The first thing I noticed about our shared quarters was the silence.
Not the absence of sound—there were whispers in the stone, the soft crackle of blue flames in the hearth, the distant echo of fae sentinels patrolling the outer halls. No, it was a deeper silence. The kind that settles in your bones when you realize you’ve crossed a threshold you can’t return from.
The room was vast—walls of polished obsidian veined with silver, a ceiling that arched like a cathedral, lit by floating orbs of cold fire. A massive bed dominated the center, draped in black silk and furs so dark they looked like spilled ink. Two thrones sat near the hearth, one larger, carved with frost-laced thorns. His. Mine was smaller, but still ornate. A statement. A warning.
“You’ll sleep there,” Lysander said, nodding toward a door on the far side. “I’ll take the main chamber.”
I turned to him, arms crossed. “We’re bound. You think a wall stops the bond?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I do believe in boundaries. For now.”
His voice was calm, controlled. The predator pretending to be civil. But I saw the flicker in his eyes—the same one I’d seen in the archives when our skin touched. Hunger. Not for blood. For *me*.
I swallowed. Not because I was afraid. Because my body *remembered*. The way the magic had surged. The way my pulse had synced with his. The way my skin still hummed where he’d touched me.
I hated it.
I hated *him*.
And yet.
“You expect me to trust you?” I said. “After what you did to my aunt?”
He didn’t flinch. “I did what I had to. She was a traitor. She conspired with the Summer Court.”
“She was family.”
“And you,” he said, stepping closer, “are standing in the same place she did before she died. Asking the same questions. Making the same mistakes.”
My breath caught. “I’m not her.”
“No,” he said, voice dropping. “You’re worse. Because you don’t even know what you are.”
I tensed. “I’m a witch. Half-fae, if you must know. But I don’t answer to your court. I don’t answer to *you*.”
“You do now,” he said. “The bond sees what you hide. It knows your blood. And it knows you’re *mine*.”
“The bond is a mistake,” I snapped. “A glitch in the magic. It’ll break. I’ll break it.”
He laughed—low, dangerous. “You can try. But every time you fight it, it only grows stronger. And every time you lie to yourself about what you feel… it *aches*.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The bond *did* ache. A deep, insistent throb beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat. It pulsed in time with his, a constant reminder that we were tethered. That if he died, I died. That if I ran, he’d feel it. That if I tried to kill him, I’d kill myself.
Thirty days. That’s all I had.
Thirty days to destroy the sigil. Thirty days to survive him.
And thirty days to keep my body from betraying me every time he looked at me like *that*—like he already knew how I’d feel beneath him.
“I need to attend the Council briefing,” I said, turning toward the door. “Alone.”
“No,” he said.
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“The bond requires proximity,” he said. “Within ten feet. At all times. Or the magic destabilizes. You’ll feel it soon enough—nausea, dizziness, then pain. By the third hour apart, your veins will freeze. By the sixth, you’ll be dead.”
My stomach twisted. “You’re lying.”
“Test me,” he said, stepping back. “Walk out that door. See how far you get.”
I glared at him. Then I turned and strode toward the exit.
Three steps.
That’s all I managed before the first wave hit.
A cold so sharp it felt like shards of glass in my blood. My breath came in ragged gasps. My vision blurred. I stumbled, catching myself against the wall.
“Beatrice.”
His voice was behind me. Closer. Soothing, even as it mocked me.
“You don’t have to do this the hard way.”
I turned, teeth clenched. “I *hate* you.”
“Good,” he said, stepping forward. “Hate keeps you sharp. But it won’t save you.”
He reached for me. I flinched—but I didn’t pull away. His hand closed around my wrist, and instantly, the pain receded. The cold melted. The bond flared, warm and alive, threading through my veins like liquid fire.
“See?” he murmured. “You need me.”
“I need the bond stabilized,” I corrected. “Not *you*.”
“Same thing.”
He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed over my pulse point, slow, deliberate. A test. A challenge.
I yanked my arm free. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
“You won’t be,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The Council chamber was colder than I remembered.
Or maybe it was just the stares.
Fae elders lined the hall, their faces unreadable, their eyes sharp. Whispers followed us as we entered—*the witch*, *the bond*, *Lysander’s pet*. I kept my chin high, my posture rigid. I would not be cowed. I would not be humiliated.
Not here. Not yet.
The High Chancellor stood at the head of the chamber, her silver crown gleaming. “Prince Lysander. Envoy Beatrice. The bond has been confirmed. You are now bound by magic and law. For thirty days, you will remain in close proximity. You will appear together at all official functions. You will share quarters. And you will submit to daily scans to ensure the bond’s stability.”
“Understood,” Lysander said.
“And if we refuse?” I asked.
“Then you die,” she said simply. “The bond is not a suggestion. It is a law. Violate it, and the magic will punish you.”
I glanced at Lysander. He didn’t look at me. But I felt it—the pulse of the bond, steady, unrelenting.
“We won’t violate it,” he said.
The Chancellor nodded. “Good. Now, the treaty negotiations will proceed as planned. You will present a united front. Any sign of discord will be seen as weakness. And in the Winter Court, weakness is *death*.”
Her gaze lingered on me. A warning.
I held it. “I’m not here to start a war. I’m here to end one.”
“Then behave like it.”
The meeting ended. We turned to leave.
And that’s when it happened.
A flash of movement. A glint of steel.
I didn’t think. I *moved*.
My body twisted, magic flaring in my palms. But I wasn’t fast enough.
A dagger—blackened iron, cursed—slashed through the air, aimed straight for my heart.
And then Lysander was in front of me.
He took the blade in his side, grunting as it pierced through fabric and flesh. Blood bloomed dark against his silver coat.
“No!” I screamed.
Not because I cared.
Not because I *felt* anything.
But because if he died, I died.
Chaos erupted. Guards surged forward. The assassin—a fae in shadowed robes—was tackled, disarmed, dragged away. But I didn’t see any of it.
I saw *him*.
He staggered, clutching the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers. His face was pale, but his eyes—those glacial eyes—were locked on me.
“Stupid,” he hissed. “You should’ve let it hit you.”
“I—”
“Don’t lie,” he said. “You *flinched*. You *cared*.”
“I didn’t—”
“The bond,” he said, voice strained. “It would’ve killed you. You *knew* that.”
I did. And still, I’d moved to stop it.
Still, my body had reacted before my mind.
“You’re an idiot,” I said, hands trembling as I reached for him. “Let me heal you.”
“No,” he said, stepping back. “Not here. Not like this.”
“You’ll bleed out.”
“Then I’ll bleed out,” he said. “I won’t have you draining your magic for me in front of them. They’ll see weakness. They’ll smell it.”
“They’ll smell *blood*,” I snapped. “And they’ll know you’re vulnerable.”
He laughed—a dark, pained sound. “I’m never vulnerable.”
Then his knees buckled.
I caught him.
His weight was solid, heavy. I barely managed to keep us both upright. His breath was hot against my neck. His blood soaked through my sleeve.
“Lysander,” I said, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t answer.
So I did the only thing I could.
I lifted him.
Not gracefully. Not easily. But I *did* it. I wrapped his arm over my shoulder, braced myself, and started walking.
He was too heavy. We didn’t make it ten steps before he sagged against me, his breath ragged.
“You’re going to kill us both,” he muttered.
“Shut up,” I said. “And hold on.”
Then strong hands were on me. Kael. Lysander’s lieutenant. He didn’t say a word—just took Lysander’s other side, steadying him.
“I’ve got him,” he said. “But you’re not carrying him alone.”
“I don’t need help,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” Kael said. “And so does he.”
We made it to our quarters. Laid him on the bed.
His coat was ruined. I tore it open, revealing the wound—a deep gash, edges already turning black from the curse. Poison. Fast-acting.
“You need healing magic,” I said. “Now.”
“No,” he said, voice weak. “Not from you.”
“You’ll die.”
“Then I’ll die.”
I grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “Listen to me, you arrogant bastard. If you die, *I* die. So you don’t get to play the martyr. You don’t get to bleed out because you’re too proud to accept help from a *witch*.”
His eyes burned into mine. “You think I care about pride?”
“Then what *do* you care about?”
He didn’t answer.
So I did it anyway.
I pressed my hands to the wound, channeling my magic. Blood magic. The deepest kind. It pulled from my own life force, my own veins. Pain lanced through me as I worked, stitching the flesh, purging the poison.
Lysander gasped. His body arched. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist.
“Stop,” he said. “You’ll kill yourself.”
“Too late,” I said through gritted teeth. “You already tried.”
The wound closed. The blackness faded. His breathing steadied.
I collapsed back, exhausted. My head spun. My hands trembled.
“You’re an idiot,” he said again, voice softer now.
“So I’ve been told.”
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His touch was gentle. Too gentle.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“I told you. The bond.”
“Liar,” he said. “You could’ve let me die. You *should’ve* let me die. It would’ve made your mission easier.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m not a murderer.”
“No,” he said. “You’re something worse.”
“What?”
“You’re *kind*.”
I stared at him. “That’s not a weakness.”
“In this court,” he said, “it is.”
He sat up slowly, testing the healed wound. Then he looked at me—really looked at me. Not as an enemy. Not as a pawn.
As something else.
“You saved my life,” he said. “Even though I’ve given you no reason to.”
“You saved mine first,” I said. “When you took that blade.”
“Instinct,” he said. “Not kindness.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But instinct means something.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood, walked to the hearth, and poured two glasses of dark red wine. Handed one to me.
“A truce,” he said. “For tonight.”
I took it. “Just for tonight.”
We drank in silence.
The fire crackled. The bond hummed.
And for the first time, I wondered if hatred was the only thing tethering me to him.
Because this—this quiet, this tension, this *awareness*—felt like something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight.
Later, I woke to the sound of breathing.
Not mine.
His.
I sat up, heart racing. The room was dark. The fire low. And Lysander was standing at the foot of my bed, watching me.
“What?” I snapped.
“The bond,” he said. “It’s pulling. You were too far.”
I glanced at the clock. 3:17 a.m.
“You could’ve just called,” I said.
“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Asleep. Vulnerable.”
“I’m never vulnerable.”
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You were dreaming. You said my name.”
My blood ran cold. “I did not.”
“You did,” he said, voice rough. “You whispered it. Like a prayer.”
“It was a curse,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said. “But your body said otherwise.”
He reached out, not touching me, but tracing the air above my lips. “Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped. You *wanted* me in your dream.”
“Get out,” I said.
“Make me,” he said.
I lunged.
He caught me. Easily. Pulled me against him. My back hit his chest, his arms locking around me.
“You can’t escape me,” he murmured in my ear. “Not in your dreams. Not in your blood. Not in your soul.”
“You don’t know me,” I said, struggling.
“I know your magic,” he said. “I know your scent. I know the way your body *sings* when I touch you.”
His hand slid down, stopping just above my hip. Not lower. Not yet.
But the threat was there.
The promise.
“Try to run again,” he said, voice dark, “and I’ll bind you to my bed and never let go.”
I stopped struggling.
Because the worst part?
For a single, traitorous moment…
I *wanted* him to.