The moon is full.
Not just full—hungry. It hangs low over the Obsidian Spire like a swollen eye, its silver light pooling in the courtyards, bleeding through the enchanted glass, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone. The air hums with it—moonfire, the ancient magic that binds truth to flesh, that strips glamour bare, that forces even the most controlled Fae to *feel*.
And tonight, it demands a ritual.
Not of war.
Not of politics.
Of union.
The Moonfire Trial—mandated by the Council, decreed by Voryn himself, no doubt with the hope that it will expose weakness, fracture the bond, turn Circe against me. A public display of intimacy under the full moon, skin-to-skin contact required, magic unshielded, emotions laid bare. A test of legitimacy. A test of loyalty. A test of *control*.
And I have never been less in control in my life.
I stand at the edge of the ritual grounds—a circular dais of blackened fae-iron, etched with binding sigils, surrounded by torches that burn with captured starlight. The Council will watch from the balconies above. The courtiers will whisper. The vampires will smirk. And Circe?
She hasn’t spoken to me since the Council vote.
Not a word. Not a glance. Just silence—cold, sharp, *dangerous*—as we walked back to our chambers, as I stripped down to the ceremonial breeches, as I waited for her to emerge from the bathing chamber, wrapped in a sheer robe of moon-woven silk, her hair damp, her collarbone bare, my name glowing gold beneath her skin.
She looked at me.
Just once.
And in that look—no hatred. No defiance.
Fear.
Not of the ritual.
Not of the court.
Of *me*.
And that? That cuts deeper than any blade.
She steps onto the dais now, barefoot, the silk clinging to her legs, her arms crossed over her chest. The wind catches her hair, lifts it like smoke. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, back straight, jaw tight, a woman bracing for battle.
Good.
Because that’s exactly what this is.
“Prince Kaelen,” Voryn’s voice cuts through the night, smooth as ice, “and Circe, daughter of Lysandra—step forward.”
We do.
Side by side, but not touching. Not yet.
“The Moonfire Trial,” Voryn continues, “is an ancient rite, designed to test the purity of a soul bond. Under the full moon, the magic strips away illusion. It reveals truth. It amplifies emotion. And it demands *contact*—skin to skin, heart to heart, magic to magic. If the bond is false, it will break. If it is true, it will *ignite*.”
He smiles.
Thin. Cold.
“Begin.”
The torches flare—white-blue, the same hue as the fire that erupted when we first touched. The sigils on the dais glow, pulsing in time with the moon’s rhythm. The air thickens, charged, *alive*. And the bond—*gods*, the bond—responds, a deep, resonant hum beneath my skin, pulling me toward her, demanding union.
I turn to her.
She won’t meet my eyes.
“We have to touch,” I say, voice low, meant only for her. “Palms first. Then the rest.”
“I know the ritual,” she snaps.
“Then stop pretending you don’t.”
She glares at me—dark eyes blazing—and lifts her hand, palm up, fingers splayed. I do the same. Our hands hover, inches apart, the air between them crackling with energy. The sigils on our palms—hers violet-tinged, mine blackened at the edges—pulse in unison.
And then—
Touch.
The moment our skin connects, the world *explodes*.
Not fire. Not light.
Feeling.
It hits me like a wave—heat, sharp and electric, flooding my veins, coiling low in my gut. My breath snags. My pulse roars. And beneath it all, the bond—*gods*, the bond—*sings*, a deep, resonant thrum that echoes in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of me.
But it’s not just mine.
It’s *hers*.
I feel her—her anger, her fear, her *need*—racing through me like wildfire. Her magic, wild and untamed, lashes against mine, not in resistance, but in *recognition*. Like two halves of a shattered soul finally remembering each other.
And I *see* her.
Not the warrior. Not the avenger.
The woman.
Her mother burning. Her hands tied. Her screams unanswered. The years of exile. The loneliness. The rage. The *hurt*.
And beneath it all—
Want.
For me.
Despite everything.
Despite the lies. Despite the blood. Despite the fire.
She *wants* me.
And it *destroys* me.
“Kaelen,” she gasps, her fingers tightening around mine. “I can’t—”
“Breathe,” I say, voice rough. “Just breathe.”
But she’s already trembling, her knees buckling, her body swaying. The moonfire magic is too strong, too raw, and her hybrid body—half-Fae, half-witch—is struggling to contain it. Her magic flickers around her like a dying flame, unstable, *uncontrollable*.
“Circe,” I say, stepping closer, pulling her toward me. “You’re destabilizing. The bond—it’s too much.”
“I’m fine,” she grits out, but her voice wavers, her breath comes fast, and the sigil on her collarbone—my name—burns so bright it’s almost blinding.
“No, you’re not.”
I don’t wait for permission.
I wrap my arm around her waist, pull her against me, press her back to my chest. Her breath hitches. Her body tenses. But she doesn’t fight me. Can’t. The magic is too deep, the pull too strong.
“Place your hands on the sigil,” I murmur, guiding her arms up, pressing her palms flat against the gold script on her collarbone. “Let it ground you.”
She does.
And the moment her skin touches the mark, the bond *ignites*.
Blue-white fire spirals around us, racing up our arms, across our chests, connecting us in a web of light and heat. The courtiers gasp. The torches scream. And Circe—*gods*, Circe—arches into me, her head falling back against my shoulder, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
“Kaelen,” she whispers, voice broken. “It’s too much. I can’t—”
“You can,” I say, tightening my hold. “I’ve got you.”
But I can feel it—the fever rising. The magic fracturing. Her body is rejecting the bond, not because it’s false, but because it’s *true*. Too true. Too deep. Too *real*.
“We need to deepen the contact,” I say, voice low. “The ritual requires it.”
“No,” she says, but there’s no strength in it. Just fear. Just need.
“Yes.”
I shift, turning her in my arms, so we’re face to face. Her hands stay on her collarbone, but mine move—down, over her hips, up her back, beneath the sheer fabric of her robe. Her skin is hot, damp, trembling beneath my touch. The sigil burns between us, a brand, a promise, a *claim*.
“Your robe,” I say. “It has to come off.”
Her breath catches. “No.”
“Circe—”
“I said *no*.”
I don’t argue.
Just lean in, my lips near her ear. “Then let me.”
And I do.
One hand at the shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the silk, peeling it down, inch by inch, until it pools at her waist. Her skin is bare now—smooth, flushed, *glowing*—the sigil on her collarbone pulsing like a second heartbeat. My breath hitches. My control frays.
She doesn’t pull away.
Just watches me, eyes dark, unreadable, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, voice rough.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean every word.”
My hands move—up, over her shoulders, down her arms, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine. Her breath comes faster. Her skin burns. And the bond—*gods*, the bond—flares, a wave of heat rolling through me, tightening my chest, making my blood roar.
“You feel that?” I murmur.
“I feel *you* touching me.”
“Same thing.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just closes her eyes.
And leans in.
—
The ritual deepens.
The moonfire magic surges, spiraling around us in a vortex of silver and gold. The sigils on the dais flare, their light merging with the bond, amplifying it, *forcing* it. The courtiers are silent now, transfixed, as the fire wraps around us, as our bodies press closer, as our breaths tangle, as the magic strips us bare.
And it’s not just physical.
It’s *emotional*.
I feel her—her grief, her rage, her *longing*—racing through me like wildfire. And she feels me—my guilt, my regret, my *need*—flooding her veins, her mind, her soul.
And for the first time, I let her see it.
Not the Prince. Not the Heir. Not the monster.
Me.
The boy who watched his father execute dissenters without flinching. The man who upheld the law even when he knew it was wrong. The prince who stood over the pyre where they burned her mother and said nothing.
And beneath it all—
Regret.
Not for the power. Not for the throne.
For *her*.
For the years of silence. For the blood on my hands. For the fire I helped build.
And she sees it.
I know she does.
Because her breath hitches. Her body trembles. And her hands—*gods*, her hands—move, sliding up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair.
“Kaelen,” she whispers, voice raw. “Why now? Why *me*?”
“Because you’re the only one who could ever make me *feel*,” I say. “Because you’re fire. And fire is the only thing that’s ever made me feel *alive*.”
Her eyes glisten—just for a second—before she blinks it away.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t make me believe you.”
“Then don’t make me prove it.”
The ritual reaches its peak.
The moonfire magic surges, a final, blinding wave of energy that forces our skin into full contact—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, breath to breath. The bond *explodes*, 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.
Her.
Her heart. Her soul. Her *fire*.
And I know—
I will never let her go.
—
The fire dies.
The torches dim. The sigils fade. The courtiers stir, murmuring, shifting, some in awe, some in disgust, some in envy.
And we?
We’re still standing.
Barely.
Circe sags against me, her body trembling, her breath shallow, her skin slick with sweat. The sigil on her collarbone still glows, but softer now, steadier. The bond—*gods*, the bond—is stronger. Deeper. *Real*.
“You’re fading,” I say, voice low. “You need to rest.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
I don’t wait for argument.
I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. She doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t speak. Just closes her eyes, her body going slack with exhaustion.
“Silence the whispers,” I say to the guards as we pass. “Anyone who speaks against her, I’ll have their tongue.”
They bow. Step back.
Good.
Let them fear me.
Let them fear *us*.
I carry her through the Spire—silent, regal, *possessive*—past the glamours, past the courtiers, past the shadows that cling to the walls like secrets. She’s light in my arms, but her presence is *heavy*, like she’s already rewritten the weight of my world.
Back in our chambers, I lay her on the bed, pull the covers over her, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Sleep,” I say.
“I won’t,” she murmurs, eyes still closed.
“You will.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns her face into the pillow, her breath evening out, her body sinking into the mattress.
I sit beside her, watching her—her chest rising and falling, her fingers twitching, her lips parting slightly with each breath. The sigil on her collarbone pulses—gold, like fire, like *mine*.
And for the first time, I let myself *want*.
Not just her body—though gods, I want that. The way she moved in my arms, the way her breath caught when I touched her back, the way her pulse fluttered at her throat when I leaned in—*that* I want. I want to taste it. To feel it beneath my lips. To make her moan my name, not in hatred, but in *need*.
But more than that?
I want her fire.
I want the way she doesn’t bow. The way she fights. The way she *sees* me—really sees me—and doesn’t flinch.
I want the woman who came here to destroy me.
Because maybe, just maybe, she’s the only one who can.
She stirs in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t hear. Her hand moves, sliding across the sheets, until it finds mine. She doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t wake.
Just holds on.
And I let her.
Because the truth is—
I’m not holding her.
She’s holding me.
And I don’t want to be free.
He didn’t bite. But I felt the hunger. And part of me wanted him to.