The storm came at dusk.
Not a natural one. Not rain or wind or thunder from the skies above the Pacific cliffs. This was magic. Ancient. Furious. The kind of storm that didn’t just break the sky—it broke the veil between worlds.
I felt it before I saw it.
A pressure in the air, like the world was holding its breath. The bond between me and Kaelen flared—hot, erratic—pulsing in time with the distant roll of thunder that wasn’t thunder at all, but the groan of shifting ley lines. My skin prickled. My wolf whined low in my chest, restless, sensing the storm’s hunger.
Then the lights went out.
Not just in my room. Not just in the west wing. The entire Keep—Blackthorn Keep, fortress of the vampire king, bastion of blood and shadow—plunged into darkness. The floating crimson orbs winked out. The enchanted torches guttered and died. Even the blue flame in the hearth dimmed to a faint, shuddering glow.
I stood from the bed where I’d been lying, pulse already climbing. No weapons. No sigils ready. Just the clothes on my back and the silence pressing in like a hand over my mouth.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Boots on stone.
I turned toward the door just as it burst open.
Kaelen.
He filled the frame, tall and dark, his coat unbuttoned, fangs just visible in the dim light. His eyes—crimson, sharp—locked onto mine. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him.
“What’s happening?” I demanded, backing up instinctively.
“The Veil is thinning,” he said, voice low. “A storm from the Between is tearing through the wards. The lower levels are flooding. The east wing is collapsing. And the Blood Hall—” he paused, jaw tightening—“it’s compromised.”
My breath caught. “The Oath?”
“Still bound. But not for long.”
I didn’t miss the implication. If the Oath broke now—without me breaking it—without my blood, my will—then the power would scatter. The curse would dissolve, but so would the protection it provided. The Blood Courts would descend into chaos. The Fae would take advantage. War would come.
And I’d have failed.
“So what do you want from me?” I said, voice tight. “Another test? Another punishment?”
He stepped forward. The bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling me toward him, even as my mind screamed to run. “The storm’s magic is wild. It disrupts the bond. If we’re separated for more than twenty-four hours—”
“—we get bond-fever,” I finished. “I know.”
“Then you know we can’t be apart.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he said, voice hard. “I’m telling you. The Keep is unstable. The lower chambers are flooding. The only safe wing is this one—and even that won’t hold if the storm worsens. You’re staying here. With me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather die in the flood than spend a night with you.”
The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing. I gasped, doubling over. Sweat broke across my brow. My vision blurred.
Kaelen didn’t move. Just watched. “Liar,” he murmured. “You don’t want to die. And you don’t want to be alone.”
I lifted my head, glaring. “I don’t want *you*.”
“Your body says otherwise.”
And damn him, he was right.
Because even now, even in the dim light, even with the storm howling outside and the walls trembling, my body was reacting. My pulse was racing. My skin was warm. Between my thighs—God, *between my thighs*—there was a slow, insistent throb, a slickness I couldn’t ignore.
The bond was awake. And it was *hungry*.
“You’re enjoying this,” I spat, straightening. “Forcing me to stay. Trapping me.”
“I’m keeping you alive,” he said. “And before you argue—yes, I could leave you. Let the storm take you. But the bond wouldn’t survive it. And neither would I.”
“You’d survive,” I said. “You’re a monster. You thrive in chaos.”
He stepped closer. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. I could smell him—dark amber, iron, something wild and ancient. My breath hitched. My core clenched.
“I’m not immortal,” he said, voice low. “Not like that. The bond ties us. If you die, I die. If you suffer, I suffer. If you burn—” his hand lifted, brushed my jaw—“so do I.”
I flinched. But I didn’t pull away.
Because the truth was—I believed him.
Not because he was noble. Not because he was kind.
Because I could feel it. The bond wasn’t just a leash. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was *alive*. And it didn’t care about hate. It didn’t care about revenge. It only cared about *us*.
And right now, it was screaming.
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll stay. But not because I want to. Because I have to.”
“Semantics,” he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
He turned, walked to the hearth, and knelt. With a flick of his wrist, the blue flame roared back to life, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The room warmed—just slightly—but it was enough. Enough to see. Enough to breathe.
Then he stripped off his coat. Folded it neatly. Laid it over the armchair.
My pulse jumped.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath it. Just a fitted black undershirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, corded arms dusted with dark hair. His shoulders were broad, his back powerful. Every movement was controlled, deliberate. Dangerous.
He caught me staring.
“See something you like?”
“I see a predator,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “And I know better than to feed one.”
He turned, slow, those crimson eyes burning into mine. “You already have.”
My breath caught.
He was talking about the blood-sharing. About the way I’d moaned when he’d sucked from my wrist. About the way my body had arched into him, begging for more.
I hadn’t meant to.
But I had.
And he knew it.
“That wasn’t feeding,” I said. “That was torture.”
“Was it?” He stepped closer. “Or was it the first time you’ve felt *alive* in years?”
“I’ve felt plenty.”
“Hatred. Grief. Vengeance. But not *desire*.”
“I don’t desire you.”
The sigil flared.
I cried out, clutching my hip. Pain lanced through me—white-hot, searing. I dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, sweat breaking across my brow.
Kaelen didn’t move. Just watched. “You’re lying again.”
“I’m not—”
“Stop.” His voice was sharp. Final. “You’ll burn yourself raw.”
I stayed on the floor, trembling, tears in my eyes. Not from pain. Not just from pain.
From shame.
From the terrifying truth: I *did* desire him. Not just my body. Not just the bond.
But *me*.
And that was the worst betrayal of all.
He crouched beside me. One hand reached out, not to strike, but to touch my hip, right over the sigil. His fingers pressed down, firm, unrelenting.
The pain flared—then shifted.
Not less. But *different*. The fire didn’t fade. But it spread, curling up my spine, down my thighs, pooling between my legs. A low moan escaped me before I could stop it.
His eyes darkened.
“You feel it,” he murmured. “The bond. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t negotiate. It *claims*.”
“I’m not yours,” I whispered.
“You already are.”
He stood, pulling me up with him. “Sit by the fire. Warm yourself. The storm won’t pass until morning.”
I didn’t move.
“River.”
“What?”
“The Touch Pact.”
My breath caught. “We already did it today.”
“Ten seconds,” he said. “Skin to skin. Or would you rather wait until tomorrow and feel the pain?”
I glared at him. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re stubborn.”
“Fine.” I stepped to the hearth, sat on the rug, knees drawn to my chest. “Let’s get it over with.”
He sat beside me—too close. Our thighs touched. A jolt of heat shot through me. My breath hitched.
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 shifted, turning toward me. Our bodies aligned. His thigh pressed against mine. The heat between us was unbearable.
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.”
I turned away, facing the fire. “I’ll never beg.”
“We’ll see.”
Silence fell.
The storm raged outside. The walls trembled. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room. I kept my back to him, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to steady my breathing, to calm my pulse, to *think*.
But all I could feel was him.
His heat. His scent. The quiet power thrumming beside me.
And the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder here, in the silence. Thrumming, pulsing, *pulling*.
“You don’t have to hate me,” he said, voice low.
“You killed my mother.”
“The Oath demanded a life. It wasn’t my choice.”
“Convenient.”
“Truth.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then believe this.” He reached out, not to touch me, but to the edge of the rug. Pulled it toward him, closer. Then lay back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. “I’m not going to hurt you tonight.”
“I don’t believe that either.”
“Good,” he said, eyes closing. “Keeps you sharp.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, listening to the storm, to the fire, to the quiet rhythm of his breath.
Minutes passed.
Then—
“River.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
“No.”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
The sigil flared. I hissed, pressing a hand to my hip.
He opened one eye. “Come. Share the warmth. Or freeze.”
I stayed still.
But the cold was creeping in. The fire wasn’t enough. My fingers were numb. My breath came in white puffs.
And the bond—God, the *bond*—it was screaming.
Reluctantly, I shifted. Moved closer. Lay down on the edge of the rug, as far from him as I could.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, still as stone.
But I could feel him. Every inch of him. The heat of his body. The rise and fall of his chest. 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 don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.”
The sigil burned. I bit back a gasp.
He turned his head, just slightly, those crimson eyes catching the firelight. “You’re afraid of what you feel. Of what *we* feel.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“There’s everything.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—he was right.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any monster ever could.
The fire crackled. The storm howled. The bond pulsed.
And slowly, without meaning to, I shifted.
Just an inch.
Just enough.
Until my back was against his side.
His breath hitched.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just let me be.
And for the first time since I’d entered Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t feel alone.
I felt—
Safe.
And that?
That was the most dangerous feeling of all.
Because if I let myself feel it—if I let myself *trust*—then I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
But as I lay 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.
I just wanted him.