The Council chamber smelled like old blood and older lies.
I stood just behind Kaelen’s shoulder, my spine straight, my hands clasped tight at my back to hide their tremor. The Obsidian Spire rose around us in jagged black spires, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Thirteen thrones encircled a central dais—three Fae carved from living ice, three Vampire Houses seated on bone thrones veined with crimson gemstone, three Werewolf Alphas on pelts of silver-fanged wolves, two Witches on stools of twisted root, and one Human Liaison perched awkwardly on a chair too small for him.
All eyes were on us.
On *me*.
Not just because I was the intruder. The saboteur. The woman who’d drawn a blade on the Vampire King and lived.
But because of the bond.
It hummed between us like a live wire, low and insistent, pulsing with every beat of my heart. I could feel Kaelen’s presence like a second skin—his heat, his scent, the quiet power thrumming beneath his stillness. And worse, I could feel *them* feeling it. The Fae princess sniffed the air and smirked. One of the Werewolf Alphas growled under his breath. A Witch narrowed her eyes, fingers twitching like she wanted to cast.
They knew.
They all *knew*.
“You’re tense,” Kaelen murmured, so low only I could hear.
“I’m not,” I lied.
The sigil on my hip flared—just a whisper this time, a warning burn. I bit back a gasp.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t smile. But I felt the shift in him—amusement, dark and quiet. “Liar,” he said, voice like velvet over stone. “Your pulse is racing. Your scent is spiking. And your body is leaning toward me.”
It wasn’t. I *wasn’t*.
But when I tried to step back, the bond tugged, sharp and sudden, like a leash snapping tight. A jolt of heat shot through me—low, deep, *intimate*—and I stumbled forward half a step before catching myself.
Laughter rippled through the Fae seats.
My face burned. Humiliation coiled in my gut. I clenched my jaw, forcing my breath slow, my posture rigid. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t let him see me break.
“The Council convenes,” boomed the High Elder, a vampire with skin like cracked marble and eyes like frozen blood. “To address the breach of the Duskbane Oath, the attempted assassination of House Duskbane, and the emergence of a fated bond between the accused and the sovereign.”
Accused.
Not guest. Not ally. *Accused.*
I lifted my chin. “I didn’t come to assassinate. I came to stop a crime.”
“The Oath is not a crime,” snapped the Fae Queen, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “It is balance. It is order.”
“It’s slavery,” I shot back. “My bloodline has served for a century under a curse forged in my mother’s blood. That’s not order. That’s tyranny.”
“And you,” said the Werewolf Alpha of the Ashen Pack, a grizzled man with one eye and a scar across his throat, “you broke ritual law by attacking during the Renewal. You are lucky you’re not in chains.”
“She’s lucky she’s *alive*,” hissed Lord Virell, an Elder vampire with serpentine grace and venom in his voice. “Kaelen, you should have executed her on sight.”
Kaelen didn’t react. Just stood, still as stone, his hands clasped behind his back. But I felt the shift in him—cold, controlled fury. “She is mine,” he said, voice quiet, final. “And I decide her fate.”
“By right of bond,” said the High Elder. “But bonds do not excuse treason.”
“No,” I said. “But they explain why I’m still breathing.”
More laughter. More glares.
Then the Elder raised a hand. Silence fell.
“The bond is undeniable,” he said. “We have felt it. We have seen it. And it presents a problem.”
My stomach dropped.
“If left unchecked,” he continued, “the bond-fever will set in. Twenty-four hours apart, and both will suffer. Forty-eight, and madness. Seventy-two, and death. You are fated, yes. But you are also enemies. And if you tear each other apart, the Blood Courts and the Fae Quarter will burn in the fallout.”
He turned his gaze on us. “Therefore, the Council decrees a Touch Pact.”
I blinked. “A what?”
“Daily skin-to-skin contact,” said the Elder. “One touch, lasting no less than ten seconds. Failure to comply will result in pain—increasing with each missed day. Three failures, and the bond will be forcibly severed. And you know what that does to fated mates.”
I did.
Severing a bond wasn’t clean. It was like tearing out a limb while still alive. It left you hollow. Broken. Mad.
And if the stories were true, it could kill.
“You’re forcing us to *touch*?” I said, voice tight. “Every day?”
“To maintain stability,” said the Elder. “To prevent war.”
“This is absurd,” I snapped. “I won’t—”
“You will,” Kaelen interrupted, finally turning his head to look at me. His eyes were crimson fire, his voice low, dangerous. “Or would you rather I take you in chains?”
My breath caught.
The sigil on my hip flared—not from lying, but from the surge of heat that rushed through me at the threat. At the *promise* in his voice. My core clenched. My skin prickled.
He saw it. Of course he did.
A slow, knowing smile curled his lips. “You’ll comply, River. Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The Council voted.
Unanimous.
The Touch Pact was law.
They dismissed us with a wave.
Kaelen didn’t wait. He turned and walked, long strides eating the marble floor. I followed, boots clicking behind him, my mind racing. This changed everything. The bond was already a weapon. Now it was a leash. A daily ritual of forced intimacy, designed to break me slowly, to make me *need* him.
And he was going to enjoy every second of it.
We didn’t speak as we walked through the twisting halls of the Spire. Black stone, lit by floating orbs of crimson light. Guards bowed as we passed. Servants stepped aside. No one met my eyes.
When we reached the private elevator—a cage of black iron that descended into the earth—Kaelen stepped inside and turned to me.
“Get in.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I hesitated. The bond pulsed, warm and insistent. My skin still hummed from the Council’s scrutiny, from the threat of the Touch Pact. I didn’t want to be alone with him. Didn’t want to feel that heat, that pull, with no one watching.
But I stepped in.
The door closed. The cage dropped.
And then we were alone.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the descending numbers above the door.
But I could feel him. Every inch of him. The heat of his body. The rhythm of his breath. The quiet power that radiated from him like a storm held in check.
And the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder here, in the silence. Thrumming, pulsing, *pulling*.
“You’re staring,” he said, not looking at me.
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
The sigil burned. I hissed, pressing a hand to my hip.
He turned then, slow, deliberate. Stepped closer. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. I could smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild and ancient. My pulse jumped. My breath hitched.
“You don’t like being told what to do,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t like being touched.”
“Not by you.”
He smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “But you will be. Every day. My hand on your skin. Your pulse under my fingers. Your breath in my ear.”
My stomach clenched. Heat flared between my thighs.
“You’re trying to scare me,” I said, voice shaking.
“No,” he said. “I’m promising you.”
The elevator stopped. The door opened.
We were back in Blackthorn Keep. The west wing. My room.
He stepped out, then turned, holding the door. “After you.”
I didn’t move.
“River.”
“What?”
“The Pact starts now.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Ten seconds,” he said, stepping toward me. “Skin to skin. Or would you rather wait until tomorrow and feel the pain?”
I glared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I stepped out of the elevator, turned to face him. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
He held out his hand, palm up. “Touch me.”
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I reached out.
My fingers brushed his skin.
And 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 my fingertips up my arm, down my spine, pooling between my legs.
His breath hitched.
His eyes flared crimson.
“Ten seconds,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t rush.”
I tried to pull away, but his free hand shot out, catching my wrist, holding me in place. His grip was firm, unrelenting. His skin was cool, but the touch burned.
One second.
My pulse thundered in my ears. My skin tingled. My breath came fast.
Two.
His thumb moved, just slightly, stroking the inside of my wrist. A jolt of pleasure shot through me. I bit back a moan.
Three.
He stepped closer. Our bodies nearly touched. I could feel the heat of him. The rise and fall of his chest. The low, quiet growl in his throat.
Four.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
Five.
“Your scent is driving me mad.”
Six.
My core clenched. My hips shifted, just slightly, just enough.
He felt it.
His fangs flashed. “Seven.”
Eight.
“You want this.”
“No—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you.”
Nine.
My breath came in shallow gasps. My skin was on fire. My body ached—*ached*—for more.
Ten.
He released me.
I stumbled back, clutching my wrist like I could tear the sensation out. My heart pounded. My legs trembled. My thighs were slick.
He just watched me, eyes dark, lips parted, breath uneven. “Not so bad, was it?”
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
“And you’re mine,” he said. “One touch a day. But I’ll take more if you beg.”
He turned and walked away.
I stood there, shaking, my skin still humming, my body still thrumming with need.
The bond was no longer just a threat.
It was a weapon.
And he knew exactly how to use it.
I touched my wrist where he’d held me.
The skin was still warm.
And part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to go after him.
Wanted to beg.
But I wouldn’t.
I couldn’t.
Because if I gave in to this—if I let him touch me again, 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.
But as I stood there, the echo of his touch still burning on my skin, I had to admit one terrible truth:
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be saved.