The city burns in my dreams.
Not the Obsidian Spire—though it smolders still, the eastern wing a skeleton of ash and ruin—but the coven sanctuaries beneath Prague, the hidden enclaves in the Scottish highlands, the blood-marked tunnels under Venice where hybrids once gathered in secret. I see them all now, flames devouring stone and bone, screams swallowed by smoke, the sigil on my collarbone flaring gold with every life extinguished. And at the center of it all, Kaelen stands, impassive, his gold eyes reflecting the fire, his hand raised in command.
I wake with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my fingers clawing at the sigil as if I could tear it free. The room is dark, the hearth reduced to embers, the bond humming beneath my skin like a live wire. Beside me, Kaelen sleeps—deep, steady, *untroubled*. I don’t know how he does it. How he can lie here, so close, so *present*, after everything.
After the kiss.
After the fire.
After the way he looked at me in the ruins—like I was something *new*. Something *his*.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the tremor in my breath. I came here to burn him. To expose the lies. To dismantle the hierarchy. To make them pay.
And instead?
I kissed him back.
I let him shield me from the falling stone.
I leaned into his touch.
I *wanted* it.
The thought claws at my chest, sharp and suffocating. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my muscles protest. The Moonfire Ritual drained me. The bond surge in the Archives nearly broke me. And now, the weight of it all—his presence, his words, the way he held me like I was something *precious*—presses down on me like a stone.
I dress in silence—black trousers, fitted tunic, boots laced tight. I braid my hair back, secure it with the silver pin Maeve gave me. The vial of moonfire is still in my coat pocket, untouched. Not that it would help now. The bond is too deep, too real. No glamour, no potion, no spell can mask it. Not from him. Not from the court. Not from myself.
I leave the chambers without looking back.
The Spire is quiet in the predawn light. The glamours have thinned, revealing the true architecture beneath: blackened fae-iron spires, enchanted glass that pulses with captured starlight, corridors that shift like living things. I move through them like a shadow, my boots silent on the stone, my senses sharp. I need air. I need space. I need to *think*.
But the bond hums beneath my skin, a constant thrum of heat and tension, like a bowstring pulled too tight. It pulls me toward him, even as I walk away. Even as I try to hate him.
I don’t want to hate him.
That’s the worst part.
The ritual last night—his hands on my skin, his breath in my ear, the way he held me when I was falling apart—it wasn’t just magic. It wasn’t just duty. It was *care*. And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because if he cares…
Then I might too.
And I can’t afford that.
I came here to burn him. Not to fall for him.
I turn down the eastern corridor, heading for the gardens, where the moonfire blooms pulse with soft silver light. But before I reach the archway, I hear it—laughter. Low. Rich. *Familiar*.
My steps slow.
Then stop.
The door to Kaelen’s private study is ajar. It shouldn’t be. It’s warded, sealed, accessible only to him. But now it’s open. And inside—
—a flash of crimson.
My breath catches.
I move closer, silent, pressing myself against the wall beside the door. Through the crack, I see her.
Lady Nyx.
She’s standing by the hearth, one hand resting on the mantel, the other holding a goblet of bloodwine. She’s wearing *his* shirt—black silk, embroidered with the sigil of the Ash Court, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the collar loose, revealing the pale curve of her throat. Her hair spills over her shoulders like liquid silver, and she’s *laughing*.
“He missed you *so much* last night,” she says, voice dripping with mockery. “Kept muttering your name in his sleep. ‘Circe this, Circe that.’ Like a lovesick pup.”
My blood turns to ice.
She tilts her head, sipping from the goblet. “But then I reminded him of what he *really* likes. The way I scream when he bites. The way I arch when he—”
I don’t hear the rest.
I’m already moving.
The door slams open, the force of it cracking against the wall. Nyx turns, startled, her eyes widening as she sees me. But she doesn’t look afraid. Just… *amused*.
“Circe,” she purrs, setting the goblet down. “How… *prompt* of you.”
I don’t speak.
I cross the room in three strides, grab her wrist, and yank her forward. The mark on her skin—the faded sigil of Kaelen—burns under my grip. “You don’t belong here,” I hiss. “You don’t belong in his clothes. You don’t belong in his *life*.”
She smiles. Slow. Knowing. “Oh, but I do. I’ve been in his bed. In his *mouth*. In his *veins*. You think a bond gives you power? You think a *kiss* makes you his?” She leans in, her breath hot against my ear. “He’s *mine*. And he always will be.”
Rage explodes in my chest—hot, blinding, *uncontrollable*. My magic surges, unbidden, and violet flame erupts from my palm, scorching the wall behind her. The torches flare, their flames turning black, then gold, then out.
“Get. Out.”
She doesn’t move. Just smiles. “Make me.”
I do.
I shove her back, hard, sending her stumbling into the desk. Scrolls scatter. Ink spills. And then I turn and run—out of the study, down the corridor, through the Spire, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my vision fracturing into shards of gold and black.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I only know I have to get away.
From her.
From the lies.
From the *betrayal*.
Because that’s what it is.
He let her wear his shirt.
He let her touch his things.
He let her *laugh* in his study.
And last night—when he carried me to bed, when he tucked the covers around me, when he said, *Sleep, I will*—was he thinking of *her*?
Was he comparing us?
Was he remembering how she screamed when he bit?
The bond flares—hot, sharp, *painful*—and I cry out, doubling over. My magic flickers, unstable. My legs give out. I collapse against the wall, gasping, sweat slicking my back.
“No,” I whisper. “Not now. Not like this.”
But the bond doesn’t care about pride. Doesn’t care about lies. It only knows one thing: he is not here. And without him, I am unraveling.
I push myself up, stagger forward. The corridor twists, the glamours thickening, turning the stone into liquid shadow. I don’t know where I’m going. I only know I can’t go back to him. Not after this. Not after what I saw.
And then—there.
The Archives.
The door is open. Unlocked. As if waiting for me.
I stumble inside, slam the door shut behind me. The air is thick with dust and memory, the scent of old magic clinging to every surface. I press my back to the door, chest heaving, teeth gritted.
Safe.
Not really. But *hidden*.
I slide down the door, curl into a ball, wrap my arms around my knees. The bond rages. My skin burns. My magic flickers. And the need—*gods*, the need—coils low in my belly, tightening, *demanding*.
Not just physical. Not just magical.
Emotional.
I want him.
I *hate* that I want him.
“You don’t belong here.”
The voice is smooth. Cold. *Familiar*.
I freeze.
“The Archives are restricted,” Kaelen says, stepping into the room.
How? The door was shut. Locked. There were no footsteps. No sound.
But he’s here. Tall. Imposing. Gold eyes burning in the dim light. His presence fills the space, pressing against me, making the air thick, hard to breathe.
“Get out,” I hiss, not looking at him. “I don’t want to see you.”
“You ran from me,” he says, stepping closer. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Nyx?”
“You let her wear your shirt.”
“She stole it.”
“You let her *laugh* in your study.”
“She broke in.”
“And you didn’t stop her?” I snap, looking up. “You didn’t *kill* her? You didn’t *banish* her? You let her touch your things. You let her—”
“I didn’t *let* her do anything,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “She’s a viper. A liar. A manipulator. And yes, she was in my study. But not because I invited her. Because she’s trying to break us.”
“And is she?” I challenge. “Is she breaking us?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, expression unreadable.
“You kissed me,” I say, voice shaking. “Last night. After the ritual. You said it was because you wanted to. But was it? Or were you just comparing me to *her*? Wondering if I scream as loud? If I taste as sweet?”
His jaw tightens. “You think I’d do that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I say, tears burning in my eyes. “I came here to destroy you. To make you pay for what you did to my mother. But now? Now I’m falling for you. And I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know if *you’re* real. Or if it’s just the bond. Just the magic. Just another lie wrapped in pretty words.”
He steps closer. “It’s real.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Tell me you don’t want her.”
“I don’t.”
“Tell me you’ve never wanted her.”
“I was drugged. It wasn’t consent. It wasn’t *desire*. It was a political move. A transaction. Nothing more.”
“And the mark?”
“A scar. A mistake. Not a claim.”
“Then why does it still burn?”
“Because she’s using magic to sustain it. To hurt you. To hurt *us*.”
I glare at him. “You could have removed it.”
“And what? Start a war with the Crimson House? For a lie?”
“Then destroy it.”
“How?”
“With the truth.”
He exhales, sharp. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I haven’t fought to protect you? To protect *this*?” He gestures between us. “But you don’t see it. You don’t *trust* it.”
“Because you don’t *tell* me,” I say. “You don’t explain. You don’t *fight* for me. You just stand there, cold and untouchable, while she wears your shirt and laughs in your study and tells me you missed me *so much* last night—”
“I didn’t miss her,” he growls, grabbing my arms, pinning me against the door. “I didn’t think of her. I didn’t *want* her. I carried *you* to bed. I tucked *you* in. I watched *you* sleep. And all I could think was—*what if I lose her?*”
My breath catches.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper.
“I do,” he says, voice rough. “Because it’s true. Because despite everything—despite the hate, despite the fire, despite the blood—you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel *alive*. And if that terrifies you, then good. Because it terrifies me too.”
The bond flares—hot, urgent—and I gasp, arching into him despite myself. My skin burns. My magic surges. And between my legs, the ache *pulses*, deep and insistent.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s not the bond. That’s *us*.”
“It’s the magic,” I gasp.
“It’s *you*.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my neck. “You came here to destroy me.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let me make it easy.”
And he kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Violent.
His mouth crashes against mine, fangs grazing my lip, drawing a bead of blood. I gasp, but he doesn’t pull away. Just deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming me, *consuming* me. My hands move on their own—up, over his shoulders, into his hair—pulling him closer, needing more.
“Kaelen,” I whisper, his name breaking on my lips.
He growls, low and feral, and lifts me, pressing me back against the door, his body a furnace against mine. My legs wrap around his waist, seeking friction, seeking *release*. His hands are everywhere—on my back, in my hair, gripping my thigh—anchoring me, grounding me.
“You’re mine,” he snarls against my mouth. “Say it.”
“No,” I gasp.
“Say it.”
“You’re just like them,” I spit, even as my hips grind against him. “Cold. Cruel. *Empty*.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just growls, “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want *you*.”
And then—
The world burns.
Not metaphorically.
Actually.
Blue-white fire erupts from the bond, spiraling around us, racing across the shelves, igniting the scrolls, the ledgers, the centuries of lies. The Archives explode in flame, the heat searing, the light blinding. The ceiling cracks, stone raining down, but we don’t move. Can’t. We’re lost in it—the fire, the fury, the *truth* of what we are.
His mouth is on mine. His hands are on my skin. His body is fused to mine. And the bond—*gods*, the bond—ignites, a spiral of gold and violet fire that engulfs us, that lifts us off the ground, that connects us in a web of light and heat and *truth*.
And in that moment—
I feel it.
Not just the bond.
Him.
His heart. His soul. His *ash*.
And I know—
I will never let him go.
—
The ceiling collapses.
Stone and flame rain down, but Kaelen moves fast—spinning, shielding me with his body, taking the brunt of the impact. We crash to the floor, the fire roaring around us, the heat unbearable. He rolls, pinning me beneath him, his arms locked around me, his body a shield.
“Circe,” he growls, voice rough. “Look at me.”
I do.
His gold eyes burn in the firelight, wild, desperate, *alive*. Blood trickles from a cut on his temple, but he doesn’t care. Just stares at me, his hands cradling my face.
“You’re not leaving,” he says. “Not like this. Not ever.”
“I came to burn you,” I whisper.
“Then burn me,” he says. “But do it with your hands on my skin. With your mouth on mine. With your heart in my chest.”
The fire roars. The Archives crumble. But we don’t move.
Just hold on.
Because the truth is—
The bond isn’t a miracle.
It’s a trap.
And I’m already caught.
Circe’s Claim
The first time Circe touches Kaelen, the world burns.
Not metaphorically.
Fingers brush in the shadowed hall of the Fae High Court, and flame erupts along the marble—blue-white fire born of a soul bond thought extinct, a mark of true mates that hasn’t flared in five centuries. The guards draw steel. The court holds its breath. And Circe, disguised as a neutral witch envoy, feels the sear of a silver sigil bloom across her collarbone—his name, etched in Fae script by magic older than war.
She came to destroy him.
Instead, the universe has bound her to him.
Kaelen, Prince of Ash, is everything she despises: cold, regal, untouchable. The architect of the Purge that wiped out hybrid bloodlines. The man who coldly approved her mother’s execution for daring to love a witch. And now, the Council declares their bond a miracle—a chance to end the Species War. They must wed. They must produce an heir. They must pretend this bond is sacred, not sabotage.
But the truth is far more dangerous.
Their bodies crave each other with feverish intensity. A single glance sends heat pooling low in her belly. His scent—smoke and iron—makes her knees weak. And when they’re forced into a ritual trial that requires skin-to-skin contact under moonfire, she comes undone in his arms, trembling, hating how good it feels.
Meanwhile, someone knows her real identity. A rival—his former mistress, the seductive vampire Lady Nyx—wears his mark like a trophy and whispers lies that could get Circe killed. And beneath the court’s gilded lies, a deeper conspiracy stirs: one that used her mother as a pawn… and wants Circe as the final sacrifice.
She will have her revenge.
But first, she must survive the fire between them.