I don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment I was standing in the Archives, blood on my wrist, Kaelen’s arms around me, the bond humming like a live wire beneath my skin. The next—darkness. Silence. A cold, heavy stillness that didn’t feel like rest. It felt like drowning.
And now—
I wake with a gasp, my body arching off the mattress, my hands flying to my neck.
The bite is gone.
Not healed. Not scabbed. Just… *gone*. As if it never existed. But I remember it. I remember the sharp, clean pain of his fangs piercing my skin, the rush of heat as the bond flared, the way my magic surged—wild, uncontrolled, *alive*—when he drank from me. I remember the way he looked at me afterward—black eyes wide, lips stained with my blood, voice rough as he said, *“It wasn’t feeding. It was healing.”*
And I believed him.
For one terrible, beautiful moment, I believed him.
I press my fingers to my wrist. The puncture wounds are gone too. Only smooth skin remains. But I can still feel the echo of it—the pull, the connection, the *rightness* of it—like a ghost limb, like a memory written in blood.
I sit up too fast. The room spins. I’m not in the Archives. Not in the safehouse. Not even in his chambers.
I’m in a healer’s ward.
White stone walls rise around me, etched with protective sigils that pulse faintly in the dim light. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of sage, iron, and something deeper—something *him*. Cold. Metallic. Hungry.
Kaelen’s scent.
My breath comes too fast. My heart hammers. I look down.
I’m fully dressed. Boots laced. Dagger at my belt. Tunic clean. No tears. No blood. But my magic—
It’s different.
Not weak. Not gone.
Stronger.
Deeper.
Like a river that’s been dammed, then released—wild, untamed, *awake*. It coils beneath my skin, restless, searching. And it’s not just mine.
It’s *ours*.
The bond hums—low, steady, a second heartbeat that syncs with his. I can feel him—close. So close. Not in the room. Not yet. But near. Too near.
And then I hear it.
Whispers.
From the corridor.
“He won’t last the night.”
“The poison’s in his blood. Nothing can purge it.”
“She did this. She weakened him. Let the bond take hold.”
My blood runs cold.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My boots are there. My dagger is there. But I don’t need them. I have my magic. I have my rage.
I stand—too fast. Dizziness hits me like a fist. I grab the bedpost to steady myself. My legs feel weak. My body feels… used. Hollow. Like something vital has been taken.
And then I feel it.
Not just the bond.
A *presence*.
He’s here.
Not in the room. Not yet.
But close. So close.
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A wave of heat crashes through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My breath hitches. My pulse jumps. I can feel him—his cold hands, his breath on my neck, the way his body fits against mine—
“Blair.”
His voice.
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
I whirl.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, backlit by the torchlight of the hall. He’s not wearing his coat. His shirt is open at the throat, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the faint pulse beneath his skin. But something’s wrong.
His face is pale. Not the usual vampire pallor, but *sickly*—gray, as if the life has been drained from him. His eyes—black, endless—are dull, unfocused. His fangs are retracted. His hands tremble.
And his scent—
It’s wrong.
Not cold. Not metallic. Not hungry.
*Rotting*.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice weak.
I don’t answer. Can’t. My throat is tight. My hands are trembling. I clench them into fists, nails biting into my palms. Control. Control. Control.
“What happened?” I demand, voice shaking.
He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The wards flare, sealing us in. “You collapsed. After the ritual. After I… after I drank from you.”
“And you?”
“I carried you here. Then the poison hit.”
“Poison?”
He nods. “In the Archives. Someone laced the grimoires with shadow venom. I brushed against one. It seeped into my skin.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know.” He stops two feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—rot, decay, something *dying*. “Not until it was too late.”
“And now?”
“The healers say I have hours. Maybe less.”
My breath catches. “No.”
“Yes.” He reaches out—slow, deliberate. Not to touch me. Not yet. But his fingers twitch, as if drawn to the bare skin at the base of my neck. “But there’s a way to save me.”
“What?”
“Blood magic. A transfusion. But it has to be from someone bound to me. Someone whose magic can override the poison.”
“The bond.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his black eyes searching mine.
“You want me to save you.”
“I need you to.”
“After everything? After Lira? After the claim? After you let me wake up marked like some kind of *trophy*?”
“I didn’t let it happen,” he says, voice rough. “The bond did. And now—now I’m asking you. Not as the Lord of the North Quarter. Not as your enemy. As the man who *feels* you. In his blood. In his dreams. In his *bones*.”
I freeze. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps closer. The heat between us is unbearable. “Then why does your magic *sing* for me? Why does your blood *burn* when I’m near? Why did you let me hold you after the ritual? Why did you let me drink from you?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” His hand lifts, hovering near my jaw. “And you’ll do it again. Because you can’t let me die.”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “You’re afraid. 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 thumb brushes the edge of my lip. “But strength doesn’t mean you don’t *ache* for me.”
My breath hitches. My body arches—just slightly—into his touch.
And then—
A cough.
Wet. Gurgling.
He doubles over, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching his chest. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, black and thick. His breath comes in ragged gasps. His eyes close.
“Kaelen—”
“Don’t.” He straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t pity me. Don’t *hate* me. Just… save me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because if I die,” he says, voice breaking, “Malrik wins. And he’ll come for you. And this time, there won’t be a bond to protect you.”
My breath catches.
“You believe me.”
“I feel you,” he says. “In my blood. In my dreams. And if *I* can feel you… so can he.”
Silence. Dust. The weight of stone.
And the bond—still there. Still *pulsing*.
“You want me dead,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “I want the Oath broken. We need each other. Hate me all you want—just don’t die before I get what I came for.”
He stares at me. For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Not hunger. Not rage.
Recognition.
“You’re not here to kill me,” he says slowly. “You’re here to break it. And you need me to do it.”
“Maybe.”
“Then we’re not enemies.”
“No,” I say. “We’re worse.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re bound.”
He doesn’t answer. The bond flares—hot, sudden. A surge of heat between us. My breath hitches. His hand tightens on my arm. His thumb brushes my pulse.
And for one terrible, beautiful moment, I want him to kiss me.
Then—
I move.
Fast.
One moment I’m in front of him. The next, I’m pressing him against the wall, my body pinning his, my hands on either side of his head, caging him in. My breath catches. My magic flares. The bond *screams*—a surge of heat, of scent, of *need*.
“You think I wanted this?” I growl, voice rough, broken. “You think I *asked* for you? For this? You’re in my blood now, Kaelen. In my *bones*. And I can’t—” I stop. Swallow. “I can’t let you die.”
His eyes widen. For the first time, I see it—*hope*. Not lust. Not hunger. *Hope*.
“You want me to live?” he asks, voice low.
“I want you to *fight* for me,” I say. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Oath. But because you *want* me. Because you *see* me. Not as a weapon. Not as a key. But as *me*.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, his black eyes searching mine.
And then—
“Do it,” he says. “Before I lose consciousness.”
I don’t hesitate.
I pull my dagger from my belt. Press the blade to my palm. Slice deep.
Blood wells—red, bright, *alive*.
And then I press my hand to his mouth.
“Drink,” I say.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“*Drink*.”
His fangs extend. Slow. Reluctant.
And then—
He does.
His lips close around my wound. His tongue flicks out, tasting. His fangs graze my skin—just a whisper, a threat, a *promise*.
And the bond explodes.
Heat. Fire. A scream—mine? His? The magic tears through us, raw and uncontrolled. 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.
I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if he didn’t catch me.
But he does.
He pulls me against him, my body fitting into his like we were made for this. My leg brushes his. My thigh presses against his hip. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight.
“Blair,” he growls. “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 shirt. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
He pulls back.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
My blood stains his lips. His eyes are black, endless, but there’s something in them—something softer. Warmer. Like the ice has cracked, just slightly.
“You tasted me,” I gasp. “Why didn’t it hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. Just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving mine.
And then—
“Because it wasn’t feeding,” he says. “It was healing.”
“What?”
“Your magic,” he says. “It’s not gone. It’s just… buried. And the bond—when I drink from you, when we’re connected—it wakes it up.”
My breath catches.
“You’re saying I’m still a witch?”
He nods. “And stronger than before.”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to my sternum, as if I can feel it.
And I can.
Not weak.
Not empty.
Alive.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But *holding*.
And for the first time, I let him.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
“Stay,” he whispers. “Just… stay.”
And for the first time, I don’t say no.