SLOANE The fire crackles in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone walls of Lazarus’s chambers. I stand rigid in the center of the room, arms crossed, every muscle coiled like a spring. My wrist still burns where he bit me—where the bond sealed—but the pain has dulled into a low, persistent throb, replaced by something worse. *Heat.* It coils in my belly, a slow, insistent pulse that makes my skin too tight, my breath too shallow. Every time I glance at him, the heat flares. When he moves, it surges. When he looks at me—those gold-flecked eyes dark with unreadable intent—it *pulses*, low and deep between my thighs. I hate it. I hate *him*. And I hate that my body *knows* him now. He’s across the room, stripping off his ceremonial armor—plate by plate, each piece clinking as it hits the stone floor. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, like he’s savoring this. The dark coat is gone. The fang-studded collar remains, glinting in the firelight. His undershirt is soaked with sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his back, the ridges of muscle shifting beneath the fabric as he works. I should look away. I don’t. I tell myself it’s tactical. That I’m assessing him—his strength, his weaknesses, the way his right shoulder dips slightly when he lifts his arm, a sign of old injury. But the truth slithers through me, hot and undeniable: I’m *watching* him. Not as a target. Not as an enemy. As a *man*. And that terrifies me more than the bond ever could. “You’re staring,” he says, not turning. I jerk my gaze to the wall. “I’m assessing my captor.” He laughs—low, rough. “You don’t have to pretend. The bond knows what you feel.” “It knows nothing.” “It knows you’re wet.” My breath catches. My face burns. “That’s *not*—” “Don’t lie to me.” He turns then, slow, deliberate. His eyes lock onto mine. Gold bleeding into black. “The bond shares everything. Your fear. Your rage. Your *arousal*.” I step back. “You’re delusional.” “I can *smell* it.” He inhales, deep, like he’s savoring the air. “You’re drenched. And it’s not just the bond. You wanted this. Even before the ritual.” “That’s *bullshit*.” “Is it?” He takes a step forward. Then another. The heat between us thickens, pressing in like a living thing. “You came here to kill me. You walked into that temple knowing the risks. You *knew* what the Vow could do. And still—you stepped into the circle.” “I didn’t know it would—” “You *hoped* it would.” “No.” My voice cracks. “I wanted you *dead*.” “Then why didn’t you use enough poison?” His voice drops, a velvet threat. “Why leave me just weak enough to survive? Just broken enough to *need* the bond?” My pulse stutters. Because I *wanted* to see him fall. Not die. I wanted to watch him beg. To break. To *know* who destroyed him. But the bond didn’t give me that. It gave me *this*. And now, every breath I take is laced with him—his scent, his heat, the low, steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with mine. It’s maddening. *Intimate.* I turn away, pressing my palms to the cold stone wall. “This changes nothing.” “It changes *everything*.” His footsteps echo behind me. “You’re not my enemy anymore, Sloane. You’re my *mate*.” “I’m not *anything* to you.” “You’re *mine*.” His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy, possessive. “And I don’t share.” I whirl on him. “You don’t *own* me.” “I do.” His other hand cups my jaw, thumb dragging over my lower lip. “The bond says so. Your body says so. And if you don’t believe me—” He pulls me against him. The impact steals my breath. His body is *fire*—hard, unyielding, radiating heat that sears through my clothes, through my skin, straight into my core. 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 I feel it. The ridge of his cock, thick and heavy against my stomach. He’s *hard*. For *me*. A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it. His eyes flare gold. “See? You feel it too.” “This is the bond,” I gasp. “It’s not *real*.” “It’s the most real thing you’ve ever felt.” His voice is rough, strained. “And you’re *dripping* for me.” “No—” He shifts, grinding against me, just once, and *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. My back arches. My thighs press together, trying to stifle the ache, the *need*. His scent floods my lungs—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*. My nipples tighten. My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. I hate this. I hate *him*. And yet—my hips tilt forward, just slightly, chasing the friction. His growl is low, dark, *triumphant*. “You want me. Say it.” “Never.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “You don’t have to say it. Your body already did.” I shove at his chest. “Let me go.” “No.” His arms lock around me, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my waist. “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. The door creaks open. We freeze. A servant—a young vampire girl in a gray tunic—stands in the doorway, eyes wide, tray trembling in her hands. “I—I brought wine, Alpha.” Lazarus doesn’t move. Doesn’t release me. “Leave it.” She sets the tray on the table near the door, her movements jerky, and flees without another word. Silence. Then, slowly, Lazarus loosens his grip. Just enough for me to pull away. I stumble back, chest heaving, hands trembling. My skin burns where he touched me. My thighs are slick. My core aches. He watches me, eyes dark, unreadable. “You could have killed her.” I blink. “What?” “The servant. You could have taken her throat the second she opened the door. But you didn’t.” “So?” “So you’re not a killer.” He steps back, giving me space. “Not really.” “I came here to *murder* you.” “And you failed.” He turns, walking to the hearth. “Because you’re not capable of it. Not when it matters.” I want to scream. To throw something. To *hurt* him. But the truth slithers through me, cold and undeniable. He’s right. I didn’t come here to kill him. I came here to *see* him. To *know* him. To understand what kind of monster could take my mother from me. And now—now I *do*. He’s not a monster. He’s worse. He’s *real*. And I’m *fucked*. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My head falls into my hands. My breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. The bond hums between us, a constant, maddening thrum. I can’t escape it. I can’t fight it. I can’t even *hate* it. Not when every part of me *craves* him. Footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. His eyes are no longer gold. Just dark. Human. “You’re not the only one with secrets,” he says, voice low. I look up. “What?” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “You think I don’t know why you’re really here? You think I don’t know what they told you about your mother?” My breath catches. “What do you know?” “Enough.” His hand drops. “But not everything. And neither do you.” “What are you talking about?” He stands, offering me his hand. “You want answers? Then stop fighting me. Stop pretending this bond is a curse.” “It *is* a curse.” “No.” He leans down, his voice a whisper. “It’s a *gift*. And if you keep resisting it, it *will* kill you.” I stare at his hand. I should refuse. I should spit in his face. But my body betrays me. My fingers curl around his. 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 some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.” He walks to the bed—a massive four-poster draped in black furs—and begins unbuttoning his shirt. I don’t move. I can’t. Because I know what he’s doing. He’s not offering me the bed. He’s claiming it. And me. The bond flares, a deep, pulsing heat low in my gut. I hate him. I *hate* him. And yet—my body *aches* for him. I turn away, walking to the far corner of the room, where a narrow cot sits against the wall. It’s meant for a servant. For a prisoner. For me. I sit on the edge, my hands clenched in my lap. Behind me, fabric rustles. The bed creaks. Then—silence. But I can *feel* him. His presence. His heat. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath. The bond hums. My skin burns. My thighs press together. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I want you.” The words are so soft, I’m not sure I said them aloud. But the bond knows. And so does he. Because from the bed, a low, rough chuckle echoes through the room. Then—sleep. But not peace. Because in my dreams, I’m straddling him. His hands are on my hips. His mouth is on my throat. And I’m *screaming* his name.