arrived.
It wasn't a knock. It wasn't a text.
It was a letter. Delivered by raven, sealed in black wax with the sigil of the Eastern Pact.
Chrissy frowned. "That's not press."
Steve opened it carefully. Read it once. Then again, slower.
To Mr. Harrington and Mr. Munson,
Due to your recent visibility, public declarations, and symbolic relevance within ongoing legislative debates, you are formally invited to attend the Soulbond Legislation Summit in Vienna.
Attendance is not mandatory. Yet.
We expect your presence. And your performance.
- Regent Sylvain, on behalf of the Pact Council
Sapphire was already pouring a drink. "Well then."
Steve stared at the parchment. "What the hell is a Soulbond Summit?"
Chrissy was already googling cursed forums. "It's a political move. They're trying to use you. Maybe to soften the bloodlines. Maybe to make an example."
"And if we don't go?"
Sapphire downed the drink. "They'll twist your silence into whatever suits them."
Steve's jaw tightened.
Outside, the wards flared. Somewhere downstairs, Dustin laughed in his sleep.
He folded the letter.
Handed it to Chrissy.
And said, "Call Eddie."
SCENE: THE SUMMIT WAR ROOM
Location: Sapphire's high-rise loft, lit like a nightclub and fortified like a vault. Everyone's barefoot or bleeding glitter.
They'd cleared the living room into a makeshift war room.
Runes glowed across a table too elegant for battle plans. Blueprints of the summit hall. Press briefings. Ward schematics. Enchanted glass flickered with clips from every time Steve and Eddie's soulmark had trended. Magic pulsed faintly at the corners—nervous, watching.
Sapphire was standing at the head of the table in leather gloves and a gown made of strategically arranged chainmail.
"We're not just showing up," she said. "We're staging a declaration."
Chrissy leaned on one hip, flipping through a ward-weave proposal. "You two will be the story. The council's baiting you. If you act small, they'll spin it as shame. But if you Sign at the Summit—"
"We make it political," Steve finished, quietly.
"More like unavoidable," Sapphire said. "You become proof. That soulbonds are real. That they transcend bloodline status, magical class, and Turning timelines. You become their fear and their fantasy in one."
Eddie sat beside Steve, biting at his thumbnail. "What if we don't want to be that?"
Silence.
Then Sapphire, gentler than usual: "Then you don't. But the world already sees you that way. Might as well dress for the role."
Jeff pointed at a diagram. "The ceremony hall's enchanted to record everything. Once you're in, there's no erasing it."
"Let them watch," Steve said suddenly.
Everyone turned.
He stood. Shoulders squared. Eyes steady.
"I'm tired of hiding behind other people's discomfort. Tired of being told my bond only matters if it's quiet."
Eddie looked up at him, something raw blooming behind his ribs.
Steve extended a hand.
"If we're going to do this, let's do it. Public. Loud. Irrevocable."
Eddie took his hand. Let himself be pulled to his feet.
"We make it sacred," he said. "And then we burn their rules to the ground."
Sapphire grinned like a blade being unsheathed.
"Finally," Eddie whispered. "Something worth summoning for."
SCENE: THE WEEK BEFORE VIENNA
Location: Everywhere. Airplanes, hotel rooms, back alleys, one magically sealed Prada boutique.
The first three days were a blur of movement and glitter wards.
Sapphire's team had booked an entire floor of the Hotel Imperial — a place where the beds floated three inches off the floor and the mirrors didn't reflect unless asked nicely.
Steve had his own suite.
He'd slept in Eddie's every night anyway.
By the second day, their soulmark had started pulsing again—slight, visible. Eddie swore it was glowing stronger under stress.
"I think it's trying to prep for the Signing," he muttered over breakfast, shirtless and chewing on a croissant. "Like biologically. Or magically. Or whatever."
Steve was hunched beside him, wearing a hoodie stolen from Robin. "I think I'm going to throw up."
Chrissy slid into the booth with a tablet, no makeup, fangs barely out. "They've updated the summit seating chart again. You two are now next to the Italian bloodline delegation and across from the Celestial Pact."
"What happened to the Eastern Council?" Eddie asked.
"They said your presence would be too 'emotionally disruptive.'"
Sapphire breezed past in a floor-length robe made of literal fog. "That's code for 'we're scared you'll make us look homophobic and stupid on live broadcast.'"
Robin (who'd flown in early and immediately insulted every press handler on staff) had made a schedule out of spite.
Eddie had dubbed it the Glamour Gauntlet™.
⸻
DAY THREE:
Steve got fitted for his summit look while Sapphire threw gold-threaded cloaks at the wall and hissed, "Too holy! Too humble! He's a vampire, not a vow of silence!"
Eddie sat in the corner drinking a blood spritz and mumbling something about being soulbonded to a fashion warlord.
⸻
DAY FOUR:
Paparazzi tried to sneak a photo spell into the hotel through an enchanted floral arrangement.
Will turned it into an actual floral arrangement—now rooted in the courtyard and growing sentient.
Max named it Terry.
⸻
DAY FIVE:
The press began running headlines like:
Abaddon's Vassals in Vienna: Will They Sign or Start a Revolution?
From Glam Rock to Global Threat: Is Eddie Munson Magical Media's Most Dangerous Bondmate?
Steve Harrington: Bite Marks, Bloodlines, and Why the Vampiric Left Is Watching Closely
Robin read them all aloud dramatically in the hallway. Eddie said she was doing it for morale.
Steve said she was doing it because she was evil.
She agreed.
⸻
SCENE: NIGHT BEFORE THE SUMMIT – PRIVATE SUITE, 3 A.M.
They sat on the balcony in sweatpants, barefoot, wrapped in one long wool blanket that someone had hexed to smell like sandalwood and nostalgia.
Steve was fidgeting. "What if I black out mid-Signing?"
Eddie shrugged. "Then I'll make it sexy."
"You'll make it worse."
"I'll distract them with a mid-summit guitar solo."
Steve snorted, then went quiet again.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
Eddie leaned against him. "Me too."
They sat there a while—quiet, close, everything pulsing low beneath their skin.
Below them, Vienna slept.
Tomorrow, the world would watch.
And they'd let it.
SCENE: The Hall of the Everbound, Vienna.
Warded. Ancient. Dangerous. Watching.
The Hall wasn't just beautiful—it was predatory.
Built into the bones of old magic and older power, the chamber was all gleaming obsidian, carved white stone, and mirrored runes etched in languages long erased from diplomatic tongues. The ceiling shimmered with the cosmos—not enchanted, but real, open to a sky bound by blood and favor.
Everyone who mattered was already inside.
Every highblood family. Every Pact leader. The founders of the Turning Codex. The ruling houses from the East and West, and the media-fed cults of the Celestial Alignments. Cameras drifted midair like enchanted insects. Press scribes sat in shadowed alcoves, recording everything in ink that never faded.
The Council's dais rose above them, empty for now—left symbolically bare for the two people who had become the center of the storm.
Steve Harrington: Turned in silence with no powers to show for it. Vanished from high society and returned under floodlights with a bite on his throat and a soulmate under his skin.
Eddie Munson: Mortal. Dangerous Mortal and with magic that glittered with intent. Wild. Allegedly dangerous. Undeniably loud.
Together? They were an anomaly. A symbol. A problem.
And they were about to Sign in front of everyone.
They entered through the Northern Gate, flanked by Chrissy and Sapphire on either side.
Chrissy's suit shimmered between deep navy and black, runes inked down her sleeves. Her eyes scanned the room like a tactician before battle.
Sapphire wore something impossible—sharp-shouldered and star-washed, half armor, half gown, entirely mood. Her wolf-cut was braided back, and her soulmark shimmered faintly on her shoulder like a challenge.
Eddie wore black. Not just fabric, but spellwork—each thread saturated with protective sigils and one subtle glamour to keep the worst of the magic from biting back.
Steve wore white.
Not a pure white. A white laced with threadwork that glimmered like lightning in shadow. His collar dipped low, soulmark fully visible, framed by delicate runes that hadn't been there before the Cleansing.
Every step they took echoed in the Hall like a heartbeat.
Cameras moved. Eyes followed.
No one spoke.
They stopped at the edge of the Binding Circle.
Carved from obsidian and ash-silver, the circle pulsed with old, raw energy. Not warm. Not welcoming. It was power designed to test. To burn.
Only bonded pairs stood there and survived.
Eddie reached for Steve's hand.
Their fingers laced together like muscle memory.
A scribe stepped forward. Not human. Not vampire. Something in between—veiled, faceless, draped in silks that flickered with every truth ever recorded in the room.
"Do you come with intent?" the scribe intoned.
Steve's voice was steady. "We do."
Eddie didn't flinch. "And we bring no apology."
There was no response.
The scribe stepped back.
The circle opened.
Magic whispered across the floor, rearranging itself—language etched in light and salt and blood-memory. Symbols flared as their feet touched the edge. The soulmark on Steve's collarbone glowed brighter.
The circle accepted them.
The Binding began.
First: the flame.
A ghostlight appeared between them—tall, pale, almost blue. It flickered like breath. A judge, a witness, a dare.
Steve stepped forward.
Spoke the first words.
"I found you in shadow and sound.
I burned for you without knowing why.
I choose you. In fire. In bond. In bite."
The flame surged.
Eddie reached out.
"I saw you marked in ruin and gold.
I dreamed you before I bled.
I choose you. In noise. In ache. In name."
The magic didn't just accept it.
It shuddered with it.
The ground cracked beneath them, just slightly—veins of silver bleeding through the black stone like veins catching lightning. Above, the stars flickered. Some Council members rose from their seats, whispering. Several glamours short-circuited.
The soulmark ignited.
One mark, two bodies.
Visible. Alive.
A tether between them that pulsed in time with the truth.
The final part came without instruction.
Steve turned, reached up, and let his hand rest on Eddie's jaw.
Eddie leaned in—forehead against Steve's, lips a breath apart.
They didn't kiss.
They didn't need to.
The circle sealed.
A flash of light—white, then red, then deep, hungry violet—washed through the Hall.
The crowd inhaled all at once.
The Bond had taken.
This wasn't theory anymore.
This wasn't protest.
This was a miracle. And a threat.
Steve turned to the council.
To the world.
And said, clear and strong:
"We're not here to be tolerated."
Eddie stepped beside him, voice rough, voice raw:
"We're here to be loved."
The crowd didn't cheer.
They rose.
Some in awe.
Some in anger.
Some in fear.
The Binding Circle glowed behind them. The tether shimmered between their hearts. The bond was whole.
And history had been rewritten.
SCENE: PRIVATE JET, MID-AIR BETWEEN VIENNA AND PARIS, 02:09
The air in the jet felt like velvet wrapped around thunder. Heavy. Saturated. Buzzing with old magic and bond-static, the kind that hadn’t settled yet. The kind that might never settle. It pulsed through the floor, the walls, their skin, each breath dragged through it like silk caught on teeth.
Steve stood near the minibar, shirt half-unbuttoned, hands braced against polished obsidian. His reflection shimmered in the mirrored surface: eyes ringed in exhaustion, soulmark still lit like a brand across his chest. His skin looked too pale under the cabin lights, like marble cut with veins of power he didn’t know how to wield yet.
Behind him, Eddie sprawled across the jet’s wide, low sofa like a temptation spell made flesh. His boots were gone. His jacket too. Just bare skin and sweat-slicked curls and a soulmark that pulsed gold and red and something deeper underneath him. His magic ran wild beneath the surface, tangled and defiant, dancing up the hollow of his throat like it was trying to escape.
The bond between them hummed like a live wire, frayed and golden and sharp. It whispered in Steve’s bones: this is yours.
“Too much,” Steve said quietly. “Can’t tell if I want to scream or sleep for a century.”
Eddie’s voice came soft. “Both are valid.”
Steve turned. The cabin lights dimmed with him, sensing his shift. The air pulsed. Magic followed. He could see it in Eddie, flaring under his skin like he’d swallowed something divine and refused to apologize.
”I’ve never Fed like this,” Steve admitted, voice thick.
“I know, but neither have I.” Eddie said. “Think of it like aligning.”
Steve moved forward. Step by step. The bond thrummed louder with every inch closed. The lights flickered. A glamour cracked and rewove itself against the windows. The jet was still flying, but nothing inside them felt still. Time didn‘t feel real anymore. Neither did distance. Just this. Just him.
He knelt first. Between Eddie’s legs. Palms on his thighs. Breath shaky.
“You sure?”
Eddie nodded. “I literally Signed you. Yes I’m sure.”
Steve didn’t need more than that.
His fangs dropped. Slow. Reverent. The air thickened, saturated with the scent of power and promise. Something ancient stirred. Something vast. The jet creaked around them, not from turbulence, but pressure. Intention.
He bit just beneath the mark, careful, deep, real. His lips pressed flush to skin gone hot from magic, his hand bracing Eddie’s hip like he’d fall without him.
Eddie gasped. His magic flared violet at first, then heat-gold, spiraling from the bite like a comet tail. It sparked against Steve’s mouth, rolled down his spine, lit up every part of him that had ever feared being too much. The cabin lights flared. Something whispered from the jet’s engine. The sky shifted.
This wasn’t only about hunger.
This was about connection.
Steve drank like he was being called home. Like the bond could anchor him midair. Like Eddie was more than a body, more than a flame, a source. He fed until the bond hummed in harmony, until the pressure eased, until his hands stopped shaking and started holding.
When he pulled back, there was blood on his lips and fire behind his eyes. His skin burned with power. His bones felt remade. His pulse syncopated with something larger.
Eddie’s pupils were blown wide. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lit from inside with the same thing that sang in Steve’s chest.
“Fuck,” Eddie breathed. “You are not what I expected.”
Steve climbed into his lap before he could overthink it. Straddled him. Pressed their foreheads together, mouths barely apart, both of them shaking now but not from fear.
“Your turn.”
Eddie‘s breath hitched. “Are you sure?”
Steve tilted his head, exposing the other side of the soulmark. “Bonded. Remember?”
Eddie bit down a little less clean, more desperate. Steve arched, a sound ripped from his throat. The jet‘s glamours blinked out for a second, revealing streaks of clouds and the curve of the moon. Magic slammed into the cabin in waves. The bond roared between them. Steve clutched at him like a lifeline, nails digging in, crying out without shame.
They clung to each other. Rode the pulse of magic like it might throw them out of the sky. Somewhere outside, the enchantments howled. The sky pressed close. The air tasted like burnt sugar and stars.
They didn‘t stop until the bond quieted. Until their bodies stopped shaking. Until it was just breath and blood and skin again. No glamour. No press. Just them.
Their magic didn‘t just settle — it wrapped. Tangled. Nested between skin and bone. Steve felt it humming behind his teeth, echoing at the base of his spine. A vibration that refused to still. It wasn‘t just Eddie‘s magic anymore. It was theirs.
He blinked slowly, cheek pressed against Eddie‘s bare shoulder, lips parted slightly like he didn‘t trust the spell to last if he moved too fast.
Outside, the clouds churned below them like smoke waiting for a match. Lightning flickered somewhere in the distance, far beneath their feet, like the sky itself hadn‘t caught up with what they‘d become.
Eddie touched Steve‘s wrist gently, thumb brushing the inside like he was counting his pulse. His own mouth was wet with blood and awe. There was no greed in the touch, no echo of lust or ego, just reverence. He didn‘t want to devour. He wanted to hold. To witness.
“You‘re not just power,” he whispered, reverent. “You‘re every night I dreamed of something real.”
Steve made a quiet, broken sound. Let the words settle deep into his ribs like a second heart.
The cabin was quiet again, but not empty. It was sacred. Claimed.
“You okay?” Eddie asked eventually, one hand sliding up the back of Steve‘s neck, cradling him there like a psalm.
Steve nodded against his chest. “Yeah. I just, I didn‘t know it could feel like that.”
“Me neither.”
They stayed like that for a long while. Breathing. Letting the bond curl around their limbs like silk and string and soft, humming thread. The kind of silence that felt earned.
Eventually, Eddie kissed his temple. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.
“We should clean up,” he said, but he didn‘t move. “You know, before Saph wakes up, demanding more post-Bond content for damage control.”
Steve chuckled into his neck. “Let her. She can make us saints in gold foil and eyeliner later.”
Eddie leaned his head back, looking up at the plane‘s mirrored ceiling. “They don‘t know what we are yet.”
“Good,” Steve murmured. “Let them guess.”
Outside, the moon cut through a break in the clouds. Pale and sharp and watching.
And far below them, Paris began to glow.