The full moon rises like a blade through the fog.
It doesn’t crest over the rooftops so much as cut through them, its silver light slicing across the grimy window of our safehouse, casting long, jagged shadows that twist and writhe across the floor. I’ve been watching it since dusk, lying stiff on my side of the narrow bed, my back to Kaelen, my dagger tucked beneath my pillow. The bond hums beneath my skin—low, restless, a second heartbeat that syncs with his, with the moon, with the rising tide of something I can’t name.
It’s not hunger.
Not fear.
It’s need.
And it’s getting worse.
Kaelen hasn’t touched me since last night. Not really. Just that one moment—his hand finding mine beneath the blanket, fingers threading through mine, cold skin against mine, the bond exploding into fire and vision and him—before the wave passed and we collapsed back into silence, tangled together like survivors of a shipwreck.
We didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just lay there, breathing each other’s air, the bond pulsing between us like a promise.
And now—
It’s happening again.
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A jolt of heat slams through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My breath hitches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled. I press my palm to my sternum, as if I can hold it down by force, but it’s already there—him—his presence, his pulse, his hunger—echoing back at me, twisted by magic and memory.
“It’s starting,” Kaelen says, voice rough.
I don’t turn. Don’t answer. Can’t. My body is rigid, every muscle coiled tight, but not from fear. From awareness. I can feel him—behind me, beside me, inside me—his breath slow and steady at my neck, his body heat seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, through the blanket, through the space that’s supposed to separate us.
But there is no separation.
Not anymore.
“We have to stay close,” he says. “Or it’ll tear us apart.”
“Then let it.”
“You’d rather die than be near me?”
“I’d rather die than pretend this is about survival.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer, the bed dipping under his weight. His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, fingers threading through mine again. The bond screams—a surge of heat, of scent, of need. I gasp. My body arches. My magic flares, unbidden, like a whip cracking in the dark.
“It’s not just the bond,” he says, voice low. “It’s the moon. It amplifies everything—our magic, our senses, our desires.”
“And you think I don’t know that?”
“Do you?” He turns me, gently, forcing me onto my back. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine. “Do you know how hard it is for me to hold back? To not touch you? To not taste you?”
My breath hitches. My pulse jumps. His thumb brushes the edge of my lip. “You want me to,” he whispers. “You want my hands on you. My mouth on your skin. My fangs at your throat.”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “You’re afraid of me. Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I make you want.”
“I’m not weak.”
“No. You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” His hand slides down my arm, slow, deliberate. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. My pulse jumps. My magic flares. The bond roars. “But strength doesn’t mean you don’t ache for me.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He presses closer. His hips tilt, just slightly, so I can feel him—hard, aching, ready. “You want this. You want me.”
My breath hitches. My eyes close. For one terrible, beautiful moment, I think I’ll say it. I think I’ll break.
Then I open my eyes.
And they’re full of fire.
“You think this changes anything?” I snap. “You think a touch and a lie make us allies? You think I’ll just submit because your magic decided to pull me into your arms?”
“No.” He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “I think you’ll fight. I think you’ll rage. I think you’ll try to destroy me every chance you get.”
“And you’re still smiling.”
“Because I know the truth.” He leans in. His lips hover over mine. A breath apart. “You’re not fighting me, Blair. You’re fighting yourself.”
I don’t pull away.
Can’t.
The bond holds me. My body holds me. My magic holds me.
And for one breathless moment, I want him to kiss me.
Then—
The bond flares again.
Hot. Violent. Unstoppable.
And this time, neither of us fights it.
We just hold on.
And wait for dawn.
But dawn doesn’t come.
Instead—
Darkness.
The lights go out.
Not just in the flat. Not just in the street below. But everywhere. The city plunges into blackness, the hum of electricity dying, the glow of streetlamps vanishing, the fog swallowing the moon whole. The wards on the safehouse flicker—once, twice—then die.
“No,” Kaelen growls, sitting up. “Not now.”
“What’s happening?” I ask, voice tight.
“The wards are down. Someone’s severed the power.” He’s already moving, grabbing his coat, his boots. “We have to go. Now.”
“Where?”
“The Undercourt. It’s the only place with backup wards.”
We don’t make it.
Halfway down the stairs, the door at the bottom explodes inward, splinters flying, wood cracking like bone. Shadow figures flood in—hooded, silent, their eyes glowing faintly red. Vampires. Not from House D’Vaire. Not from any house I know.
Malrik’s cult.
“Run!” Kaelen snarls, shoving me back up the stairs.
But there’s nowhere to go.
They’re behind us too.
Trapped.
Kaelen moves fast—vampire speed, a blur of black coat and bared fangs. He takes two down, snapping necks, tearing throats, but more pour in. I throw magic—fire, ice, force—but it’s weak, unfocused. The bond is spiking, my magic tangled with his, with the moon, with the rising tide of need.
And then—
A sigil flares on the wall.
Not mine.
Not his.
Old magic. Dark magic. Blood magic.
It pulses—once, twice—then seals.
The walls shift. The stairs vanish. The doors disappear. We’re no longer in a flat.
We’re in a chamber.
Small. Circular. Stone. No exits. No windows. Just a single, flickering torch in the center, casting long, dancing shadows.
A ritual chamber.
And the sigil on the floor—it’s his. Malrik’s.
“No,” I whisper. “Not here. Not now.”
“They’ve trapped us,” Kaelen says, voice low. “Forced the bond to peak.”
“Why?”
“Because if the bond isn’t controlled during the full moon, it becomes violent. Unstable. And if we don’t consummate it—”
“We’ll die.”
He nods. “Or worse. We’ll be torn apart from the inside.”
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A wave of heat crashes through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. I gasp. My body arches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“We have to do it,” he says. “Now.”
“No.”
“Blair—”
“I’d rather die than give myself to you.”
“You won’t be giving yourself to me.” His voice is rough, broken. “You’ll be saving us. Saving yourself.”
“And if I do, the Oath breaks—but I lose my magic.”
“Then we find another way.”
“There is no other way!”
The bond flares again—hotter, stronger. I fall to my knees. My vision blurs. I see it—feel it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, amplified.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
“Blair,” he growls, dropping to his knees in front of me. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body aches—for him, for release, for something.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his coat. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
I move first.
My hands fly to his face. My fingers dig into his hair. I pull him to me—hard—and kiss him.
Not gently.
Not sweetly.
Violently.
My lips crash against his, teeth clashing, breath mingling, magic exploding. The bond roars to life, a tidal wave of power crashing through us. I taste him—cold, metallic, hunger—and I want more. I bite his lip. He growls. His hands find my waist, yanking me against him. Our bodies press together—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, heat to heat.
He tears at my tunic. I rip at his shirt. Buttons fly. Fabric tears. Skin meets skin—cold vampire flesh against my fevered heat. His hands are everywhere—my hips, my back, my throat—his touch possessive, desperate, needing. I arch into him, my nails raking down his spine, drawing blood. He groans. His fangs graze my neck. I tilt my head, offering myself—not in surrender. In challenge.
“Bite me,” I whisper. “If you dare.”
He doesn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, he flips me, pressing me into the stone floor, his body over mine, his hips between my thighs. His mouth finds mine again—hungry, devouring, claiming. One hand pins my wrist above my head. The other slides down my body, over my hip, beneath my trousers, fingers brushing the wet heat between my legs.
I gasp. My back arches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“You want this,” he growls against my mouth. “Say it.”
“I hate you.”
“Say it.”
“I—”
His fingers press inside me—two, then three—and I cry out. Pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
“Say it,” he demands, thrusting deeper.
“I want you,” I gasp. “Gods, I want you.”
He smiles. Slow. Deadly. “Then take me.”
I do.
I flip him—using magic, using strength, using the bond—and now I’m on top, straddling him, my hands on his chest, my hips grinding against his. His cock is hard, aching, trapped beneath his trousers. I tear at the laces. Free him. Take him in my hand—hot, thick, ready.
“You’re mine,” I say, voice rough. “Not the bond. Not the magic. You.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine.
And then—
I sink down.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Taking him inside me, inch by inch, until I’m fully seated, until we’re fused, until the bond explodes into light and fire and us.
He groans. His hands find my hips, holding me still. His fangs graze my throat. “Blair—”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say anything. Just feel.”
I move.
Slow at first. Then faster. Riding him, grinding against him, my magic flaring with every thrust, the bond pulsing, not with violence, but with completion. His hands tighten on my hips. His fangs pierce my skin—just a graze, not a bite, not a claim. Blood wells. He licks it. Groans.
“You taste like fire,” he whispers.
“And you taste like war.”
We move together—faster, harder, deeper—until the chamber is filled with the sound of skin on skin, breath on breath, magic on magic. The torch flickers. The sigil pulses. The bond flares—bright, blinding—then shatters.
Not broken.
Not severed.
Transformed.
We climax together—me crying out, him roaring, magic erupting from us in a wave that cracks the stone, shatters the sigil, and blows the door off its hinges.
And then—
Stillness.
We’re still joined. Still breathing each other’s air. Still tangled together on the cold stone floor.
But the bond—
It’s different.
Not weaker.
Not gone.
Stronger.
Deeper.
Not a tether.
A bridge.
And for the first time, I don’t feel trapped.
I feel free.
“Blair,” he says, voice rough. “Look at me.”
I do.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
“You marked me,” I say.
He frowns. “No. I didn’t bite you.”
I lift my hand.
On my palm—glowing faintly, red as fresh blood—a sigil. His sigil. The same one on my shoulder. The same one from the visions.
But this time—
I did it.
“I marked you,” I say.
He stares at it. Then at me. And for the first time, I see it—
Pride.
“You’re not mine,” he says, voice low. “I’m yours.”
And then—
The door bursts open.
Riven stands there, golden eyes wide, breath coming fast.
“My lord,” he says. “Malrik’s spirit is rising.”
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.