The morning after our first shared bed, I woke with Kaelen’s arm slung heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. Sunlight—real, golden, *human-world* sunlight—slanted through the high, narrow windows of his chamber, painting stripes of light across the black furs, the stone walls, the curve of his shoulder. It shouldn’t have been possible. Avalon City existed beneath London, carved from the bones of the old world, its sky a permanent twilight of enchanted clouds and neon constellations. But Kaelen’s estate was ancient, built on ley lines that bent reality, and sometimes, just sometimes, the upper world’s sun found its way down.
It felt like a miracle.
Or a warning.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just lay there, caught between the memory of what we’d done and the horror of what it meant. We hadn’t fucked. Not last night. No thrusting, no claiming, no desperate cries into the dark. We’d just… *held* each other. My body pressed to his, my thigh between his, my hand over his heart, our breaths tangled, our bond humming like a live wire strung between our souls. And when he kissed me—soft, deep, *final*—it hadn’t been about dominance.
It had been about *us*.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any curse, any lie.
He stirred behind me, his arm tightening, his lips brushing the nape of my neck. “Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
I didn’t answer. Just lay there, rigid, my breath shallow.
He chuckled—low, knowing. “You can pretend all you want. But your body remembers.”
“My body’s cursed,” I snapped, finally rolling away from him. The cold air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I reached for the black sleeping robe, tying it tightly around my waist.
Kaelen sat up slowly, the furs slipping down to his hips, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the scars, the thick muscle of his shoulders. He was beautiful. Dangerous. *Mine.*
No.
Not mine.
I turned away before I could look too long. “What now?”
“Now?” He stood, completely unselfconscious in his nudity, his cock half-hard, thick and heavy between his thighs. My breath caught. I hated that it did. “Now we prepare for the Unity Festival. The Council wants a show. And we’re going to give them one.”
“Of course,” I said, voice flat. “Because nothing says unity like a forced marriage between enemies.”
“It’s not just marriage,” he said, stepping into his pants, pulling them up over his hips. “It’s survival. If the bond destabilizes again, the Council will exile us. And you’ll lose your shot at Lucien.”
“And if I don’t play the devoted wife, I’ll burn.”
“Yes.”
I turned to him. “Then I’ll burn.”
He stepped forward, closing the distance between us. His scent—pine, iron, *him*—filled my lungs. His golden eyes burned into mine. “You won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you care.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
The word hit me like a slap. And then—
The bond *flared*.
Heat flooded my core. My skin burned. My nipples tightened beneath the fabric of the robe. The sigils on my wrist glowed faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Kaelen saw it. And he *smiled*.
“You feel that,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s the bond. And it’s not just magic. It’s *truth*. You want me. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“Then why does your body respond when I touch you?”
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t have to. Just stood there, close enough that I felt the heat of his body, the pull of the bond, the *need* coiling low in my belly.
I turned away. “I’m not playing your games.”
“This isn’t a game,” he said. “It’s war. And you’re on my side now—whether you like it or not.”
I didn’t answer. Just walked to the door, my bare feet silent on the stone.
When I reached the corridor, I heard him say, low and final:
“You’re not leaving me, Ebony. Not ever.”
I didn’t look back.
The estate was alive with tension—Enforcers patrolled the halls, witches wove illusion spells in the grand foyer, Fae nobles drifted through the air like smoke. The scent of blood and roses hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of magic. And then I saw *her*.
Seraphine.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in a blood-red gown that clung to every curve, her hair a cascade of dark curls, her lips painted the same shade as her dress. She held a crystal goblet of bloodwine, her fingers wrapped around the stem like she owned it. Like she owned *everything*.
And when she saw me—
She *smiled*.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer.
A *victory*.
“Ebony,” she purred, stepping down. “I was *just* thinking about you.”
My breath caught.
Behind me, Kaelen stepped into the hall, fully dressed now, his expression cold. He didn’t speak. Just watched.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice low.
“I was invited,” she said, her eyes flicking to Kaelen. “By *him*.”
“Liar,” I said.
She laughed—soft, intimate. “Am I? Ask him. Ask him if he didn’t spend the night in my bed. If he didn’t *mark* me. If he didn’t whisper your name while he came inside me.”
My stomach dropped.
“You’re pathetic,” I said, stepping forward. “You think a glamour bite and a stolen robe make you his?”
“I think the proof is on my body,” she said, turning her head, tilting her neck. The bite mark glowed faintly—*real* this time. Not a glamour. “And in his bed. And in his *mouth*.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her—vanilla, sex, *him*. “Then why does he still taste like me?”
And then—
She leaned in and *kissed* me.
Not on the lips.
On the cheek.
But it was worse. Intimate. *Mocking*.
Her lips were warm. Her breath sweet. And when she pulled back, she whispered:
“He likes it rough. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you how he *bites*?”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But inside, something *shattered*.
Jealousy. Hot. Vicious. *Unwanted*.
It clawed at my chest, twisted in my gut. I didn’t *care* if Kaelen had slept with her. I didn’t *care* if he’d bitten her. He was the enemy. A means to an end.
But my body—my traitorous, bond-cursed body—reacted.
My skin burned. My breath came short. My core *clenched*.
And the sigils on my wrist—*glowed*.
Kaelen moved.
Fast. Inhumanly fast.
One second he was behind me. The next, he had Seraphine pinned against the wall, one hand around her throat, his fangs bared. “You don’t touch her,” he growled. “Not ever. Or I’ll rip your heart out.”
She didn’t flinch. Just smiled, her eyes locked on mine. “See?” she whispered. “He *cares*.”
“Get out,” Kaelen snarled, throwing her back. “Or I’ll have you thrown in the catacombs.”
She straightened her gown, smoothed her hair, and walked away, hips swaying, the bite mark on her neck glowing faintly.
Silence.
I didn’t look at Kaelen. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, heart pounding, hands shaking.
“She’s lying,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. The bond would know. If I’d been with her, it would reject you. It would burn. But it doesn’t. It *wants* you. Only you.”
“Then why does she have a real bite mark?”
“Because I let her.”
My breath caught. “*What?*”
“Not like that,” he snapped. “She came to me last night—after the ritual. Said Lucien was threatening her. Said she needed protection. I gave her a *defensive* mark. A ward. Not a mating bite. Not a claim.”
“And the robe?”
“She stole it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to *trust* me.”
“After everything? After Lucien? After the vault? After you *let* her wear your scent?”
“I did it to protect the pack,” he said, stepping closer. “To keep Lucien from using her against us. You think I *wanted* her in my bed? You think I *wanted* her blood on my sheets?”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d react like this.”
“Like *what*?”
“Jealous.”
The word hit me like a blade.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Liar.”
The bond *flared*—hot, violent. My sigils glowed, crimson and gold, racing up my arms. My magic crackled in the air.
And then—
I shoved him.
Hard.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing.
So I did it again.
And again.
Until I was screaming, my fists pounding his chest, my voice raw. “You don’t get to *control* me! You don’t get to *lie* and expect me to trust you! You don’t get to *use* me and then pretend you care!”
He caught my wrists, pinning them above my head, pressing me against the wall. Our bodies aligned—chest to chest, hip to hip. Heat flooded between us. The sigils on my wrist burned against his skin. My breath hitched. My core clenched.
“I *do* care,” he growled. “And you know it. The bond knows it. Your body knows it.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“Then why are you *wet*?”
His hand slid down my side, his thumb brushing the curve of my hip, then lower—between my thighs. I gasped, my body arching, my core clenching around nothing.
“You feel that?” he murmured, his mouth at my ear. “That’s not hate. That’s *need*. And it’s not going to be denied.”
“Prove she’s lying,” I demanded, my voice breaking. “Prove you didn’t want her.”
He leaned in—so close our lips almost touched. His breath was hot on my mouth. His eyes burned into mine.
“Or prove you care,” he whispered.
And then—
I did.
I kissed him.
Hard. Deep. *Desperate*.
His mouth opened under mine, his tongue meeting mine, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me against him. The bond *screamed*—golden light wrapping around us, binding us, *consuming* us.
And for the first time—
I didn’t hate it.
I just *wanted*.
And when he lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, his cock hard against my core, I didn’t stop him.
Because I knew the truth.
And so did he.
I didn’t care about Seraphine.
I didn’t care about her lies.
I didn’t care about her *proof*.
But I cared that Kaelen hadn’t denied it fast enough.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because it meant I was already losing.
And the worst part?
I didn’t know if I wanted to win anymore.
The Unity Festival was held in the Grand Amphitheater—a sunken arena carved from black stone, its tiered seats rising like the jaws of a beast. Torches lined the walls, their flames enchanted to burn in colors that shifted with the mood of the crowd. Tonight, they burned red—blood-red, danger-red, *passion*-red.
Kaelen and I entered together, our steps synchronized, our hands clasped. I wore the crimson gown again—the backless, slit-to-the-thigh, nearly sheer one that showed every sigil, every scar, every mark of the bond. My hair was loose, my lips painted the same shade as the dress. I looked like a queen.
Or a sacrifice.
Either way, I was ready.
The crowd erupted—some in cheers, some in boos, some in whispers that slithered through the air like snakes. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just kept walking, my chin high, my back straight, my hand tight in Kaelen’s.
We reached the central dais—a raised platform of black marble, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly. The Council sat in their thrones, their expressions unreadable. Lucien smirked. Orlanth watched, his pale eyes cold.
And then—
The music changed.
A slow, sensual beat, low and throbbing, filled the arena. The torches shifted—red to gold, gold to crimson. And a voice, smooth and mocking, echoed through the chamber.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” it said. “Welcome to the Unity Festival. A celebration of *harmony*. Of *alliance*. Of *truth*.”
It was Lucien.
He stood, his glass raised, his smile sharp. “And what better way to begin than with a dance? A symbol of unity between our most… *unstable* pair?”
My stomach dropped.
Kaelen didn’t hesitate. He turned to me, his golden eyes burning. “Dance with me,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He pulled me into his arms before I could resist. Our bodies aligned—chest to chest, hip to hip. The bond flared—golden light racing up my arms, his skin burning where I touched him. The crowd watched, silent, hungry.
We moved—slow, deliberate, our steps in perfect sync. His hand was firm on my waist, his other holding mine, our fingers laced. The music wrapped around us, thick and heavy, like a living thing.
“You’re tense,” he murmured, his mouth at my ear.
“I don’t like being used as entertainment.”
“Then make it yours,” he said. “Make them see *us*.”
“And if I don’t want them to?”
“Too late.” His hand slid lower, his thumb brushing the curve of my hip. “They already do.”
My breath hitched. The sigils on my wrist glowed, pulsing in time with the music, with our steps, with the heat coiling low in my belly.
And then—
He pinned me.
Not violently. Not cruelly.
But with *intent*.
One hand at my back, pressing me against him, the other still holding my hand, our fingers laced. Our faces were inches apart. His breath was hot on my lips. His eyes burned into mine.
“Say you want me,” he whispered.
“You already know I do.”
“Say it.”
“I want you.”
He smiled—slow, dangerous, *possessive*.
And then he kissed me.
Hard. Deep. *Claiming*.
The crowd roared.
But I didn’t care.
Because for the first time—
I wasn’t pretending.
And when he finally pulled back, his voice was low, rough, final:
“You’ll play the devoted mate,” he said. “Or I’ll make you.”