SLOANE The pain starts at dawn. A low, insidious throb beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat pulsing in time with the bond. It begins in my wrists—the sigil branded there during the forced claiming—then spreads, slow and venomous, up my arms, across my collarbones, down my spine. My breath catches. My muscles seize. A cold sweat breaks across my forehead, despite the fire crackling in the hearth. I press my palms to the stone floor, grounding myself, but the cold doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because I know this pain. It’s the bond. And it’s *breaking*. Lazarus is already awake, standing by the window, his silhouette sharp against the gray light. He turns, and I see it in his eyes—gold bleeding into black, his jaw tight, his fingers curled into fists. “You feel it,” he says. I don’t answer. Can’t. The pain flares, a hot knife slicing through my ribs. I gasp, doubling over. He crosses the room in three strides, his hand gripping my shoulder. “The bond poison is spreading. We have to cleanse it. *Now*.” “Poison?” I hiss, my voice ragged. “You mean the bond is *killing* us?” “It *will*,” he growls, “if we don’t purify it. The ritual last night—your magic, my blood—it destabilized the connection. The bond is fighting itself.” “And how do we *fix* it?” I snap, shoving his hand away. “Another forced claiming? Another *lie* to the Council?” “No.” He crouches in front of me, his eyes level with mine. “A cleansing bath. Skin to skin. Blood to blood. The bond has to be *renewed*—not forced.” I stare at him. “You want us to *bathe* together?” “I want us to *survive*.” His voice drops. “And if you die, I die with you.” The truth slithers through me, cold and undeniable. He’s not lying. The bond doesn’t just link us. It *binds* us. And if one of us dies… The other follows. I press my hands to my temples, 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. The pain flares again—deeper this time, *lower*—a searing heat spreading through my core. My breath hitches. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the ache, the *need*. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “We don’t have a choice.” I look up. His eyes are dark now. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* --- The bathing chamber is carved from black stone, lit by flickering torches that cast long, wavering shadows across the walls. A massive stone tub dominates the center, wide enough for two, filled with steaming water that swirls with silver runes—ancient symbols of purification, etched into the surface. The air is thick with the scent of sage and salt, heavy with magic. Lazarus strips without hesitation. His coat falls first, then his boots, his pants, his shirt—each piece discarded like it means nothing. And then he’s bare. Powerful. *Real*. His body is a landscape of scarred muscle—old wounds, claw marks, the thick ridge of a healed bullet wound just below his ribs. His chest is broad, his stomach carved with ridges, his cock thick and heavy, already half-hard. His back is a map of battle—raised scars, old burns, the faint tracery of a sigil I don’t recognize. And he’s *watching* me. Not with hunger. Not with possession. With *awareness*. Like he can feel everything I’m feeling. Because he *can*. “The water’s ready,” he says. I don’t move. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll have to undress. And if I undress… He’ll see me. Not just my body. But the bite mark. On my inner thigh. High. Intimate. *Unmistakable*. And worse—*I don’t want to hide it*. I press my hands to the fabric of my tunic, fingers trembling. “You turn around.” He doesn’t. “The bond won’t allow it. We have to be in constant contact. If the poison spreads too far—” “I know what happens,” I snap. “You die. I die. We both burn.” “Then stop fighting it.” He steps closer. “Take it off.” I glare. “You first.” A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “You want to watch?” My breath hitches. *Yes.* But I don’t say it. Instead, I reach for the hem of my tunic. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric slides up, revealing my stomach, my ribs, the curve of my breasts beneath the thin shift. My hands tremble. My skin burns. My breath comes shallow. And then—off. I stand in nothing but my trousers and boots. And the mark. He sees it. Of course he does. His gaze drops, slow, deliberate, to my thigh. And he *smirks*. Not cruel. Not mocking. *Possessive*. “You’re still mine,” he murmurs. I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse— *I like it.* I kick off my boots, unbutton my trousers, slide them down. And then I’m bare. Every inch. Every scar. Every secret. And he’s *looking*. Not just at the mark. But at *me*. At the curve of my hips. The swell of my breasts. The thatch of dark hair between my thighs. And I’m *wet*. Not from fear. Not from heat. From *him*. From the way his eyes darken. The way his jaw tightens. The way his cock thickens, fully hard now, jutting from his body like a weapon. “Get in,” he says, voice rough. I step into the tub. The water is hot—almost scalding—but it doesn’t burn. Not like the poison. Not like the bond. It *soothes*, the heat seeping into my muscles, easing the ache, calming the fire beneath my skin. Lazarus follows. He doesn’t sit beside me. He sits *behind* me. His legs bracket mine. His chest presses into my back. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him. And then—his hands. One slides up, cupping my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple. The other trails down, over my stomach, lower, lower, until his fingers brush the apex of my thighs. I gasp. My back arches. My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. “Don’t,” 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*.” His hand slides lower, parting my folds, his fingers circling my clit. I moan. Low. Soft. *Uncontrollable*. And then—his cock. Thick. Hard. Pressing against my ass. And I’m *dripping*. My hands fly to his thighs—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 hand. “Stop it.” “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 fingers slide inside. Just one. And *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. My hips buck. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My nails claw at his thighs. He smirks. “You’re *so* tight. So *wet*.” I bite my lip. Hard. Blood blooms on my 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— The runes in the water *flare*. White-hot. Blinding. A pulse of magic—pure, electric—shoots through us. We both gasp. The pain—*gone*. The poison—*cleansed*. The bond—*renewed*. And then—his hand. Slipping out. Not in triumph. Not in possession. But *reluctance*. I turn. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the hunger. Not just the need. But the *want*. The *care*. The *fear*. Because if I die… He dies with me. And he *doesn’t* want that. Not anymore. --- 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,” I say. “I didn’t—” “You did.” I turn on him. “You could have taken me. You *wanted* to. But you didn’t.” He stops, turning on me. “I *won’t* take you like that. Not while the bond is still healing. Not while you’re still fighting me.” “And if I *stopped* fighting?” My voice is low. Dangerous. “What then?” He steps closer. “Then I’d *ask*.” I glare. “You don’t *ask*. You *take*.” “No.” His voice drops. “I take what’s mine. But I *ask* for what I *want*.” 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.