I wake gasping.
Not from a nightmare. Not from fear.
From *heat*.
It coils low in my belly, thick and pulsing, like a spell gone wrong. My skin is too tight. My breath comes too fast. And between my thighs—*there*—a slow, insistent throb, as if something deep inside me is *awake*, and it *wants*.
The bond.
It’s worse than yesterday. Stronger. Sharper. No longer just a thread—it’s a current now, a live wire buried in my veins, humming with every beat of my heart. I can feel him. Not his thoughts. Not his words. But his *presence*, like a shadow at the edge of my mind, cold and constant.
Kaelen.
Even his name sends a shiver through me.
I throw back the covers, swing my legs over the side of the bed. My room in the Arbitrator’s Quarters is small, sparse—stone walls, a narrow window overlooking the fog-drenched rooftops of Edinburgh. No luxuries. No distractions. Just the essentials: a dagger under the pillow, a grimoire on the nightstand, and the vial of my mother’s blood I keep hidden beneath the floorboard.
I don’t need comforts. I need control.
And right now, I have neither.
I stand, pacing. My bare feet whisper over the cold stone. My fingers press against my neck, where the phantom sensation of fangs still lingers. I wasn’t bitten. Not really. But the bond *feels* like a bite. Like a claim. Like a curse I didn’t ask for.
And last night—those *visions*.
Not just memories. Not just magic. They were *intimate*. My back bare. His hands on my hips. His mouth at my throat. A sigil burning between my shoulder blades—*his* mark. *His* ritual.
But it wasn’t *him*.
It was Malrik. His sire. The monster who killed my mother.
And yet… Kaelen was there too. In the vision. In the *feeling*. The way his voice dropped when he whispered *mine*, the way his body pressed against mine—possessive, hungry, *real*.
I press my palms to my eyes. *Stop it. You’re not weak. You’re not some spell-struck fool. You’re here to destroy the Oath. Not fall into his arms.*
A knock at the door.
I freeze. My magic snaps to attention, coiling like a whip beneath my skin.
“Blair Vale?” A voice—male, deep, familiar. Riven. Kaelen’s lieutenant. The werewolf who escorted me last night, silent and watchful, like a shadow with fangs.
“What do you want?” I call, not moving.
“Council summons. Hybrid Tribunal session. You’re required.”
My stomach drops.
The Hybrid Tribunal. A special session for disputes between mixed-blood citizens—witches and werewolves, fae and vampires, humans tangled in supernatural affairs. It’s my cover. My *reason* for being here. But I’ve never actually presided. Never had to *do* the job.
Until now.
“Who’s presiding with me?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
There’s a pause. Then: “Lord D’Vaire.”
Of course.
I exhale slowly. *This is fine. You can handle this. You’ve faced worse.*
But have I?
Have I ever stood across from a man who can *feel* my pulse? Who shares my breath? Who sees the visions I try to bury?
I don’t have a choice.
“Tell him I’ll be there,” I say.
“He’s already waiting.”
I grit my teeth. *Of course he is.*
I dress quickly—black trousers, a high-collared tunic, boots that lace to the knee. I tuck my dagger into my belt, run a brush through my hair. No glamour. No fae tricks. I won’t hide. Not from him. Not from anyone.
I open the door.
Riven stands there, broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, his dark hair tied back. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just nods and turns, leading me down the hall.
The silence is heavy. I can feel the bond humming, restless, as if it *knows* what’s coming. As if it’s *excited*.
We descend through the Undercourt’s lower levels, past arches of black stone, past guards who bow and step aside. The air grows colder, thicker with magic. The scent of old blood, of iron and incense, fills my nose.
And then—*him*.
I feel him before I see him.
A jolt. A pull. My breath catches. My pulse stutters.
Kaelen stands at the entrance to the tribunal chamber, arms crossed, coat open, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He’s not looking at me. But I know he *feels* me. The bond flares—hot, sudden—like a spark in dry tinder.
He turns.
His eyes lock onto mine.
And the world *burns*.
It’s not a vision this time. Not a memory. It’s *real*. The air between us crackles. My skin tingles. My magic surges, unbidden, like a tide rising.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his nostrils flare. He *smells* me. My fear. My anger. My *arousal*.
I hate that he can tell.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low.
“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to wake up.”
A ghost of a smile. “You don’t. But the bond does.”
My stomach twists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He steps closer. The bond *pulses*. Heat floods my body. My breath hitches.
“It means,” he says, “that every time you feel something—fear, rage, *desire*—I feel it too. And right now, witch, you’re *burning*.”
I step back. “Then stay away from me.”
“Can’t.” He tilts his head. “The council assigned us to co-lead this session. And the ritual requires touch.”
My blood runs cold.
“What ritual?”
“Binding agreement. Both parties must place their hands on the sigil. So must we.”
My fingers curl into fists. “You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“This is a trap.”
“No,” he says. “It’s procedure. But I won’t lie—it’s going to *hurt*.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The bond is already flaring, responding to my panic, my dread. I can feel him—his cold hands, his breath on my neck, the way his body fits against mine—
“Blair.” Riven’s voice. Calm. Grounding. “They’re waiting.”
I nod. Swallow. Force my feet to move.
We enter the chamber.
It’s smaller than the main tribunal hall, circular, lit by torches that flicker with blue flame. In the center, a stone table bears a sigil—a spiral of runes etched in silver, pulsing faintly. Two figures stand on either side: a witch and a werewolf, their hands already hovering over the sigil, their faces tense.
The council members watch from the perimeter—vampires in dark coats, werewolves with fur-lined cloaks, witches with ritual stoles, fae with veiled eyes. All silent. All waiting.
Kaelen and I take our places at the head of the table.
“Place your hands on the sigil,” the High Arbiter intones. “Speak the binding words. Seal the agreement.”
I glance at Kaelen. His expression is unreadable. But I feel his pulse—steady, strong, *close*.
We both reach out.
Our fingers brush.
And the world *explodes*.
Fire. Heat. A scream—mine? His? The bond *roars* to life, a tidal wave of magic crashing through us. 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*.
Me, screaming. Me, bleeding. Me, dying—just like my mother.
But then—no. Not dying. *Living*. His mouth on mine. My fingers in his hair. His body over mine. 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.
His arm wraps around my waist, yanking me against him. Our chests press together. Our breaths mingle. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine.
“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 coat. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to *hate* him.
I want—
CRACK.
The chamber shakes.
Stone groans. Dust falls. A crack splits the floor, racing toward the table.
The sigil flares—bright, blinding—then *shatters*.
“The bond—” someone shouts. “It’s destabilizing the ritual!”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.
“Hold on,” he whispers, his voice rough, urgent. “Hold on, witch. I’m not letting you die yet.”
And then the ceiling *collapses*.
Stone rains down. Torches gutter. The council scatters, screaming.
He spins me, shielding me with his body as debris crashes around us. I feel the impact—the crack of stone against his back, the shudder of his body—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let go.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh. Don’t move.”
Dust fills the air. Darkness. The weight of stone above us.
We’re alive.
Trapped.
And still, he holds me.
His arm is tight around my waist. His breath is at my neck. The bond hums between us, a live wire, a pulse, a *promise*.
I try to pull away. He tightens his grip.
“Don’t,” he says. “The bond—it’s unstable. If we separate now, it’ll tear us apart.”
“Then let it.”
He laughs. A dark, broken sound. “You’re brave. Or stupid. Either way, you’re not going anywhere.”
I turn in his arms. We’re face to face in the dark. I can see him—barely. His eyes glow faintly, like embers in ash. His fangs are bared. His lips are stained with blood—his own? The traitor’s? Mine?
“You did this,” I whisper. “You knew the ritual would trigger the bond.”
“I didn’t know it would *collapse the chamber*,” he says. “But yes. I knew it would force a reaction. And I needed to see how strong it is.”
“Why?”
“Because if we can’t control it,” he says, “it’ll destroy us. Or worse—it’ll lead Malrik to 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 waist. His thumb brushes my pulse.
And for one terrible, beautiful moment, I want him to kiss me.
Then the dust shifts. Light filters through. Voices. Shouting. Rescue.
He pulls back. Slowly. Reluctantly.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s just beginning.”
They pull us from the rubble. The council watches. The chamber lies in ruins. And the bond—still there. A thread of red magic, invisible to all but us, pulsing between our chests.
Kaelen doesn’t let go of my arm until the healers arrive. His fingers leave bruises. His eyes never leave mine.
And when he finally speaks, it’s not to the crowd. Not to the council.
It’s to me.
“You’re mine now, witch,” he says, low, so only I can hear. “And I won’t let you go.”
I lift my chin. Meet his gaze.
“I came to unmake you,” I say. “And I will. One way or another.”
He smiles. Slow. Deadly.
“Try.”