SLOANE The air in the Eldergrove temple reeks of iron and incense, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. My boots make no sound on the black marble floor, but my pulse is a war drum in my ears. I press my back against the cold stone pillar, breath shallow, fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh. The blade is cold. Familiar. *Right*. Before me, the ritual circle glows beneath the central dais—nine concentric rings carved into the floor, pulsing with ancient blood magic. At its center, a silver chalice rests on a pedestal, filled to the brim with crimson liquid. *His* blood. Lazarus Vane’s blood. The Alpha of the Northern Packs stands at the edge of the circle, his broad silhouette framed by torchlight. He’s tall—too tall—his body a wall of muscle beneath a long, dark coat lined with fangs. Not decoration. *Trophies*. Each one taken from a fallen enemy. Or a traitor. Or a woman who dared to defy him. My mother wore no fangs when they burned her. I tighten my grip on the dagger. This is it. The moment I’ve trained for, bled for, *lived* for. One strike. One drop of poison into the chalice. The ritual fails. The bond fractures. The Council declares him unfit. And then—justice. But not death. Not yet. I want him to *know* why he falls. I slip forward, silent as shadow, my training as a witch letting me mask my scent, my magic, my very presence. The temple is packed—vampires in velvet robes, werewolves in ceremonial pelts, council elders watching with cold eyes. They’re here to witness the Vow of Fang and Claw, a sacred pact meant to unite the packs and end the war. A lie. A performance. And I’m here to make sure it ends in ashes. My fingers brush the vial in my sleeve. One drop. That’s all it takes. The poison is clear, odorless, tasteless—crafted from moon-blessed hemlock and the blood of a dead witch. *My mother’s blood.* I step into the circle. The runes flare. Not red. *White.* I freeze. This isn’t part of the ritual. The crowd gasps. Torches flicker. The air crackles with magic—old, feral, *wrong*. I try to step back, but the ground beneath me burns. The runes ignite one by one, sealing me inside. A trap. A *binding*. “No,” I whisper. And then I’m yanked forward by an invisible force, my body dragged across the floor like a puppet on strings. My knees hit the stone. My wrist is wrenched upward. A blade flashes. A searing pain. My blood spills into the chalice. The liquid turns black. The temple erupts. And then *he* moves. Lazarus Vane strides toward me, his boots echoing like thunder. His face is carved from ice—sharp cheekbones, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, eyes so dark they swallow the light. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t roar. Just *looks* at me, and I feel it—like a hand around my spine, squeezing. “You,” he says. Low. Deadly. “You poisoned me.” I try to laugh, but my voice cracks. “You don’t even know what I am.” “I know you’re a witch.” He grabs my wrist, the one that’s still bleeding. His grip is iron. “And you’re about to become something far worse.” The chalice trembles. The black liquid swirls, then rises—a tendril of shadow coiling into the air. It wraps around his arm, his neck, pulling him toward me. The bond is activating. *Forced.* “No,” I gasp, struggling. “This isn’t supposed to happen—” “It already has.” His fangs extend—long, sharp, *real*. “You wanted to kill me. Now you’ll die *with* me.” And then his mouth is on my wrist. His fangs pierce my skin. A scream tears from my throat—not from pain. From *fire*. It floods my veins, white-hot and electric, spreading through my body like wildfire. My back arches. My muscles lock. My vision blurs, then sharpens, every detail of his face burned into my mind—the flare of his nostrils, the pulse in his throat, the way his tongue drags over the wound, *tasting* me. Our blood mingles. The bond *snaps* into place. A wave of magic explodes outward, throwing the crowd back. The torches go dark. The runes glow gold. And then—*heat*. A pulse between us, deep in my gut, low in my spine. My nipples tighten. My breath comes in gasps. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the ache. *No. No. This isn’t happening.* I try to pull away, but he holds me fast. His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. His lips brush my pulse. “You’re mine now,” he growls. “Whether you like it or not.” The crowd roars. Cheers. Some hiss. I don’t care. I can’t think. All I feel is *him*—his scent, dark and wild like storm-churned earth, filling my lungs. His heartbeat, syncing with mine. The way his body radiates heat, drawing me in like a moth to flame. I hate him. I *hate* him. And yet—my body *responds*. His fangs retract. He lifts his head, blood glistening on his lips. His eyes are no longer dark. They’re *gold*—wolf-gold, primal and possessive. “The Vow is sealed,” he announces, voice like gravel. “Sloane of the Hollow—half-witch, half-human—bound by blood to Lazarus Vane, Alpha of the Northern Packs. Mate. Claimed. Protected.” “*No!*” I wrench my arm free, stumbling back. The wound on my wrist seals instantly, but a mark remains—a sigil, glowing faintly on my skin. A *brand*. “I didn’t consent! This bond—this is *illegal*!” “Consent is irrelevant,” he says, stepping closer. “You poisoned the ritual. The magic bound us to survive. That’s how it works. You wanted to kill me. Instead, you’ve made me *stronger*.” My stomach drops. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The poison was meant to *weaken* him, to expose him as unworthy. Not trigger the bond. Unless… Unless someone *wanted* this. I look around the temple—council members whispering, werewolves baring their teeth, vampires watching with cold amusement. And then I see *him*—Silas Thorne, a vampire councilman, smirking from the shadows. Our eyes meet. He gives the faintest nod. *He set me up.* I whirl on Lazarus. “This was a trap. I didn’t—” “You tried to assassinate me,” he interrupts, voice low. “In front of the entire Council. You think they’ll believe you’re innocent? You’re lucky I’m not ripping your throat out right now.” “And you’re lucky I didn’t use enough poison to kill you,” I snap. “Next time, I won’t miss.” He laughs—short, sharp, *dangerous*. “There won’t *be* a next time. You’re mine now. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.” He grabs my arm again, but this time, it’s not to bite. It’s to *drag* me. “Wait—what are you doing?!” I struggle, but his grip is unbreakable. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through me. My skin burns where he touches me. My breath hitches. “You’re coming with me,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss. And a lot to *negotiate*.” “Negotiate? I didn’t agree to this!” “You don’t get a choice.” He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “But I’ll make you *want* it.” A shiver runs down my spine. Not fear. *Want.* I hate myself for it. He hauls me through the temple, past the jeering crowd, their voices a blur of accusation and curiosity. I catch fragments: *“Hybrid witch—should’ve been executed at birth.”* *“Lucky she’s marked—now she can’t betray him again.”* *“He’ll break her in a week.”* I clench my jaw. Let them talk. Let them *think* I’m broken. I’m not. I came here to kill Lazarus Vane. And I will. Even if I have to wear his mark to do it. We reach his quarters—a massive chamber beneath the temple, carved from black stone. A fire burns in the hearth. Furs line the bed. Weapons hang on the walls. It smells like him—pine, smoke, and something deeper, *primal*. He releases me, but the bond still hums between us, a constant, maddening thrum. “You’ll stay here,” he says, stripping off his coat. “Until the bond stabilizes. Until I decide what to do with you.” I rub my wrist, glaring at him. “You can’t keep me here.” “I just did.” He turns, his eyes locking onto mine. “You think I don’t know what you are? A witch. A killer. A *liar*. You came here to destroy me. But you failed.” “I haven’t failed yet.” He steps closer. The heat between us intensifies. My skin prickles. My breath comes faster. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “You haven’t. But you will. Because now, every move you make… I’ll *feel* it.” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the pulse in my neck. I flinch, but I don’t pull away. Can’t. His touch is fire. His voice drops. “You came here to kill me.” I lift my chin. “Yes.” A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “Then you’ll die loving me.” I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “I came here to kill you,” I hiss. “And I will. Even if I have to wear your mark to do it.” He laughs—low, dark, *promising*. “We’ll see, little witch. We’ll see.”