The first time I truly lost control wasn’t in the bath. It wasn’t during the ritual. It wasn’t even when his mouth crashed down on mine in the dead of night, desperate and hungry, like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
It was three days later.
Three days of stolen touches, of suppressed heat, of pretending the bond didn’t flare every time he looked at me. Three days of waking up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, of catching my reflection and seeing the faint flush on my neck where his fangs had grazed me, of hearing his voice in my dreams—low, rough, saying my name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
Three days of pretending I wasn’t breaking.
And then, in the middle of a council briefing—of all places—I collapsed.
One second, I was standing beside Vex in the Grand Hall, listening to the werewolf delegate drone on about territorial disputes in the Undercroft tunnels. The next, the world tilted. My vision blurred. My knees buckled. And before I could even gasp, strong arms caught me.
Vex.
He moved fast—faster than anything I’d ever seen. One moment he was at my side, the next he had me cradled against his chest, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle. His scent hit me like a physical force—smoke, iron, and that dark, intoxicating sweetness that had haunted me since the Oath bound us. It flooded my senses, wrapping around me, sinking into my skin, my lungs, my *blood*.
And I *melted*.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
My body went slack against him, my head lolling into the curve of his neck, my fingers curling into the fabric of his coat without permission. My sigils flared beneath my skin, crimson light pulsing faintly through the thin material of my robe. The bond *screamed*—not in pain, but in *recognition*. In *need*.
And I—
I *arched* into him.
My hips pressed against his stomach, my breath coming in a gasp as a wave of heat tore through me, pooling low in my belly, spreading between my thighs. My pulse thundered in my ears, but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger.
It was *want*.
Raw. Unfiltered. *Desperate*.
“Avalanche,” Vex growled, his voice low, strained. “Look at me.”
I tried. I did. But my eyes wouldn’t focus. All I could see was the column of his throat, the pulse beating there, the way his skin stretched over the hard line of his jaw. All I could *smell* was him—his blood, his power, his *life*. And all I could *feel* was the heat of his body, the strength of his arms, the way his thumb brushed my wrist as he adjusted his grip.
“She’s in bond-heat,” someone said—Kaelen, the werewolf lieutenant, his voice tight with concern. “It’s spiking. Uncontrolled.”
“Get the council out,” Vex snapped. “Now.”
“But the—”
“*Now*.”
No one argued. Not with that voice. Not with the way his fangs had dropped, sharp and deadly, the gold in his eyes bleeding into red. The council members filed out in silence, their footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. The massive doors groaned shut, sealing us in.
And then it was just us.
Me, limp in his arms.
Him, holding me like I was something fragile. Something *his*.
“Avalanche,” he said again, softer this time, his breath warm against my ear. “Breathe. With me.”
I tried. In. Out. But every breath pulled me deeper into him, into the scent, into the heat. My body trembled. My thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. A whimper escaped me—soft, broken—and I felt him *tense*.
“God,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “You’re killing me.”
Then he was moving, carrying me through the Spire’s twisting corridors, his steps swift and sure. I should have fought. I should have pushed him away, reminded myself that this was the man who’d destroyed my family, that this was *magic*, not desire, that every second I spent in his arms was another second I wasn’t moving closer to my vengeance.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Because the truth?
It wasn’t just the bond.
It wasn’t just the heat.
It was *him*.
The way he held me—like I mattered. Like I was *precious*. The way his voice dropped when he said my name, like it was the only word he knew. The way his thumb kept brushing my pulse, slow, steady, grounding.
And worst of all?
It *worked*.
My breathing slowed. My muscles unclenched. The sharp edge of the heat dulled, not gone, but manageable. And when he finally stepped into our chambers and laid me on the bed, I didn’t pull away.
I stayed where he put me.
My eyes fluttered open, and there he was—kneeling beside the bed, his golden eyes locked on mine, his fangs still bared, his chest heaving. He looked like a predator. Like a man on the edge of losing control.
And yet—
He didn’t touch me.
Not beyond what was necessary.
“You’re burning up,” he said, his voice rough. He reached out, slow, giving me time to stop him.
I didn’t.
His fingers brushed my forehead, then traced down my cheek, over the pulse in my neck. His touch was gentle. Reverent. And it sent another wave of heat through me, white-hot, my back arching off the bed.
“Vex,” I gasped, my voice breaking.
“I know,” he said. “I feel it too.”
“Then *do* something,” I whispered, hating how weak I sounded, how *needy*. “Don’t just sit there. Don’t just—”
“Touch you?” he finished, his voice low. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I said, and the word tore from me like a confession. “God, yes.”
He didn’t move.
Just watched me. Studied me. Like he was memorizing the way my breath hitched, the way my fingers clenched in the sheets, the way my body *ached* for him.
“Say it again,” he said. “Say you want me.”
“I want you,” I breathed. “I *need* you.”
His eyes darkened. His fangs pressed against his lip. And then—
He leaned down.
Not to kiss me.
Not to touch me.
But to press his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his voice a whisper against my skin.
“Then breathe with me,” he said. “In. Out. Let the bond settle. Let the heat ebb. We don’t have to rush this.”
I whimpered. “But I *want* to rush it.”
“I know,” he said. “But this isn’t just about pleasure. It’s about control. About survival. If we give in every time the bond flares, we’ll never master it. We’ll always be slaves to it.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” I said, my voice breaking. “Maybe I’d rather burn than live like this.”
“Then you’ll take me with you,” he said, and the words hit me like a slap. “And I’m not ready to die. Not yet. Not like this.”
I stared at him, my chest tight. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re fighting it,” he said. “And that’s going to get you killed.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” I whispered.
“But I do,” he growled. “Because if you die, I die. And I didn’t survive two centuries of war just to die by a bond I never asked for.”
“Neither did I,” I said, my voice raw.
He exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the red had faded, the gold returning, softer now. Human.
“Then let me help you,” he said. “Not as your enemy. Not as your consort. But as the man who *sees* you. Who *knows* you. Who *wants* you.”
I didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Because the truth?
He *did* see me.
Not just the vengeance. Not just the mission.
But the woman beneath.
The one who was tired. Who was scared. Who was *breaking*.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if I started believing he wasn’t the monster I thought he was…
If I started believing he might not have killed my mother…
Then what was I even fighting for?
“Breathe with me,” he said again, his voice soft. “In. Out.”
I obeyed.
In.
Out.
His hand settled over my heart, feeling the rhythm, matching his breath to mine. The heat slowly ebbed, not gone, but manageable. My sigils dimmed. My body relaxed.
And when I finally opened my eyes, he was still there.
Still watching.
Still *holding* me.
“You’re not weak,” he said, his voice low. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. But even the strongest need help sometimes.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t want to need you.”
“I know,” he said. “But you do.”
And the worst part?
He was right.
I *did* need him.
Not just to survive the bond.
But to survive *myself*.
Because the truth?
I wasn’t just here to kill him.
I was here to *live*.
And if that meant letting him see me—really see me—then so be it.
My fingers moved, slow, hesitant, reaching up to touch his face. His skin was warm, smooth, the stubble along his jaw rough against my fingertips. His breath hitched. His eyes darkened.
“Avalanche,” he said, my name a warning.
But I didn’t stop.
I traced the line of his cheekbone, then down to his lips, watching as his fangs pressed against his lip, as his breath came faster, as his control *slipped*.
“You’re not the monster I thought you were,” I whispered.
His eyes closed. “I wish I could say the same.”
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned down—and kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Aching.
And this time, I didn’t fight.
This time, I kissed him back.
Because the truth?
It wasn’t just the bond.
It wasn’t just the magic.
It was *me*.
I wanted him.
And if I was going to survive this—
Then I had to stop lying.
To myself.
And to him.
My hands fisted in his hair, yanking him closer, my tongue tangling with his, my body pressing against his, every inch of me screaming for more.
And when he lifted me, carrying me to the bed, I didn’t resist.
Because survival wasn’t just about staying alive.
It was about staying *me*.
And right now?
The only way to do that—
Was to stop pretending.
That I didn’t want him.
That I didn’t need him.
That I wasn’t already falling.
Across the room, the clock began to tick.
Another day.
Another battle.
Another lie.
And I wasn’t sure which one I’d lose first.
But one thing was certain.
I couldn’t do this alone.
And maybe—just maybe—I didn’t have to.
Maybe I could let him in.
Just a little.
Just enough to survive.
And as his mouth moved to my neck, his fangs grazing my skin, I didn’t pull away.
I arched into him.
And I whispered the words I never thought I’d say.
“Don’t stop.”