The bond hums beneath my skin like a live wire, thrumming with something new—something I haven’t felt in ten years.
Not rage.
Not grief.
Hope.
It started in the war room, when Kael handed me the parchment from Nyx—Malrik’s bloodline traced back three generations, the sigil’s corruption mapped like a disease. I touched it, and the magic screamed through the bond, a jolt so sharp it nearly dropped me to my knees. But it wasn’t just pain. It was *recognition*. The curse was real. It was feeding on us. And Circe—she’d known. She’d found it first. She’d kept it from me.
And yet—she hadn’t used it against me.
She’d waited.
She’d *trusted* me enough to show it when the time was right.
And that—that changes everything.
I found her in her chambers, lying on the bed, back-to-back with me, our bodies aligned, the bond swirling between us like storm and midnight, merging into a single, pulsing spiral. Her hand was in mine. Not fighting. Not pulling away. *Holding on*.
And the sigil on her lower back—glowing bright, feeding on the truth, on the trust, on the unspoken vow between us: We fight this together.
I left before she woke. Before I said something I wasn’t ready to mean.
But I couldn’t stay away.
Not now.
Not when the bond is so close to breaking. Not when Malrik is circling like a vulture, waiting for us to turn on each other. Not when I finally see her—not as a threat, not as a weapon, not as the witch who came to kill me—but as the woman who might be the only one who can save me.
And I will not lose her.
Not to him.
Not to the past.
Not to my own fear.
—
I return at dusk.
The Keep is quiet, the corridors shadowed, the torches flickering low. The guards snap to attention as I pass, but I don’t acknowledge them. My boots strike stone, each step measured, deliberate. My heart, though—my heart is anything but controlled.
It’s hammering.
Because I know what I’m about to do.
And I know what it means.
I push open her door without knocking.
She’s at the desk again, quill in hand, a book open in front of her. Her gloves are off. And on her wrist—
The sigil.
Glowing faintly.
My pulse jumps.
She doesn’t look up. “If you’re here to threaten me again, save your breath.”
“I’m not here to threaten you.” I step inside, closing the door behind me. The lock clicks. “I’m here to ask a question.”
She freezes.
Then slowly, deliberately, she sets the quill down. “Which one?”
“The one you’ve been avoiding.” I cross the room, stopping beside the desk. “You said you came for the truth. About your coven. About your mother. About Elara.”
“And I did.”
“But there’s another truth you’re hiding.” I lean down, bracing my hands on the desk, caging her in. “About the Hollow Coven. About the night it burned. About who *really* survived.”
Her breath hitches.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice drops to a growl. “I’ve seen the reports. I’ve read the death logs. Every witch was accounted for—except one. A girl. Twelve years old. Hidden in the cellar. Rescued by a human healer named Mira.”
She goes still.
So still, I can hear the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
“And?” she says, voice steady. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You were that girl.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Just stares at me, her dark eyes blazing, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“You lied,” I say. “You told me you came to kill me. That you watched your mother burn. That you spent ten years in exile, plotting revenge. But you didn’t just survive. You were *saved*. And you let me believe you were dead. That I’d already destroyed you.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” she snaps, standing. “You gave the order to burn us. You killed my mother. You killed my sisters. You let Malrik frame me. You made me a ghost. So yes, I let you believe I was dead. Because the dead don’t fight back. The dead don’t seek justice. The dead don’t *burn*.”
“And now?” I step closer, my voice rough. “Now you’re not just fighting for revenge. You’re fighting for *truth*. For Mira. For the girl who survived.”
“I’m fighting for *me*.” She turns to the window, her back to me. “For the woman I became because of what you did.”
“And what about the woman you could be?” I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her body. “The one who stood by Mira’s body and didn’t run. The one who showed me the sigil and didn’t use it to destroy me. The one who lets me touch her like she *wants* it.”
She shivers.
But she doesn’t move away.
“You don’t know me,” she whispers.
“I know enough.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know you’re afraid.”
“Of you?”
“Of wanting me.”
She turns, her eyes blazing. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of *this*.” She gestures between us. “This bond. This fire. This *need*. Because if I let myself want you, if I let myself believe in us, then everything I’ve fought for collapses. My vengeance. My mission. My *purpose*.”
“And what if your purpose changed?” I ask, voice low. “What if it’s not about destroying me anymore? What if it’s about *saving* us both?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her breath coming fast, her scent—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vice.
“You want to rule,” she says, echoing the words she’s said a dozen times. “I want to ruin you.”
“And yet here we are.” I step closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Trapped. Together. Bound.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “But this? This is *fate*.”
She shivers.
But she doesn’t move away.
And for the first time, I let myself hope.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
From myself.
From the past.
From the fire that’s been burning inside me since the night I lost everything.
—
The next morning, I summon her to the war room.
She arrives within minutes, dressed in black silk, her hair loose, her gloves off. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly. Her eyes are guarded, but not closed. Not anymore.
“You wanted to see me,” she says, voice steady.
“Sit.” I gesture to the chair across from me. Maps are spread across the table—Lyon, Prague, Edinburgh, the hidden cities of the supernaturals. The Tribunal’s reach. Our war.
She doesn’t sit. “If this is about the sigil—”
“It’s not.” I stand, crossing the room to the chest in the corner. I unlock it with a key from my pocket, pull out a single file, bound in black leather. Her name is etched into the cover in silver: Circe of the Hollow Coven.
Her breath catches.
“What is that?”
“Your file.” I set it on the table. “Compiled the night of the massacre. Every detail. Every lie. Every order I gave.”
She doesn’t move.
Just stares at it, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“Open it,” I say.
She hesitates.
Then steps forward, fingers trembling as she flips open the cover.
The first page is a sketch—her mother, young, fierce, her dark hair wild, her eyes blazing with power. Below it: Confirmed deceased. Burned alive. No survivors.
She flips to the next page.
A list of names. Her sisters. Her aunts. Her cousins. All marked: Deceased.
And then—
The last page.
A single line, written in my hand:
Witch Circe, age 12. Presumed dead. No body recovered. Status: terminated.
Her breath hitches.
“You thought I was dead,” she whispers.
“Malrik told me you were.” I step closer, my voice rough. “He said the cellar collapsed. That no one could have survived. And I believed him. Because I wanted to. Because if you were dead, then I didn’t have to face what I’d done.”
She turns to me, eyes blazing. “And when you found out I wasn’t?”
“I didn’t.” I meet her gaze. “Not until Kael brought me the report from the archives. The forged order. Signed in my name. I gave the command to execute the survivors—*in my name*—because I thought you were already gone.”
Tears burn behind her eyes.
“And now?”
“Now I know the truth.” I reach out, slow, and lift her wrist. The sigil pulses beneath my fingers, warm, alive. “You survived. You were saved. And you came back not just to kill me—but to make me *see*.”
“And do you?” she whispers. “Do you see me?”
“I see the girl who hid in the dark and lived.” I step closer, my thumb brushing her jaw. “I see the woman who fought her way back from ash. I see the witch who stood by her friend’s body and didn’t run. I see the mate who lets me touch her like she *wants* it.”
Her breath hitches.
“And I see the truth,” I say, voice breaking. “That I was wrong. That I was used. That I helped destroy you—and now, I’ll do whatever it takes to *rebuild* you.”
She doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her scent wrapping around me, pulling me in.
And then—
She slaps me.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the room like a whip. My head snaps to the side, my cheek stinging. The bond flares, not with rage—but with *relief*.
Because she needed to do it.
And I needed to let her.
“You don’t get to say that,” she says, voice trembling. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to *fix* this.”
“Then what do I get?” I ask, turning back to her. “What do I have to do to earn your trust? To prove I’m not the monster you think I am?”
“You don’t.” She steps back, her eyes blazing. “You’ll never earn it. You’ll never *deserve* it. But I’m done pretending I don’t want you. I’m done fighting the bond. I’m done hating myself for needing you.”
My breath catches.
“So no,” she says, voice low. “You don’t get to fix this. But you *do* get to fight with me. To stand beside me. To burn with me.”
“And if I do?”
“Then maybe—just maybe—I’ll stop hating you.”
“And if you don’t?”
She steps forward, her hand rising to my cheek, her fingers brushing the sting. “Then I’ll still burn with you. Because the fire doesn’t care about hate. It only cares about *truth*.”
My breath hitches.
“And the truth is,” she whispers, “I came here to kill you.”
“And now?”
She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. “Now I’m not sure I want to.”
The bond flares, unbearable.
Her scent floods me—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive. My cock strains against my pants, aching, desperate. My hands clench at my sides, fighting the urge to pull her against me, to taste her, to claim her.
But I don’t.
Because this isn’t about possession.
It’s about trust.
And for the first time, I think—just maybe—I’m starting to earn it.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I say, voice rough. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “And you?”
“I’m not alone either.” I reach for her hand, slow, deliberate. “Not anymore.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just lets me take it, her fingers curling into mine, warm, alive.
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 her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose her.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.