I don’t go back to my quarters.
Not after the council chamber. Not after the slap. Not after the way his voice broke—raw, shattered—when he said, You’re in my blood now, Blair. In my bones. That wasn’t control. That wasn’t dominance. That was *pain*. And it cut deeper than any lie, any betrayal, any cold indifference he could have thrown at me.
I walk.
Through the shattered corridors of the North Quarter, past the cracked stone and flickering wards, past the whispers that curl like smoke from shadowed arches. There she is. The witch he claimed. Did you see her mark him? Did you see him flinch? I don’t answer. Don’t look. My boots echo on the stone, steady, relentless. My magic hums beneath my skin, coiled tight, but it’s not rage anymore. It’s something worse.
Uncertainty.
Because for the first time, I don’t know what I’m fighting.
Is it revenge? Is it justice? Or is it the terrifying, impossible truth that I don’t *want* to leave?
The bond pulses—low, steady, a second heartbeat that refuses to quiet. I can feel him. Not just his presence, not just his pulse. But his *hurt*. It lingers in the tether between us, a bruise in the magic, a wound that wasn’t there before. And I put it there.
I did that.
With one slap.
I turn down a narrow passage, one I’ve never taken before—dark, narrow, lit only by the faint blue glow of ward crystals embedded in the stone. The air is colder here. Thicker with magic. The scent of old blood and winter pine curls through the corridor, sharp and familiar. His scent.
I stop.
His chambers.
Not the grand entrance. Not the ceremonial doors. A side passage. A private one. One that leads directly to his private study.
And the door is open.
I shouldn’t go in.
I *can’t* go in.
But my feet move anyway.
The room is dim, lit by a single oil lamp on the desk, its flame casting long shadows across the black stone walls. Books line the shelves—grimoires bound in skin, scrolls sealed with blood, ledgers etched in runes. A map of Edinburgh’s supernatural districts hangs on the wall, marked with red ink. And there—by the window, backlit by the moonlight—is Kaelen.
He’s not wearing his coat. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms, the old scars that cross his skin like memories. His hair is disheveled. His eyes—black, endless—are fixed on the city beyond the glass, but I know he feels me. Knows I’m here.
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A jolt of heat slams through me. My breath hitches. My pulse jumps. My magic flares, unbidden, like a whip cracking in the dark.
“You followed me,” I say, voice rough.
He doesn’t turn. “No. You followed *me*.”
My stomach twists. “I didn’t—”
“You did.” He turns slowly. His eyes lock onto mine. “You always do. Even when you run. Even when you fight. You come back.”
“I’m not here for you.”
“Then why are you in my chambers?”
“I—” I stop. Because I don’t know. I came to confront him. To scream. To demand answers. But now, standing here, the words die in my throat.
He steps forward. The bond hums, alive, electric. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I should.”
“But you won’t.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I don’t.” He stops two feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—old blood, winter pine, something metallic, something hungry. “The bond does.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
“You’ll die.”
“Better than belonging to you.”
He laughs. A dark, broken sound. “You say that like it’s a choice.”
“It is.”
“No.” He steps closer. His hand lifts, not to touch me. Not yet. But his fingers twitch, as if drawn to the bite on my neck. “You’re already mine. And not because of the bond. Not because of the mark. But because you *can’t* walk away. Because every time you try, something pulls you back.”
“It’s the magic.”
“No.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “It’s *you*.”
I shake my head. “I hate you.”
“No.” He leans in. His breath is cold on my skin. His fangs graze the shell of my ear. “You’re afraid. Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I make you want.”
My breath hitches. My knees weaken. I grab the edge of the desk to steady myself.
“I’m not weak.”
“No. You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” 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. “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 slap and a claim make you vulnerable? You think I’ll just *submit* because you showed me a crack in your armor?”
“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—
I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back, just slightly, but he doesn’t fall. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shaking. “Don’t pretend this is about *us*. This is about the Oath. This is about *her*.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“You think I don’t know what he did to her?” He steps forward. “You think I didn’t *see* it? Watch him drain her while I stood there, frozen, too weak to stop him?”
My breath catches.
“You were *there*?”
“I was a boy.” His voice is rough, broken. “I loved her. Not like that. But she was kind to me. Gave me bread when the others starved me. Told me stories about the stars. And when he took her—when he *killed* her—I did nothing.”
I stare at him. “You never said.”
“What good would it do?” He turns away, running a hand through his hair. “She’s dead. I’m alive. The Oath lives. And now—*you’re* here.”
“And you think that makes us allies?”
“No.” He turns back. “I think it makes us *victims*.”
Silence.
The bond hums between us, a live wire, a pulse, a *promise*. I can feel his pain—raw, real, *hers*. Not just the bond. Not just magic. *Him*. The man beneath the monster.
“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—
He moves.
Fast.
One moment he’s in front of me. The next, I’m pressed against the wall, his body pinning mine, his hands on either side of my head, caging me in. My breath catches. My magic flares. The bond *screams*—a surge of heat, of scent, of *need*.
“You think I wanted this?” he growls, voice rough, broken. “You think I *asked* for you? For this? You’re in my blood now, Blair. In my *bones*. And I can’t—” He stops. Swallows. “I can’t let you go.”
My heart hammers. My pulse jumps. His face is inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a *promise*.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Don’t let me go.”
His eyes widen. For the first time, I see it—*hope*. Not lust. Not hunger. *Hope*.
“You want me to stay?” 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—
He leans in.
His lips hover over mine. A breath apart.
“I want you,” he says, voice rough. “Hate me, but don’t lie—you want me too.”
My breath hitches. 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—
“He promised me his mark!”
A scream.
From the hall.
Lira.
The moment shatters.
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. But his jaw clenches. His fangs extend. His eyes go black.
“Stay here,” he says, voice low.
“No.” I push past him, moving toward the door.
“Blair—”
But I’m already in the hall.
Lira stands there, her red hair wild, her eyes blazing. She’s not in his robe anymore. She’s in a black gown, her chest heaving, her hands clenched into fists.
“You lied to me!” she screams, pointing at Kaelen. “You said I was the only one! You said you’d mark me! And now—*now*—you claim *her*?”
Kaelen steps beside me. “You were never going to be marked.”
“Liar!”
“I fed you blood for information. Nothing more.”
“And the promises? The nights? The *whispers*?”
“Survival. Politics. Nothing real.”
She turns to me, her eyes full of venom. “And you? You think you’re special? You think he *loves* you? He doesn’t love anyone. He’s a monster. A killer. And you’ll end up just like your mother—*dead*.”
My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The bond surges in response, a tidal wave of power crashing through me. 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 step forward.
“You don’t know me,” I say, voice quiet. “You don’t know *him*. And you don’t know what we’ve survived. So stay out of our way.”
She laughs. A sharp, broken sound. “Or what? You’ll curse me? Challenge me? You’re not strong enough, Blair Vale. You’re not even *real*.”
“I’m real enough to destroy you.”
She flinches.
Kaelen’s hand finds mine. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just… there.
And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
“Leave, Lira,” he says, voice low. “Before I make you.”
She glares at us—both of us—her eyes full of hate, of jealousy, of *loss*.
Then she turns and walks away, her heels clicking on the stone, her silhouette fading into the dark.
Silence.
And then—
Kaelen turns to me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“You could have let her speak.”
“And let her poison you?” I shake my head. “No. I won’t let anyone take you from me.”
His eyes widen. “*Take me*?”
“You’re mine,” I say. “Whether you like it or not.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, his black eyes burning into mine.
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.