If you wanted me, you could’ve just asked,” I said, even as his grip burned like ice and desire.
His fingers clamped around my wrist, hard enough to bruise, pressing me back against the obsidian wall of the Winter Court archives. Cold seeped through my black tactical bodysuit, sharp as a blade. My breath hitched—not from fear, not entirely, but from the sheer, violent presence of him. Prince Lysander. The monster who’d killed my aunt. The heir to the bloodline that cursed mine.
And now, here he was, close enough that I could count the silver flecks in his glacial eyes.
“You broke into my palace,” he said, voice low, measured. “You trespassed on sacred ground. And yet you speak as if you’ve been wronged.”
“I haven’t,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
His lip curled. Not a smile. A predator’s warning. “And where is that? A prisoner’s cell? Or my bed?”
Heat flared in my chest, but I kept my face still. I’d spent a year preparing for this—training, studying, sharpening my magic until it cut like glass. I’d memorized the layout of the Winter Court, learned the patrol patterns, studied the weaknesses in their wards. I’d come to destroy the sigil that had killed my mother, my grandmother, and now threatened me with the same fate on my thirtieth birthday.
I wasn’t here to flirt. I was here to kill a curse.
But I’d also come to survive. And that meant playing the game.
“I’m here to negotiate,” I said, voice steady. “Just like the treaty says.”
“The treaty,” he repeated, slow, mocking. “Which you are currently violating by being in this room.”
Behind him, the massive iron-bound doors of the archives loomed, sealed with runes that pulsed faintly blue. Rows of ancient tomes lined the walls, their spines etched with forgotten languages. At the center of the chamber, a single pedestal held a map—*the* map. The one that showed the path to the Blood Vault beneath the palace.
I just needed to get to it. To copy it. To disappear.
And then he’d never know I was here.
Too late.
“You’re not a diplomat,” he said, stepping closer. His scent hit me—winter pine, frost-kissed stone, something darker beneath. Hunger. “You’re a thief.”
“Call me what you want,” I said. “But I’m under diplomatic immunity. Harm me, and you break the treaty. Start a war.”
He laughed. A cold, brittle sound. “You think I care about war? I *am* war.”
His free hand lifted, fingers brushing my jaw. I froze. Not from fear. From the shock of contact.
Electricity. Fire. A pulse of magic so sharp it stole my breath.
His eyes widened—just slightly. He felt it too.
“What are you?” he murmured.
“Your worst nightmare,” I said, and twisted.
I yanked my wrist from his grip, spun, and drove my elbow into his ribs. He grunted, staggered back—faster than human, but not fast enough. I lunged for the pedestal.
My fingers closed around the map.
And then his hand caught my arm again.
This time, when our skin met, the world exploded.
A shockwave of blue light tore through the chamber, slamming into the walls, rattling the tomes. The runes on the door flared, then dimmed. My veins burned—not with the curse, not yet, but with something deeper. Something alive.
The bond.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not here. Not now.
But it had. A glowing, pulsing thread of magic, visible between our joined hands, spiraling up our arms like ivy made of starlight. It burned. It thrilled. It *claimed*.
“No,” I whispered.
Lysander’s face was inches from mine. His breath warm against my lips. His eyes—no longer cold—were blazing with something raw, something feral.
“You feel it,” he said. “Don’t lie.”
I did. The bond. The connection. The terrifying, undeniable pull between us. It wasn’t just magic. It was *hunger*. A need so deep it felt like it had been waiting centuries.
“It’s a mistake,” I said, yanking my hand back. The thread snapped, but the glow remained on our skin, like a brand. “An accident. It’ll fade.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s a beginning.”
I backed up, heart hammering. The map was still in my hand. I could run. I could fight. I could—
“Don’t,” he said, reading my thoughts. “Don’t run. Not this time.”
His voice was different now. Lower. Rougher. As if the bond had cracked something in him. As if it had cracked something in *me*.
I looked down at my arm. The mark—a swirling sigil of interlocking lines—was already fading, but the warmth beneath my skin remained. A constant hum. A reminder.
We were tied. For thirty days. If one of us died, the other followed.
I had thirty days to destroy the sigil. And now, I had thirty days to survive him.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” I said.
“I know exactly what I’ve done,” he said. “I’ve found what was always meant to be mine.”
“I’m not yours,” I snapped.
“Aren’t you?” He reached out, not touching me this time, but tracing the air just above the mark on my arm. “Your body knows. Your magic knows. Even your blood sings for me.”
I shivered. Not from the cold. From the truth in his words.
Because it *did* sing. A low, thrumming pulse in my veins, synchronized with his. The curse wasn’t just in me—it had been waiting. For *him*.
But I couldn’t let that matter. I couldn’t let *him* matter.
“I came here to kill your bloodline’s curse,” I said, lifting my gaze to his. My voice was steel. My resolve, unbreakable. “And if that means killing you… so be it.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he smiled.
Not a kind smile. Not a gentle one.
A challenge.
“Then try,” he said. “But know this—every time you touch me, every time our magic collides, the bond grows stronger. And if you kill me?” He stepped back, arms spread. “You die with me.”
“Then I’ll make sure you suffer first.”
He laughed again, but this time, there was something darker in it. Something that curled low in my belly.
“You already have,” he said.
The door behind him burst open.
Kael, Lysander’s werewolf lieutenant, strode in, eyes scanning the room. His gaze landed on me, then on the map in my hand. He didn’t look surprised.
“Council’s been summoned,” he said. “They felt the bond flare.”
Lysander didn’t take his eyes off me. “Let them come.”
“They’ll demand answers,” Kael said. “This isn’t just a diplomatic incident. It’s a *binding*.”
“Then we’ll give them one,” Lysander said. “She’s mine now. Officially.”
My stomach dropped. “No.”
“You don’t get a choice,” Kael said, stepping forward. “The bond’s already formed. The Council will stabilize it. Thirty days. Close proximity. Or both of you die.”
“You’re joking.”
“Try dying to prove me wrong,” Kael said, deadpan.
Lysander’s gaze was relentless. “You wanted to destroy the curse. Now you’ll do it by my side. Every step. Every breath. You’ll live with me. Sleep with me. And if you try to run again?” He stepped close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll bind you to my bed and never let go.”
Heat flooded my face. Not from embarrassment. From fury. From the terrifying, traitorous part of me that *wanted* to believe him.
“You think this changes anything?” I said. “I still have a mission. I still have a curse to break.”
“And now,” he said, “you have me.”
The doors opened again.
A delegation of fae elders entered, robed in ice-blue silk, their faces unreadable. At their head, the High Chancellor, her silver crown gleaming under the torchlight.
“Prince Lysander,” she said, voice echoing. “Explain this breach.”
He didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on me.
“A bond has formed,” he said. “Between me and the witch envoy. By touch. By magic. It cannot be undone.”
“It must be stabilized,” the Chancellor said. “Or both will perish.”
“Then stabilize it,” Lysander said. “We remain together. For thirty days. No exceptions.”
“And the treaty?”
“Unaffected. She remains under diplomatic protection. But she is now bound to me.”
The Chancellor’s gaze turned to me. “Do you consent?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to scream it.
But I knew the truth.
The bond was already in me. It was in my blood. In my magic. In the way my body *ached* for his, even now.
If I refused, I’d die before I reached the door.
“I consent,” I said, voice flat.
“Then it is done,” the Chancellor said. “For thirty days, you are bound. May the Winter protect you both.”
They left.
And I was alone with him.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“I’m calculating,” I said. “How fast I can kill you before the bond drags me down with you.”
He stepped close again. Too close. His hand lifted, not to touch me, but to brush a strand of hair from my face. The air between us crackled.
“You could try,” he said. “But you’d miss me too much to aim true.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m right.”
I turned, walking toward the door. My body trembled. Not from fear. From the bond. From the way it pulsed with every step, tethering me to him.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To my room,” I said. “Unless you’ve forgotten, we’re supposed to be sharing quarters.”
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I’ll find it.”
“No,” he said, stepping in front of me. “You’ll come with me.”
His hand closed around mine. The bond flared—bright, hot, *alive*.
And for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
Because I knew the truth.
I could hate him. I could fight him. I could even kill him.
But I couldn’t escape what the bond had already begun.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.
“You smell like mine,” he whispered. “And you always will.”