The sacred spring lies deep beneath the Shadow Keep, a hidden chamber carved from black stone, its walls slick with moss and ancient runes. Steam rises in thick, curling tendrils from the pool at its center, glowing faintly blue with residual magic. The air is heavy with the scent of sulfur and something deeper—earth, power, the slow pulse of the land itself. Torches flicker in iron sconces, their flames reflected endlessly in the rippling water, creating the illusion of a sky filled with drowned stars.
I stand at the edge, barefoot, my gown pooled at my feet, the cold stone biting into my soles. My skin prickles—not from the chill, but from the bond. It’s been screaming since last night, since Lysander touched the cursed sigil, since the magic flared between us and I felt it—*feeding*. Not just on our magic. On our fear. On our hesitation. On the space between us.
And now, he wants to *bathe* with me.
“The bond is destabilizing,” he said earlier, his voice low, rough. “The curse is using our separation against us. The spring can stabilize it. But only if we go together.”
Together.
Two bodies. One pool. No clothes. No distance.
No control.
I press my palm flat against the stone wall, trying to ground myself, but even the rock seems to pulse with the same rhythm as my pulse. My breath comes fast. My skin is too tight. My nipples ache beneath the thin silk of my chemise, sensitive to the brush of fabric, to the memory of his hands on my hips, his mouth on mine.
I shouldn’t have let him kiss me.
But I did.
And now, the bond is punishing me for it.
“You’re hesitating.”
His voice cuts through the steam, deep, commanding. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I can feel him behind me—his presence, his heat, the slow, predatory stride of his boots on stone. The bond thrums between us, a live wire, pulling us closer with every step.
“I’m not hesitating,” I say, voice steady. “I’m calculating.”
“Calculating what?”
“How long it would take me to drown you if you tried anything.”
He laughs, low and dark. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He steps beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine. Dressed in loose linen pants, his chest bare, his body a map of scars and muscle. Gold eyes flicker in the torchlight, watching me, reading me. “The spring isn’t a trap,” he says. “It’s a remedy. But it only works if we’re both in. Fully.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then the bond fractures. The curse wins. And Malrik destroys us from within.” He turns to me, his voice dropping to a growl. “You don’t want that. You want to fight him. To burn him. But you can’t do it if you’re weakened. If you’re broken.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Fine,” I say, stepping into the water.
The heat is immediate, searing, wrapping around my legs like a living thing. I wade in slowly, the blue glow rising up my thighs, my waist, my chest, until I’m standing chest-deep, the steam curling around my face. The runes on the pool’s edge pulse faintly, resonating with the bond, with the magic in my blood.
Then—
Lysander steps in.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
He moves like he owns the water, like it answers to him. The linen pants cling to his legs, outlining the hard lines of his thighs, the powerful curve of his ass. His chest glistens, water droplets tracing the ridges of his abdomen, the old scars that cross his ribs like lightning. His cock—already half-hard—strains against the fabric, thick and heavy.
I force myself not to look.
But my body betrays me—my nipples tighten, my core clenches, aching with a pressure I can’t name.
“Turn around,” he says, stepping closer.
“Why?”
“So I can see the sigil.”
My breath hitches.
Slowly, I turn.
The sigil on my lower back glows faintly, ancient and alive. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the mark, and a jolt of heat shoots up my spine.
“You’re made for this,” he murmurs. “For me.”
“I’m not yours,” I whisper.
“You will be.”
His hands slide up my back, slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist. His touch is firm, possessive, sending a shiver through my core. My breath hitches. My magic hums, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
“The bond is fraying,” he says, voice rough. “I can feel it. The curse is pulling at us, trying to twist us apart. But the spring… it can heal it. If we let it.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then we break.” He steps closer, his chest pressing against my back, his heat seeping into me, a slow, relentless burn. “And Malrik wins.”
My breath hitches.
His hands slide down, fingers hooking into the lace of my chemise—
“Don’t,” I say, voice trembling.
“You’re not in control here,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “The bond is. The magic is. And right now, it’s screaming for *completion*.”
“I’m not your mate.”
“You already are.” He tugs the chemise down, slowly, inch by inch, until it slips from my shoulders, pools at my waist. The water laps at my bare skin, cool against the heat of his hands, the heat of my body.
And then—
He stops.
Just holds me. His chest to my back, his arms around my waist, his cock pressing against my ass, hot and heavy through the fabric. The bond flares, stronger, hotter. It’s not just in my chest anymore—it’s in my blood, my bones, my breath.
“You feel it,” he says, voice low. “The pull. The heat. The way your body betrays you the second I touch you.”
“I’m not betraying anything,” I whisper.
“You’re trembling.”
I am.
Not from fear.
From *need*.
“You want me,” he says, hand sliding down, fingers brushing the curve of my hip. “You don’t have to say it. I can *feel* it.”
“I hate you,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“No.” His hand slides between my thighs, not pushing, just *holding*, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above my pussy. “You hate that you want me. That you *need* me. That you can’t stop thinking about my hands on your skin, my mouth on your throat, my cock inside you.”
My breath hitches.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t want to pull away.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I want to *burn* with you. To let you claim me. To be yours.”
He exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He turns me.
In one motion, he spins me to face him, his hands on my waist, his eyes blazing. The water ripples between us, steam curling around our bodies. His cock strains against the linen, thick and heavy, so close I can feel the heat of it.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want me.”
“I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I hate you, but I want you.”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But *hungry*. Desperate. A claiming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if he’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against him, my core aching, my magic flaring.
His hands slide down, fingers hooking into the lace of my panties—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from him.
Not from me.
From the *bond*.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The spring,” he says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The runes on the pool’s edge are glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The water swirls, forming a spiral, pulling us toward the center. The magic hums, not with danger—but with *recognition*.
“It knows us,” I whisper.
“It knows the bond,” he says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
But for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me burn it down.”
He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “Together.”
The bond flares, not with pain.
With *power*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With him.
For him.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from him.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep him.