The first light of dawn bleeds through the high windows of my chambers, thin and pale, like diluted blood. It cuts across the stone floor in slow, creeping lines, inching toward the bed where we lie tangled in sweat-damp silk and the aftermath of fire.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
I just watch her.
Circe.
My mate.
My truth.
She’s asleep—finally—her face softened by exhaustion, her dark hair fanned across my chest, her breath warm against my skin. One hand is curled into my side, fingers pressed just above the scar from a battle long forgotten. The other rests near her hip, where the sigil on her lower back still glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. Her skin is warm, flushed, marked with the evidence of last night—my teeth at her throat, my fingers bruising her hips, the red line across her collarbone where my cock dragged as I buried myself inside her.
And I did.
Buried myself.
Not just in her body.
In her soul.
The bond flares even now, low and deep, a hum beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat. Not the fevered, desperate pulse of denial or rage. Not the jagged scream of the cursed sigil twisting us apart. This is something else. Something quieter. Stronger.
Unity.
She came to kill me.
That much was true.
She walked into the Shadow Court with fire in her veins and vengeance in her heart, her gloves hiding the sigil, her lies woven tight around her like armor. She fought me. Hated me. Told me she wanted to ruin me.
And then she saved my life.
Threw herself between me and a blade meant for my heart. Took the wound meant for me. Bled for me.
And when the healers stepped back and said she would live, when I held her in my arms and felt her breath against my skin, something in me broke.
Not from grief.
From recognition.
Because I finally saw her.
Not as the witch who came to destroy me.
But as the woman who stayed.
Who fought.
Who bled.
Who let me in.
And when I carried her to my bed—when I stripped her bare and pressed my mouth to the wound at her side, when I tasted her blood and felt the bond scream with need—I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
The curse was still there, still feeding on hesitation, on fear, on lies. But we weren’t lying anymore. We weren’t hiding. We weren’t fighting.
We were burning.
And the bond—goddamn it, the bond—answered.
I remember every second.
The way her breath hitched when I touched her. The way her hips arched when I kissed her thigh. The way she whispered, “I hate you,” even as she pulled me inside her, her nails raking down my back, her magic flaring at her fingertips.
And when I came—deep, hard, growling her name into her neck—she didn’t push me away.
She held on.
Tight.
Like she was afraid I’d vanish.
And after—
She cried.
Not from pain.
Not from regret.
But from truth.
“I didn’t mean to want you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
And I didn’t answer.
Just held her.
Because what could I say?
That I didn’t mean to love her?
That I didn’t mean to need her?
That I didn’t mean to feel alive for the first time in ten years?
Lies.
All of it.
—
She stirs now, her fingers twitching against my skin, her breath catching. I hold still, watching as her lashes flutter, as her dark eyes open, dazed, unfocused. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t remember. Her body is relaxed, her scent soft—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive.
And then—
She remembers.
Her breath hitches.
Her body tenses.
Her eyes narrow.
And she pulls away.
Not violently. Not with rage.
But with something worse.
Regret.
She sits up, the silk sheet pooling around her waist, her back to me. The sigil on her lower back glows faintly, pulsing with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her hair falls like a curtain, hiding her face. But I see it—the tremor in her shoulders, the way her fingers clutch the edge of the sheet, the way her breath comes too fast.
“Don’t,” I say, voice rough.
She doesn’t turn.
Just sits there, silent, her spine straight, her body a wall.
“Don’t what?” she asks, voice low, dangerous.
“Don’t pretend it didn’t happen.” I sit up, reaching for her. “Don’t pretend you didn’t mean it.”
She flinches when I touch her.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“I meant it,” she says, voice breaking. “Every second. Every touch. Every breath. But that doesn’t mean it was right.”
“Right?” I turn her, gripping her shoulders, forcing her to face me. “Since when has anything about this been right? You came here to kill me. I gave the order to burn your coven. We’re bound by a curse, hunted by a liar, and the entire supernatural world thinks we’re either mad or mated. Since when does right matter?”
She stares at me, her eyes blazing. “It matters because I came here for justice. Not this. Not you.”
“And you think I don’t want justice?” I growl. “You think I don’t want Malrik’s head on a spike? You think I don’t want to burn his lies to ash? But I want you too. And I’m not going to pretend that makes me weak.”
“It makes you vulnerable,” she snaps. “And vulnerability gets people killed.”
“So does denial.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “You think I don’t feel it? The bond? The fire? The way my wolf stills when you’re near, not in threat—but in recognition? You’re not just my mate, Circe. You’re my balance. My fire. My truth.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent wrapping around me, pulling me in.
And then—
She looks down.
At my chest.
And I see it—the flicker of fear. Not of me. Not of the bond.
Of herself.
“You’re marked,” she whispers.
I frown. “What?”
She reaches out, slow, and traces the mark on my collarbone—a jagged line of silver, glowing faintly. Not a scar. Not a wound.
A sigil.
My breath catches.
I didn’t feel it. Didn’t see it. But it’s there—etched into my skin, pulsing in time with the bond. Not Hollow magic. Not fully. But tied to it. To her.
“It’s not just a mark,” she says, voice trembling. “It’s a claim. A bond seal. It means—”
“I know what it means,” I say, voice low. “It means you’re mine. And I’m yours. No more lies. No more games. No more running.”
She pulls her hand back. “And if I don’t want that?”
“Too late.” I pull her closer, my arms wrapping around her, my face pressing into her neck. “You gave yourself to me last night. Not just your body. Your magic. Your truth. Your fire. And I’m not letting go.”
She doesn’t fight.
Just presses her face into my shoulder, her breath warm against my skin.
And for a long time, we stay like that—entangled, breathing together, the bond humming between us, warm and steady.
—
Later, she rises.
Not with anger. Not with distance.
But with purpose.
She dresses in silence—black silk, gloves, boots—her movements precise, deliberate. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly beneath the fabric. She doesn’t look at me as she pulls on her gloves, as she braids her hair, as she checks the dagger at her thigh.
“Where are you going?” I ask, sitting up.
“To the archives,” she says, not looking at me. “I need to find something.”
“And what’s that?”
“Proof.” She turns, her eyes blazing. “Not just about Malrik. About the bond. About this.” She gestures to the mark on my chest. “If it’s a seal, it’s tied to the curse. And if it’s tied to the curse, then it can be broken. Or used.”
“And if it can’t?”
“Then we burn anyway.” She steps toward the door. “But I’m not going to let him use it against us. Not again.”
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, standing. “You’re not alone anymore.”
She pauses at the door, her hand on the latch. “I know.”
And then—
She turns.
And for the first time since she woke, she looks at me.
Really looks.
Not with hate.
Not with fear.
But with something else.
Trust.
“But I need to do this,” she says, voice low. “For me. For Mira. For the girl who survived.”
“Then go,” I say. “But come back.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just nods.
And leaves.
—
The Keep feels different now.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the cursed sigil.
But because of her.
She walks through the corridors like she belongs here. Like she’s not a witch who came to kill me. Like she’s not a woman who bled for me last night.
Like she’s mine.
And she is.
I watch from the war room as she passes below, her boots striking stone, her magic flaring at her fingertips. Kael sees her too—stands straighter, watches her with something like respect.
“She’s different,” he says, stepping beside me.
“She’s not hiding anymore,” I say.
“And you?” He studies me. “Are you?”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as she disappears into the archives, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly.
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.