SLOANE I wake tangled in heat and him. Again. His arm is still around my waist, heavy, possessive, his hand splayed across my hip like it belongs there. His chest presses into my back, every breath a slow, steady rhythm that syncs with mine. His scent—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—fills my lungs. The bond hums between us, a low, insistent thrum, like a second heartbeat pulsing beneath my skin. And I’m *wet*. Not from sweat. Not from fear. From *him*. From the way his body fits against mine. The way his thigh brushes mine. The way his breath ghosts over my neck, sending shivers down my spine. I don’t move. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. I’ll feel the ridge of his cock, thick and hard against my ass. I’ll feel the way my hips tilt back, just slightly, chasing the friction. I’ll feel the traitorous *relief* that floods me because I’m still clothed, still untouched, still *mine*—even as my body screams for more. But I’m not mine. I’m *his*. Bound. Claimed. *Cursed*. I close my eyes, breathing through the rising panic. *Control. Focus. You’re a witch. You’re a fighter. You’re not some trembling victim.* But my body doesn’t listen. It *knows* him now. And it *wants* him. I shift, just slightly, trying to ease the ache between my thighs. His arm tightens around me, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Don’t pull away.” I freeze. “I wasn’t—” “You were.” He nuzzles my neck, his lips brushing my pulse. “The bond knows. You’re *aching*.” My breath hitches. “It’s not real.” “It’s the most real thing you’ve ever felt.” He presses closer, his cock thickening against me. “And you’re *dripping*.” “Stop it.” “Why?” He nips my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “You liked it last night. When you said you wanted me. When you kissed me back.” I don’t answer. Because he’s right. I *did*. I said it. I *meant* it. And worse—I *meant* the kiss. Not the slap. Not the bite. Not the fury. But the soft, slow, *real* one that followed, the one that wasn’t about hate, wasn’t about the bond, but about *us*. And now—now I’m *fucked*. Because if I want him… Then I’m not just betraying my mission. I’m betraying *myself*. And worse—I don’t *care*. I press my palms to the cold stone floor, pushing myself up. My body aches in ways I don’t want to name—my thighs sore, my core still pulsing with the ghost of his touch, my lips swollen from the kiss that wasn’t about hate, wasn’t about the bond, but about *us*. The bite mark on my inner thigh burns, a slow, rhythmic throb that syncs with my pulse, with the bond, with *him*. And I don’t remember. I don’t remember *him* doing it. I don’t remember *letting* him. But my body knows. It *always* knows. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. My clothes are gone—torn, discarded, *ruined*. I’m in a thin shift, the fabric clinging to my sweat-slick skin. I press my hands to my temples, breathing through the lingering fog of sleep, of dreams I don’t want to remember. Dreams where I wasn’t fighting him. Dreams where I was *begging* him. I stand, pacing to the hearth, feeding a log into the dying fire. Flames flicker, then roar, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The heat is welcome—real, controllable, *mine*. Not the maddening pulse of the bond, not the way my body *knows* him now, the way my core still aches from the memory of his thigh pressed between mine, his breath on my neck, his voice in my ear. *Mark me, Lazarus. Make me yours.* I clench my jaw. No. I didn’t say that. I *couldn’t* have. But the mark says otherwise. And worse—*I like it*. Not just the heat. Not just the pulse of pleasure. But the *claim*. The *possession*. The way my body *knows* it belongs to him now. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. My breath comes shallow. And then—footsteps. Soft. Bare. *Close*. I don’t look up. But I know it’s him. The bond flares—a deep, slow throb—and the air shifts, heavy with his presence. His boots echo on the stone, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing the water. Then—silence. He’s standing over me. I can feel it. His heat. His scent. The low, steady rhythm of his breath. And then—his voice. “Sloane.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I look at him, I’ll see him. Shirtless. Powerful. *Real*. And I’ll remember the dream. Not just the heat, the friction, the way my body opened for him like it was made to—*was it?*—but the terrifying, traitorous *relief* that flooded me when I woke up still clothed, still untouched, still *mine*. Except I’m not. I’m *his*. Marked. Claimed. *Cursed*. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. His eyes are dark—no gold, no wolf—just human, haunted, like he’s seen something he can’t unsee. Like he’s *felt* me. And liked it. “You’re awake,” he says. I glare. “You *bit* me.” “I know.” “You *marked* me.” “I know.” “On my *thigh*.” My voice cracks. “That’s not just a claim. That’s—” “Dominance,” he finishes. “Sexual dominance. A public declaration that you’re mine. That you *belong* to me.” My breath catches. “I don’t *belong* to you.” “You do.” His voice is low, rough. “The bond says so. Your body says so. And if you don’t believe me—” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark. A jolt of pleasure shoots through me—sharp, electric, *unbearable*. My back arches. My breath hitches. “*Stop it!*” I slap his hand away. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his gaze steady, like he’s waiting for me to finish falling. “You don’t have to pretend.” “I’m not *pretending*—” “You’re *hiding*.” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “You don’t remember, do you?” I freeze. “What?” “The bite.” His voice drops. “You don’t remember me doing it.” I shake my head. “Then let me tell you.” He takes my hand, slow, deliberate, and presses it to the mark. “You woke up in my arms. Half-naked. Wet. *Begging*.” “That’s *not*—” “You were *moaning* my name.” His thumb drags over my lower lip. “You were grinding on me. You *bit* my lip. You *screamed* when I touched you.” “I *didn’t*—” “You *did*.” He shifts, his thigh pressing between mine, just enough to make me gasp. “And when I put my mouth on your thigh, you *arched* into me. You *begged* me to bite you.” “That’s *bullshit*.” “Is it?” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “You said, *‘Mark me, Lazarus. Make me yours.’* And I did.” I stare at him. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But I didn’t take you. Not like that. Not yet. I wanted you awake. I wanted you *present*. I wanted you to *choose* me.” “And if I hadn’t?” “Then I wouldn’t have.” He pulls back, his eyes locking onto mine. “But you *did*. You *chose* me. Even if you don’t remember it.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—knocking. Sharp. Official. We freeze. “The Alpha and his mate are summoned,” a voice calls from the other side of the door. “The Council demands an audience.” Lazarus exhales, long and slow, then stands, offering me his hand. “We have a performance to give.” I don’t take it. “I’m not playing *anything* with you.” “You don’t have a choice.” He steps back, his gaze steady. “The Council will be watching. Silas will be watching. And if you give them even a hint that this bond is anything less than *real*…” He steps closer. “They’ll execute us both.” My stomach drops. He’s right. If we don’t convince them we’re united, we die. And if we die… I’ll never know the truth. About my mother. About the trap. About *him*. I press my palms to the cold stone floor, pushing myself up. My legs are weak. My body still aches. But my mind is clear. For the first time. I take his hand. His grip is warm. Strong. *Right.* He pulls me to my feet, but doesn’t let go. His other hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. “You don’t have to trust me,” he murmurs. “But you *do* have to survive.” “And if I don’t want to?” “Then you’ll die.” His thumb drags over my lip again. “And I’ll be the one to bury you.” A shiver runs through me. Not fear. *Want.* He sees it. Smiles. Then he turns, releasing me. “Get dressed. We have a war to win.” --- The Council Chamber is a cathedral of power. Black marble columns rise to a vaulted ceiling, carved with scenes of war and conquest. The air smells of blood and incense, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. At the far end of the hall, nine thrones rise on a dais—five for the vampire elders, three for the werewolf Alphas, one for the fae envoy, and one, empty, for the human representative who never comes. We walk in together. Lazarus’s hand is on the small of my back—light, possessive, *claiming*. Every step sends a pulse of heat through me. My skin burns where he touches me. My breath comes shallow. The chamber is already full. Vampires in velvet robes. Werewolves in ceremonial pelts. Council members watching with cold eyes. And in the front row—*her*. Lyra Voss. She’s draped in black silk, her dress cut low, her curves on full display. Her hair is a cascade of dark waves, her lips painted blood-red. And she’s wearing *his* shirt. Again. Not a replica. *His*. The fang-studded collar—*his*—draped over her shoulders like a shawl. My breath catches. The bond flares—a pulse of heat so intense it makes my knees weak. My skin burns. My hands clench into fists. She sees me. Smiles. And leans into the vampire beside her, whispering something that makes him laugh. Lazarus’s hand tightens on my back. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.” “She’s *wearing your shirt*,” I hiss. “She’s *playing* you.” His voice is low, rough. “And you’re falling for it.” I glare at him. “You let her—” “I didn’t.” He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “She stole it. After I was poisoned. I was unconscious. She *saved* me.” I stiffen. “You expect me to *believe* that?” “I don’t care what you believe.” He guides me forward, his hand firm. “Just play the part. Or we both die.” We reach the center of the chamber. The Council rises. An elder—a vampire with silver hair and eyes like frozen blood—steps forward. “Alpha Vane. Mate Sloane. The Blood Council convenes to assess the stability of your bond.” Lazarus bows his head. “We stand ready.” The elder’s gaze slides to me. “You are accused of attempting to assassinate the Alpha. Of poisoning the Vow of Fang and Claw. How do you plead?” I lift my chin. “Guilty.” A murmur ripples through the chamber. The elder’s eyes narrow. “And yet you live. You are *claimed*. Why?” “Because the bond chose her,” Lazarus says. “Not me. And it will kill us both if it’s not stabilized.” “By sharing a bed,” another elder says. “For thirty nights.” “Yes.” “And you accept this?” “I do.” The elder turns to me. “And you, hybrid? Do you accept your role as mate?” I look at Lazarus. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I think of the bed. The heat. The way my body *knows* him. I think of my mother. Of the trap. Of the truth I still don’t know. I think of *her*—Lyra—smirking, wearing his shirt like a trophy. And I make my choice. “I do,” I say. The chamber falls silent. Then—applause. Soft. Mocking. From the front row. Lyra stands, her dress slipping off one shoulder, the fang-studded collar glinting in the torchlight. She steps forward, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on Lazarus. “Alpha,” she purrs. “I’m so glad to see you *recovered*.” She reaches out, her fingers brushing his chest. “You were so *weak* when I found you. So *helpless*.” Lazarus doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. “You saved my life. I’m grateful.” Her smile widens. “You were *screaming* my name when I healed you.” Her fingers trail down, lower, lower. “You *begged* me to touch you.” My breath catches. The bond flares—a wave of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My hands tremble. *No.* *No, no, no—* Lazarus catches her wrist before she can go further. “Enough.” She laughs—light, musical. “Still possessive, I see.” She turns to me, her eyes gleaming. “Don’t worry, little witch. He always comes back to me. *Eventually*.” I see red. I don’t think. I *move*. But this time, I don’t use magic. I step forward, slow, deliberate, until I’m standing toe-to-toe with her. Then I reach down—and pull up the hem of my tunic. The chamber gasps. Because there it is. The bite mark. Fresh. Red. *His*. On my inner thigh. High. Intimate. *Unmistakable*. Lyra’s smile falters. The chamber falls silent. Then—whispers. *“He marked her.”* *“On the thigh—sexual dominance.”* *“She’s truly his now.”* *“No one else will touch her.”* I drop the fabric, but I don’t look away from her. “Still think he’ll come back to you?” I ask, voice low, dangerous. She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. And then—she *runs*. Not dignified. Not composed. She *flees*, her heels clicking against the marble, her dress trailing behind her like a discarded lie. Silence. Then—laughter. From the werewolves. From the vampires. From the Council. And from *him*. Lazarus turns to me, his eyes gold, feral, *possessive*. “You just declared war.” I lift my chin. “I just won it.” He smiles—slow, dark, *dangerous*. “Then let’s finish it.” And as we walk out of the chamber, hand in hand, the bond humming between us like a vow, I realize— The game has changed. And the war is just beginning. --- Back in the chambers, the fire crackles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. I stand by the hearth, my arms crossed, every muscle coiled like a spring. Lazarus paces, his boots loud on the stone, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. “You lied,” I say. He stops. “What?” “You lied to the Council.” I turn on him. “When they asked about the ritual. About the sabotage. You said I poisoned it to kill you. But that’s not true.” His face hardens. “It doesn’t matter what’s true. What matters is survival.” “It *does* matter.” I step closer. “Because I didn’t poison it to kill you. I poisoned it to *expose* you. To make the Council see you for the monster you are.” “And now?” His voice drops. “Now you know I’m not.” I glare. “You’re still a monster.” “No.” He takes a step forward. “I’m the man who *saved* you. Who *protected* you. Who *took a blade for you*.” “And now you’re using that to *control* me.” My voice cracks. “You’re making me lie. Making me *pretend* this bond is real. Making me *belong* to you.” “It *is* real.” He grabs my arms, his grip iron. “The bond is real. The heat is real. The way you *arched* into me last night—that was real.” “That was *not*—” “It *was*.” His voice is low, dangerous. “You don’t remember, but I do. You *wanted* it. You *begged* for it. And I *gave* it to you.” I shove at his chest. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.” “I don’t.” He leans in, his breath hot on my neck. “The bond does.” I twist, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through me, deeper this time, *lower*. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And then—his hand slides down, cupping my ass, pulling me against him. His cock thickens, pressing into my stomach. My hips tilt forward, chasing the friction. “Stop it,” I gasp. “Why?” He nips my neck—sharp, stinging. “You liked it. You *love* it. You *crave* it.” “I *hate* you.” “No.” His voice is rough, raw. “You hate that you *want* me.” I freeze. Because he’s right. I *do*. I hate the way my body betrays me. The way my breath hitches when he looks at me. The way my core aches when he’s near. The way I *dream* of him—his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat, his voice in my ear. *I want you, Sloane. Say it.* And I *do*. I want him. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because he’s *real*. Because he didn’t kill me when he could have. Because he sent a message to the Frostfang Wastes while I was lost to the moon. Because he stepped in front of a blade meant for *me*. Because he’s the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen *me*—not a weapon, not a witch, not a killer. But a *woman*. And I can’t hate that. I *won’t*. So I do the only thing I can. I break. Tears burn my eyes. My voice cracks. “I *hate* that I want you.” Silence. Then—his arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Strong. *Alive*. His breath is warm on my neck. His hands stroke my back, slow, soothing. And I sob. Not quietly. Not gracefully. *Hard*. Great, heaving sobs that rack my body, that leave me gasping, that make me clutch at him like he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning. And he *is*. Because the truth is worse than the lie. Because if I want him… Then I’m not just betraying my mission. I’m betraying *myself*. I came here to kill him. To make him *pay*. But now? Now I’d *die* for him. And that terrifies me more than any blade, any bond, any lie. He holds me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just *holds* me, like he knows I’m falling and he’s the only one who can catch me. And when the sobs slow, when my breath steadies, when my hands unclench from his shirt—he tilts my face up. His eyes are dark now. Human. *Real*. “You don’t have to fight it,” he murmurs. “I *have* to.” “Why?” His thumb drags over my lower lip. “Because of what they told you? Because of the lie about your mother?” I look away. “She’s *alive*, Lazarus. And I have to save her.” “And to do that?” His voice drops. “You need me.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *do*. I need him. Not just to survive the bond. Not just to fight the Council. But to *live*. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone. And I *never* want to feel that way again. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he kisses me. Not desperate. Not angry. *Soft*. Slow. Deep. His lips move against mine like he’s savoring me. His hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer, *tighter*. And I kiss him back. Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* want to. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. His tongue slips between my lips, slow, deliberate, and I open for him. My hands fly to his chest, not to push, but to *brace*. His heartbeat pounds under my palms, wild, feral, *syncing* with mine. And then—his hand slides down, under my tunic, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine. My breath hitches. My back arches. My core clenches. He growls—low, dark, *triumphant*—and deepens the kiss. Our tongues clash. Teeth scrape. Breath mingles. The bond *sings*, a deep, sacred thrum beneath my skin. And I’m *lost*. Not to the heat. Not to the moon. But to *him*. To the way his body fits against mine. The way his scent—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—fills my lungs. The way his hands know me, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch me. And then—his hand slips lower, cupping my ass, pulling me against him. His cock thickens, pressing into my stomach. My hips tilt forward, chasing the friction. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. “Say it.” I shake my head. “Say it,” he growls. “No.” “*Say it*.” His voice is a velvet threat. “You want me. *Say it*.” I glare. “Never.” He shifts, grinding against me, just once, and *God*, it’s like fire through my veins. My back arches. My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. “You don’t have to say it. Your body already did.” I shove at his chest. “Let me go.” “No.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my face up. “You don’t get to run. Not this time.” “I’m not *running*—” “You’ve been running your whole life.” His breath is hot on my neck. “From your mother’s death. From your power. From *this*.” He nips my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “But you can’t run from me. Not anymore.” I twist, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through me, deeper this time, *lower*. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And then—his hand slips between my thighs. Not through my clothes. *Under* them. His fingers brush my clit—just once—and *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. My back arches. A moan tears from my throat. He smirks. “You’re *dripping*.” I slap him. Hard. The sound cracks through the vault like a whip. His head snaps to the side. Silence. Then—slowly—he turns back. His lip is split. Bleeding. And he’s *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphantly*. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fight me.” I glare. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” He wipes the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving mine. “But you didn’t slap me because I touched you.” “No?” “You slapped me,” he says, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *did*. And worse— *I want more*. He sees it in my face. Leans in. And I kiss him. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. My teeth scrape his lip. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips grind against his hand. And he *groans*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kisses me back with equal fury. Our tongues clash. Teeth bite. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—his fingers slide lower, parting my folds, circling my entrance. I gasp. My back arches. My core *clenches*. “Say it,” he growls against my mouth. “Never.” He pushes one finger inside. Just one. And *God*, it’s like fire through my veins. My hips buck. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My nails claw at his back. He smirks. “You’re *so* tight. So *wet*.” I bite his lip. Hard. Blood blooms on his mouth. He *laughs*—low, dark, *dangerous*—and curls his finger, pressing against that spot deep inside. I *scream*. My body convulses. My core *clenches* around him. And then— “Alpha.” The voice is quiet. Controlled. *Kaelen*. We freeze. Lazarus pulls his hand away, slowly, deliberately, and turns. Kaelen stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze flicks to me—my flushed face, my swollen lips, my trembling hands—then back to Lazarus. “The Council’s calling,” he says. “They want a progress report on the bond.” Lazarus exhales, long and slow, then releases me. “We’re done.” I stumble back, chest heaving, hands trembling. My skin burns where he touched me. My thighs are slick. My core aches. He turns, walking toward Kaelen, but stops, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re getting stronger.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth slithers through me, hot and undeniable. I’m not stronger. I’m *weaker*. Because every time he touches me, every time he looks at me, every time he says my name like it’s a *promise*— I want him more. And worse— *I don’t want to stop*. --- The training yard is a circle of packed earth, ringed by stone walls and torches that flicker in the predawn wind. The air is sharp with frost, my breath visible in the cold. Across from me, Lazarus stands barefoot, shirtless, his body a landscape of scarred muscle, his eyes locked onto mine. No staff now. Just us. Just the bond. Just the heat. “Defend yourself,” he says. I don’t wait. Magic surges through my veins—a pulse of blood and breath, a sigil flaring to life on my palm. I hurl a blast of force at him, raw and unrefined, aimed to knock him back, not to hurt. He dodges—fast, fluid, *inhuman*—and closes the distance in three strides. His hand wraps around my wrist, twisting it behind my back. Pain flares, sharp and sudden, but I don’t cry out. I *can’t*. The bond flares—a wave of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns where he touches me. My breath hitches. And then—his thigh slides between mine. Not by accident. *On purpose.* He grinds against me, just once, and *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. My back arches. My core clenches. My breath comes in a gasp. He smirks. “You’re trembling. Is it fear… or *want*?” I twist, using my free hand to slam an elbow into his ribs. He grunts, releases me—but only to spin and kick my legs out from under me. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. He looms over me, golden eyes blazing. “You fight like you’re afraid to win.” “I’m not afraid,” I gasp, rolling to my feet. “I’m afraid of *you*.” “Good.” He lunges. I dodge, but he’s faster. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, heat to heat. His breath is hot on my neck. His cock is hard against my stomach. And I’m *wet*. Not from sweat. Not from fear. From *him*. From the way his body fits against mine. The way his scent—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—fills my lungs. The way my hips tilt forward, just slightly, chasing the friction. “Stop it,” I whisper. “Why?” He nips my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “You liked it last night. When you believed me. When you whispered you believed me in the dark.” “That was a *mistake*.” “No.” His voice drops, a velvet threat. “That was *truth*.” I elbow him in the gut, twist free, and stumble back. Magic surges through me—faster this time, sharper. I carve a sigil into the air with my fingers, blood welling from a cut on my palm. The mark glows—red, hot—and I hurl it at him. He doesn’t dodge. The blast hits him square in the chest, throwing him back. He lands on one knee, blood trickling from his lip. And he *laughs*. Low. Dark. *Dangerous.* “You’ve got fire,” he says, standing. “But you’re holding back.” “I’m not—” “You are.” He wipes the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re afraid of what happens if you *don’t*.” “And what happens?” He steps closer. “You *win*.” I don’t move. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *am* holding back. Not because I’m weak. Because I’m *scared*. Scared of what I might do if I let go. Scared of what I might *feel*. Scared that if I stop fighting him, I’ll stop fighting *myself*. And then—then I’ll *want* him. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because of *him*. Because of the way he looked at me when he said, *I’d rather die with you than live without you.* Because of the way he didn’t deny Lyra—but didn’t *claim* her either. Because of the way he’s fighting for me, even when I’m fighting *against* him. I take a step back. He follows. Another step. Another. Until my back hits the stone wall. He presses in, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding around my waist, pulling me against him. His thigh nudges between mine. His breath is hot on my neck. His cock is thick and hard against my stomach. And I’m *dripping*. My hands fly to his chest—not to push, but to *brace*. His heartbeat pounds under my palms, wild, feral, *syncing* with mine. “You want me,” he murmurs. “Say it.” “Never.” He shifts, grinding against me, just once, and *God*, it’s like fire through my veins. My back arches. My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the ache, the *need*. His lips brush my ear. “You don’t have to say it. Your body already did.” I shove at his chest. “Let me go.” “No.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my face up. “You don’t get to run. Not this time.” “I’m not *running*—” “You’ve been running your whole life.” His breath is hot on my neck. “From your mother’s death. From your power. From *this*.” He nips my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “But you can’t run from me. Not anymore.” I twist, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through me, deeper this time, *lower*. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And then—footsteps. We freeze. Kaelen stands at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Council’s calling,” he says. “They want a progress report on the bond.” Lazarus exhales, long and slow, then releases me. “We’re done.” I stumble back, chest heaving, hands trembling. My skin burns where he touched me. My thighs are slick. My core aches. He turns, walking toward Kaelen, but stops, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re getting stronger.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth slithers through me, hot and undeniable. I’m not stronger. I’m *weaker*. Because every time he touches me, every time he looks at me, every time he says my name like it’s a *promise*— I want him more. And worse— *I don’t want to stop*. --- Back in the chambers, the fire crackles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. I stand by the hearth, my arms crossed, every muscle coiled like a spring. Lazarus paces, his boots loud on the stone, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. “You held back,” he says. “I didn’t—” “You did.” He stops, turning on me. “You could have taken me. Twice. But you didn’t.” “Maybe I didn’t *want* to.” “Liar.” He steps closer. “You’re afraid of what happens if you *do*.” I glare. “And what happens?” “You *win*.” His voice drops. “And then you have to admit you’re not just fighting me. You’re fighting *yourself*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one.