The summons came at dusk.
Not a note. Not a servant. But a presence—dark, quiet, inevitable—outside my door. The bond flared before I even heard the knock, a low pulse beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat pulling me toward the threshold.
“Enter,” I said, voice steady.
The door opened without a sound. Kaelen stepped in, tall and still, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes—crimson, knowing—locked onto mine. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just held out a folded length of black silk.
“You’re needed,” he said.
“For what?”
“A ritual cleansing. After the attack. The Council demands it.”
I didn’t move. Just stared at the fabric in his hand. “I can clean myself.”
“Not like this.” He stepped forward. “The bond is unstable. The healing—my blood in your veins—it’s altered the magic. You need to be cleansed. *Together*.”
My breath caught.
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about ritual law.”
“And you expect me to—”
“Bathe with me?” He tilted his head. “Yes.”
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. I pressed a hand to it, jaw clenched. Not from lying. But from the surge of heat that rushed through me at the word: *together*. At the image that flashed behind my eyes—his hands on my skin, his mouth on my shoulder, his body pressed against mine in the steam.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, voice low. “It’s not seduction. It’s necessity. The bond will fracture if the imbalance isn’t corrected.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the bond-fever will set in. Pain. Madness. Death.”
“You’d let me die?”
“No.” He stepped closer. “I’d drag you there myself.”
I glared. But I didn’t argue. Just took the silk from his hand—soft, cool, marked with silver runes I didn’t recognize. “Where?”
“The Moonwell Chamber. Five minutes.”
He turned and left, the door closing silently behind him.
I stood there, heart pounding, the fabric heavy in my hands. This wasn’t just about ritual. This wasn’t just about magic.
This was a test.
And I was already failing.
I stripped quickly—tunic, boots, the leather pouch hidden beneath the mattress—and stepped into the bathing alcove. The water was warm, steam rising from the carved stone basin. I sank into it, letting the heat seep into my skin, trying to burn away the memory of his touch, of his voice, of the way he’d looked at me—like I was something precious, not prey.
But the bond didn’t care about water. It didn’t care about distance or denial. It pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a quiet, insistent reminder: He’s near. He’s waiting. You belong to him.
I washed quickly, dried off, and pulled on the black silk. It was a robe—long, flowing, tied at the waist with a silver cord. The fabric clung to every curve, sheer enough to show the shadow of my hips, the line of my thighs, the faint scar on my shoulder where his mouth had been.
I braided my hair back, secured it with a leather tie. No gowns. No silks. No vulnerability.
Then I stepped into the hall.
The Moonwell Chamber was deep in the lower levels of the Keep, beneath the Bloodstone Chamber, carved into the living rock of the cliff. The air was cool, thick with the scent of salt and moss, the walls lined with glowing silver veins that pulsed like veins. A circular pool of still water sat at the center, fed by a slow drip from the ceiling, the surface shimmering with moonlight that shouldn’t have been able to reach this deep.
Kaelen was already there.
He stood at the edge of the pool, stripped to the waist, his chest bare, his skin pale as bone in the low light. His coat was gone. His boots were off. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the old scars on his forearms—thin, silver lines, like he’d been cut a hundred times and never healed right.
He didn’t turn. Just said, “You’re late.”
“By thirty seconds.”
“I counted.”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, the silk whispering against the stone. The bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling me toward him, even as my mind screamed to run.
“Remove the robe,” he said, voice low.
“You first.”
He didn’t argue. Just unfastened his trousers and let them fall, stepping out of them with a quiet grace. He wore nothing beneath. His body was lean, hard, every muscle defined, his skin flawless except for the scars. His back was to me, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched as I stepped closer.
Then he turned.
And I had to look away.
Because he was *beautiful*—not in the way of polished Fae lords or golden werewolf alphas, but in a way that made my chest ache. Sharp angles. Quiet power. A predator who didn’t need to roar to be feared.
And between his legs—
God.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, willing the heat not to rise. Willing my body not to *react*.
“Your turn,” he said.
I didn’t move. Just stood there, arms crossed, heart pounding.
“River.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
I exhaled, sharp. Then, slowly, I untied the silver cord and let the robe fall.
The air was cool on my skin. My nipples tightened. My breath came fast. I could feel his gaze—hot, heavy—trailing over my body, from my shoulders down my spine, over the curve of my hips, the scar on my shoulder, the sigil on my hip.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“I’m not.”
The sigil flared—white-hot, searing. I gasped, doubling over. Sweat broke across my brow. My vision blurred.
He didn’t move. Just watched. “Liar,” he murmured. “You’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re afraid of *this*.” He stepped closer. “Of the bond. Of what it means. Of what you feel when I touch you.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“You do.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re mine.”
He reached out, slow, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “Now get in the water.”
I didn’t argue. Just stepped into the pool, the water cool at first, then warming as it rose to my waist. The runes on the walls pulsed brighter. The moonlight on the surface shimmered, shifting into patterns—ancient sigils, old magic, something deep and primal.
Kaelen followed, stepping in behind me, his body close, his heat radiating against my back. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stood there, still as stone, his breath even, his presence a wall at my back.
“The ritual,” he said, “requires touch. Skin to skin. Water to water. Breath to breath.”
“And?”
“And you need to trust me.”
I turned my head, just slightly. “I don’t.”
“Then pretend.”
He reached around me, slow, and picked up a bar of soap—black, etched with silver runes, smelling of salt and iron. He lathered it in his hands, then brought them to my shoulders.
The moment his fingers touched my skin, the world *exploded*.
Heat. Light. A surge of energy so intense it stole my breath. My knees buckled. I grabbed his arm to steady myself, and the contact only made it worse—better?—a wave of sensation crashing through me, from his hands down my spine, into my chest, pooling between my legs.
He groaned, low and deep, his free hand tightening on my waist. “Gods, you’re *sensitive*.”
“Stop,” I breathed. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said, voice rough. “The ritual requires it.”
He moved slowly, his hands gliding over my shoulders, down my arms, across my collarbones. The soap was slick, his touch firm but not rough, every stroke sending jolts of pleasure through me. My breath came in shallow gasps. My core clenched. My thighs pressed together.
“You’re not helping,” I said, voice trembling.
“I am.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because the truth was—
I didn’t want him to.
He turned me gently, bringing me to face him. His eyes were dark, his lips parted, his breath uneven. The water lapped at our chests, the moonlight casting shadows across his face, his scars, his fangs just visible in the low light.
“Your turn,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
I stayed silent.
But my body answered for me.
My hands lifted, slow, trembling, and reached for the soap.
I lathered it in my palms, then brought them to his chest.
The moment my fingers touched his skin, the bond *screamed*.
Heat. Light. A surge of energy so intense it stole my breath. My knees buckled. I grabbed his shoulders to steady myself, and the contact only made it worse—better?—a wave of sensation crashing through me, from my hands down my arms, into my chest, pooling between my legs.
He groaned, low and deep, his hands tightening on my waist. “Gods, you feel like *mine*.”
I moved slowly, my hands gliding over his chest, down his stomach, across the sharp lines of his hips. His skin was cool, but the touch burned. My breath came in shallow gasps. My core clenched. My thighs pressed together.
“You’re not helping,” I said, voice trembling.
“I am.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because the truth was—
I didn’t want him to.
He stepped closer, his body aligning with mine, the water rising to our shoulders. His hands moved to my back, gliding down the curve of my spine, over the swell of my hips. My breath hitched. My core clenched. My body *ached*.
“You’re not wearing anything under this,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the edge of the sigil on my hip.
“Neither are you.”
“No.” He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over my skin. “But I’m not the one hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Liar.”
The sigil flared—hot, sharp, searing. I gasped, doubling over. Sweat broke across my brow. My vision blurred.
He didn’t move. Just watched. “You’re afraid,” he said. “Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I am. Afraid of what we *are*.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re mine.”
He reached up, slow, and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “Now kiss me.”
My breath caught.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
I stayed silent.
But my body answered for me.
My hands lifted, slow, trembling, and reached for his face.
My fingers brushed his skin—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet.
Then I leaned in.
And I kissed him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it stole my breath. His hands tightened on my waist, pulling me against him, his body hard, his cock pressing against my thigh. I moaned into his mouth, my hips shifting, my core clenching.
He groaned, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like *mine*.”
And then—
The world shifted.
The water rose, swirling around us, the moonlight flaring, the runes on the walls pulsing brighter, brighter—
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me *climax*—right there, in his arms, in the water, with his mouth on mine.
I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He held me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I did.
I didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. Just let the wave take me, let the bond pull me under, let his hands, his mouth, his body *own* me.
And when it was over, when the water stilled, when the moonlight dimmed, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
I was still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still *his*.
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. “Better?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
He smiled—slow, dangerous. “Now imagine what it’ll be like when I’m *inside* you.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It *screamed* again.
He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just held me, his hands gentle, his presence a wall at my back. The water was warm. The air was thick. The bond pulsed, steady, strong.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt like a woman.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make us?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I lay there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my hair, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.