The silence after the Blood Arbitration should have been victory.
Malrik exposed. His lie shattered. The Council murmuring, eyes flicking between us like we’d just rewritten the laws of magic with a single drop of blood. I should have felt triumph. Fire in my veins, justice on my tongue, the sweet taste of revenge finally within reach.
But I don’t.
I feel the trap.
It’s in the air—thick, still, like the moment before a storm breaks. In the way Malrik didn’t fight, didn’t rage, didn’t even flinch when the blood split and his rot was revealed. He *let* us win. Smiled as he walked out, like he’d just handed us the rope we’d hang ourselves with.
And I know—
He’s coming.
Not for me.
Not yet.
For him.
For Lysander.
—
I find him in the war room, maps spread across the table, his back to the door, hands braced on the edge. His coat is gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. The bond hums between us—steady, warm, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Anticipation.
“He’s going to attack,” I say, stepping inside. “Tonight.”
He doesn’t turn. “I know.”
“And you’re just standing there?”
“Waiting.” He lifts his head, gold eyes blazing in the torchlight. “Letting him think he’s in control. Letting him believe you’re still broken, still doubting, still hating me.”
“And when he moves?”
“Then we burn him.” He turns, stepping toward me, his presence filling the room like smoke. “But not alone. Not like before. Together.”
My breath hitches.
He reaches out, slow, and lifts my wrist. The sigil pulses beneath his fingers, warm, alive. “This mark—it’s tied to your blood. To your pain. To your pleasure. And right now, it’s not afraid.”
“It’s ready,” I whisper.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Then let’s give it something to burn for.”
—
The attack comes at midnight.
Not with fanfare. Not with a siege. But with silence.
I’m in my chambers, gloves off, the sigil on my wrist glowing faintly as I trace the edge of Mira’s locket, when the bond screams.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Need.
I’m moving before I think, boots striking stone, magic flaring at my fingertips. The corridors are dark, the torches guttering, the air thick with the scent of blood and iron. By the time I reach the eastern hall, the fight has already begun.
Wolves howl. Blades clash. Magic crackles through the air like lightning.
And in the center—
Lysander.
He’s surrounded.
Three assassins—cloaked in shadow, faces hidden, their blades etched with the same corrupted sigil from the archives. They move like smoke, fast, precise, their magic laced with Fae rot. One slashes at his throat—he ducks, counters with a brutal twist, snapping the man’s wrist. Another lunges for his back—he spins, elbow driving into the assassin’s ribs, sending him crashing into the wall. But the third—
He’s faster.
He’s already inside Lysander’s guard, blade raised, aimed for the heart—
And I’m not fast enough.
My magic surges—blood energy ripping from my palm—but I won’t make it.
Time slows.
The blade descends.
Lysander doesn’t flinch.
And then—
I move.
Not with magic.
With my body.
I throw myself between them.
The blade sinks into my side.
Fire explodes through my ribs, white-hot, blinding. I gasp, stumbling, blood welling beneath my fingers, black in the torchlight. The assassin pulls back, surprised, but I don’t let him recover.
I grab his wrist, twist—
And snap it.
He screams.
I don’t care.
My other hand finds his throat, magic surging, blood energy ripping through him like a blade. He convulses, eyes wide, then collapses, lifeless.
Behind me, Lysander roars.
Not pain.
Rage.
He moves like a storm—fists, teeth, claws—tearing through the remaining assassins with brutal efficiency. One tries to run—he catches him by the neck, slams him into the wall, and breaks his spine with a single twist.
Silence.
Blood pools on the stone. The torches flicker. The bond hums—wild, frantic, screaming with pain and power and something deeper.
And then—
He’s at my side.
“Circe.” His voice is raw. “No.”
I try to speak, but blood fills my mouth. I cough, dark and thick, staining the front of my gown. My vision blurs. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, pulsing—feeding on the wound, on the blood, on the bond.
“Don’t move,” he growls, hands pressing against the wound. “Don’t you dare move.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, blood on my lips.
He lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and carries me through the Keep, boots striking stone, his breath coming fast. The bond flares with every step, every heartbeat, every breath. I press my face into his chest, his scent flooding me—storm and pine, iron and power—anchoring me, keeping me from slipping into the dark.
“Hold on,” he says, voice rough. “Just hold on.”
“I’m not letting go,” I whisper.
—
The infirmary is cold, the air thick with the scent of herbs and iron. He lays me on the cot, hands still pressing against the wound, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“Kael!” he roars. “Now!”
Footsteps. Boots on stone. Kael bursts in, followed by two healers, their hands glowing with magic.
“She’s lost too much blood,” one says, voice tight. “The blade nicked her lung. She needs healing. Now.”
“Do it,” Lysander growls.
They move fast—cleansing the wound, sealing the tear, pouring magic into my body. The sigil on my wrist pulses, feeding on the healing, on the bond, on the blood. I feel it—every pulse, every breath, every flicker of magic—as if it’s not just my body being mended, but my soul.
And then—
It’s over.
The healers step back. “She’ll live,” one says. “But she needs rest. No magic. No movement.”
Lysander doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his hand still on my side, his thumb brushing the edge of the bandage. His eyes are gold, but beneath them—something darker. Something raw.
“You could’ve died,” he says, voice low. “You should’ve died.”
“And you would’ve,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, voice breaking. “And I’m not done hating you yet.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then—
He leans in.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
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 waistband of my pants—
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 curse,” he says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on my lower back is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the infirmary’s edge—ancient wards etched into stone—ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“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.
—
Later, in his chambers, he carries me to the bed.
Not because I can’t walk—Kael’s healing was strong, the wound sealed, the blood replenished—but because he won’t let me go. His arms are tight around me, his breath hot on my skin, his scent flooding me, anchoring me.
He lays me down gently, then strips off his coat, his shirt, his boots—every piece of armor, every barrier—until he’s bare, his body a map of scars and muscle, his cock already half-hard, thick and heavy.
And then—
He strips me.
Slow. Deliberate. His fingers brush the edge of my bandage, then the lace of my chemise, tugging it down, inch by inch, until it pools at my waist. The air is cool against my bare skin, but his heat seeps into me, a slow, relentless burn.
“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,” I whisper.
“You already are.” He tugs the chemise down, slowly, until it slips from my shoulders, pools at my hips. The water of the sacred spring wasn’t this intimate. This raw. This true.
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 room is dark, the torches low, but I can see him—every line of his face, every flicker of gold in his eyes, every pulse of the bond between us.
“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.
—
After, I cry.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
But from betrayal.
Because I came here to kill him.
And instead—
I gave him everything.
My body. My magic. My truth.
And as he holds me, his arms tight around me, his breath warm on my neck, his cock still buried deep inside me, I whisper—
“I didn’t mean to want you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me tighter.
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 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.