I don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment I was pacing my room, the grimoire clutched in my hands, the words consummated by mutual consent burning behind my eyes like a brand. 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.
There’s a wound.
Not deep. Not bleeding. But *there*—two puncture marks, raw and tender, just above my collarbone. My fingers press against it, and a jolt of heat rips through me—sharp, electric, *familiar*. It’s not pain. It’s worse. It’s *recognition*. Like something in my blood has answered, like the bond has finally found its voice.
I sit up too fast. The room spins. I’m not in my quarters.
I’m in a bed—massive, carved from black wood, draped in heavy silk the color of dried blood. The air is thick with the scent of old magic, of pine and iron and something darker—something *him*. Cold stone walls rise around me, etched with wards that pulse faintly in the dim light. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows that twist like living things across the floor.
Kaelen’s chambers.
My breath comes too fast. My heart hammers. I look down.
I’m half-naked.
My tunic is gone. My boots are gone. My dagger—missing. I’m wearing only my trousers and a thin shift, the fabric torn at the shoulder, as if something—someone—had torn it open. My skin is flushed, damp with sweat. My thighs ache. My core pulses with a dull, insistent throb, like I’ve been touched, ridden, *claimed*—but I don’t remember it.
I don’t *remember*.
I scramble back, pressing against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to cover myself. My magic snaps to attention, coiling beneath my skin like a whip. But it’s sluggish. Weak. As if it’s been drained, used, *shared*.
The bond hums—low, steady, *satisfied*.
No.
No, no, *no*.
I press my palms to my eyes. Think. Think. What happened? How did I get here? Did I walk? Was I carried? Did I—
Memories flicker—fragments, broken.
Standing in the corridor. Lira’s voice. That *bite mark*. The way Kaelen didn’t deny it. The way he just *watched* me, his eyes black, unreadable.
Then—nothing.
Just darkness.
And now this.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My boots aren’t here. My dagger isn’t here. 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 bite. 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 still dressed in his black coat, open at the throat, his white shirt stained with old blood. His hair is disheveled. His eyes—black, endless—lock onto mine.
And he *smiles*.
Not a cruel smile. Not a mocking one.
Something worse.
Triumphant.
“You’re awake,” he says.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is tight. My hands are trembling. I clench them into fists, nails biting into my palms. Control. Control. Control.
“How did I get here?” I demand, voice shaking.
He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The wards flare, sealing us in. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Then let me remind you.”
He moves closer. The bond flares—hotter, stronger. My body responds against my will—my skin tingles, my breath quickens, my core tightens. I hate it. I hate *him*.
“After Lira left, you stormed off,” he says, voice calm, almost gentle. “You were angry. Jealous. You said things—accusations. And then you collapsed.”
“I didn’t collapse.”
“You did.” He stops two feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—old blood, winter pine, something metallic, something hungry. “Your magic was unstable. The bond was spiking. You were losing control. I carried you here. Tried to stabilize you.”
“And the bite?” My fingers press against the wound. “Did you *feed* from me?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Then what the hell is this?”
“The bond.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.” 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. “The bond is alive, Blair. It’s not just magic. It’s *instinct*. And last night—when you were weak, when your magic was open, when you were *vulnerable*—it *acted*.”
“You expect me to believe that a *magic bond* bit me?”
“No.” He steps closer. The heat between us is unbearable. “I expect you to believe that *you* did.”
I freeze. “What?”
“You bit yourself,” he says. “In your sleep. Or rather—the bond did, through you. It’s a manifestation. A claim. And it’s not just on your neck.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches into his coat and pulls out a small silver hand mirror.
He holds it out to me.
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I take it.
I raise it.
And I see it.
Not just the bite.
On my shoulder blade—just below the torn fabric of my shift—a sigil glows faintly, red as fresh blood. A spiral of runes, pulsing with magic. *His* sigil. The same one from the visions. The same one that burned into my mother’s skin before she died.
My breath stops.
“No,” I whisper. “No, this isn’t real. This is a glamour. A trick.”
“It’s not.”
“You did this.”
“I didn’t touch you.”
“You *lied* to me. You let this happen.”
“I *tried* to stop it.” His voice is rough now. “I held you down. I blocked the magic. But the bond—it’s stronger than both of us. It *wants* this. It wants *you*.”
I drop the mirror. It clatters to the floor. My hands fly to my back, pressing against the sigil. It burns. Not with pain. With *power*. With *claim*.
“I didn’t consent,” I say, voice breaking. “I didn’t *want* this.”
“Neither did I.” He steps closer. His hand lifts, not to touch me, but to hover near my neck. “But the bond doesn’t care about consent. It cares about survival. And last night—when your magic was open, when you were weak—it *took* what it needed.”
“And what’s that?”
“You.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.”
“You already are.”
“I hate you.”
“Then why does your body respond?” He leans in. His breath is cold on my skin. His fangs graze the shell of my ear. “Why does your magic *sing* for me? Why does your blood *burn* when I’m near?”
My breath hitches. My knees weaken. I grab the bedpost to steady myself.
“You’re lying,” I whisper.
“Am I?” His hand slides up my arm, slow, deliberate. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. My pulse jumps. My magic flares. The bond roars. “You felt it too. In the chamber. When our hands touched. When I was inches from your mouth. You *wanted* it.”
“I wanted to destroy you.”
“No.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “You wanted *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 bite and a sigil make me yours? You think I’ll just *submit* because your magic decided to mark me in my sleep?”
“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—
A knock.
Soft. Insistent.
The door opens.
Riven steps inside.
He freezes when he sees us—Kaelen close, me trembling, the bond humming like a live wire between us.
His golden eyes flick to the bite on my neck. Then to the sigil on my shoulder.
And he *knows*.
“My lord,” he says, voice low. “The council convenes in an hour. They’ll want answers about the collapse. About the bond.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me. “Let them wait.”
“And her?” Riven asks, glancing at me. “She’s not fit to attend. Not like this.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
“No, you’re not.” Riven steps forward. His voice is calm. Grounding. “You’re marked. The bond is active. If you go in there now, they’ll see it. They’ll know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re his.”
My blood runs cold.
Kaelen finally pulls back. He turns to Riven. “Escort her back to her quarters. Make sure she’s… presentable.”
“I don’t need an escort,” I say.
“No,” Kaelen says. “But you need a reminder. You’re not invisible. You’re not untouchable. And you’re not leaving my sight until I know the truth.”
“There’s nothing to know.”
“Isn’t there?” He steps closer. His voice drops. “You bit yourself. You marked yourself. The bond is claiming you, Blair. And if you don’t accept it, it’ll destroy you.”
“Then let it.”
He smiles. Slow. Deadly. “You say that now. But when the pain comes—when your magic starts to tear itself apart—you’ll beg me to save you.”
“I’d rather die.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He leans in. His lips brush my ear. “Because deep down, you know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you’re already mine.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Because for the first time, I’m not sure I believe my own lie.
Riven steps forward. “Come on,” he says, gently. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I let him lead me to the door. My legs are unsteady. My body aches. The bond hums, alive, relentless.
And as I walk, one thought echoes in my mind—
Four days left.
And I’m running out of time.
I don’t look back.
But I feel his eyes on me.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.