SLOANE I wake before the sun. Not to the press of his body, not to the low thrum of the bond, not even to the ache between my thighs that has become as familiar as my own breath. But to *silence*. The fire has burned low. The furs are tangled around my legs. The chamber is still, the air thick with the scent of pine and something deeper—*us*—but the bond hums at a steady, quiet pulse, like it’s *resting*. Like it’s satisfied. And I’m *alone*. Lazarus is gone. No boots on stone. No heavy breath. No possessive arm slung across my waist. Just empty space where he should be, cold sheets, and the ghost of his heat. I press my palms to the stone floor, pushing myself up. My body aches in ways I don’t want to name—my muscles tight from yesterday’s training, my skin still tingling from the bath, 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 *remember*. Not the bite. Not the training. Not even the bath. But the kiss. After the bath. After the cleansing. After the runes flared white-hot and the poison burned away. We’d returned to the chambers, dripping wet, skin still humming with magic, and I’d stood by the hearth, arms crossed, every muscle coiled like a spring. He’d paced, his boots loud on stone, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. “You held back,” I’d said. “I didn’t—” “You did.” I’d turned on him. “You could have taken me. You *wanted* to. But you didn’t.” He’d stopped, 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 had been low. Dangerous. “What then?” He’d stepped closer. “Then I’d *ask*.” I’d glared. “You don’t *ask*. You *take*.” “No.” His voice had dropped. “I take what’s mine. But I *ask* for what I *want*.” And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I’d looked up. His eyes had been dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I’d wondered— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I’d pressed my back to the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands had trembled. My skin had burned. And in the dark, I’d whispered the truth I could no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He’d crouched in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I’d looked up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb had brushed the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It had glowed faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I’d closed my eyes. Because I’d known he was right. The bond wasn’t just a curse. It was a *choice*. And I was starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I had to. Not because the bond demanded it. But because *I* did. Because when he said my name, it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I wanted to believe in one. And then—kissing. Not desperate. Not angry. *Soft*. Slow. Deep. His lips had moved against mine like he was savoring me. His hand had cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. His other arm had wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, *tighter*. And I’d kissed him back. Not because I had to. Not because the bond demanded it. But because *I* wanted to. Because when he said my name, it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I wanted to believe in one. His tongue had slipped between my lips, slow, deliberate, and I’d opened for him. My hands had flown to his chest, not to push, but to *brace*. His heartbeat had pounded under my palms, wild, feral, *syncing* with mine. And then—his hand had slid down, under my tunic, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine. My breath had hitched. My back had arched. My core had clenched. He’d growled—low, dark, *triumphant*—and deepened the kiss. Our tongues had clashed. Teeth had scraped. Breath had mingled. The bond had *sung*, a deep, sacred thrum beneath my skin. And I’d been *lost*. Not to the heat. Not to the moon. But to *him*. To the way his body fit against mine. The way his scent—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—filled my lungs. The way his hands knew me, like he’d been waiting his whole life to touch me. And then—his hand had slipped lower, cupping my ass, pulling me against him. His cock had thickened, pressing into my stomach. My hips had tilted forward, chasing the friction. He’d broken the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. “Say it.” I’d shaken my head. “Say it,” he’d growled. “No.” “*Say it*.” His voice had been a velvet threat. “You want me. *Say it*.” I’d glared. “Never.” He’d shifted, grinding against me, just once, and *God*, it had been like fire through my veins. My back had arched. My breath had come in shallow, desperate gasps. “You don’t have to say it. Your body already did.” I’d shoved at his chest. “Let me go.” “No.” His other hand had fisted 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 had been hot on my neck. “From your mother’s death. From your power. From *this*.” He’d nipped my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “But you can’t run from me. Not anymore.” I’d twisted, trying to break free, but he’d been too strong. The bond had flared, sending another wave of heat through me, deeper this time, *lower*. My knees had weakened. My breath had hitched. And then—his hand had slipped between my thighs. Not through my clothes. *Under* them. His fingers had brushed my clit—just once—and *God*, it had been like lightning through my veins. My back had arched. A moan had torn from my throat. He’d smirked. “You’re *dripping*.” I’d slapped him. Hard. The sound had cracked through the chamber like a whip. His head had snapped to the side. Silence. Then—slowly—he’d turned back. His lip had been split. Bleeding. And he’d been *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphant*. “Good,” he’d murmured. “Fight me.” I’d glared. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” He’d wiped 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’d said, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” I hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Because he’d been right. I *had*. And worse— *I’d wanted more*. He’d seen it in my face. Leaned in. And I’d kissed him. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. My teeth had scraped his lip. My nails had dug into his shoulders. My hips had ground against his hand. And he’d *groaned*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kissed me back with equal fury. Our tongues had clashed. Teeth had bitten. Breath had mingled. The bond had *screamed*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—his fingers had slid lower, parting my folds, circling my entrance. I’d gasped. My back had arched. My core had *clenched*. “Say it,” he’d growled against my mouth. “Never.” He’d pushed one finger inside. Just one. And *God*, it had been like fire through my veins. My hips had bucked. My breath had come in ragged gasps. My nails had clawed at his back. He’d smirked. “You’re *so* tight. So *wet*.” I’d bitten his lip. Hard. Blood had bloomed on his mouth. He’d *laughed*—low, dark, *dangerous*—and curled his finger, pressing against that spot deep inside. I’d *screamed*. My body had convulsed. My core had *clenched* around him. And then— “Alpha.” The voice had been quiet. Controlled. *Kaelen*. We’d frozen. Lazarus had pulled his hand away, slowly, deliberately, and turned. Kaelen had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze had flicked to me—my flushed face, my swollen lips, my trembling hands—then back to Lazarus. “The Council’s calling,” he’d said. “They want a progress report on the bond.” Lazarus had exhaled, long and slow, then released me. “We’re done.” I’d stumbled back, chest heaving, hands trembling. My skin had burned where he’d touched me. My thighs had been slick. My core had ached. He’d turned, walking toward Kaelen, but stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re getting stronger.” I hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Because the truth had slithered through me, hot and undeniable. I hadn’t been stronger. I’d been *weaker*. Because every time he touched me, every time he looked at me, every time he said my name like it was a *promise*— I’d wanted him more. And worse— *I hadn’t wanted to stop*. And now? Now I *remembered*. And I *ached*. Not just for his touch. But for *him*. For the way he’d looked at me when he said, *I’d rather die with you than live without you.* For the way he hadn’t denied Lyra—but hadn’t *claimed* her either. For the way he’d fought for me, even when I’d fought *against* him. 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 hadn’t been fighting him. Dreams where I’d been *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 hadn’t said that. I *couldn’t* have. But the mark said otherwise. And worse—*I liked it*. Not just the heat. Not just the pulse of pleasure. But the *claim*. The *possession*. The way my body *knew* it belonged 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 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.