SLOANE I wake tangled in a nightmare. Not sleep. Not rest. A fever-dream of heat and teeth and hands—his hands—gripping my hips, dragging me down, his mouth on my throat, my back arched, my scream muffled against his skin. I come awake with a gasp, my body slick with sweat, my core throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. And the bond—*God*, the bond—is *alive*. It pulses beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, low in my gut, deep in my bones. Every breath I take is laced with *him*—his scent, dark and wild, filling my lungs. His presence, a weight against my spine, even though he’s on the other side of the room. I don’t look at the bed. I *can’t*. Because if I do, 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. Bound. Claimed. *Cursed*. I press my palms to the cold stone floor, grounding myself. The cot is narrow, hard, the thin blanket rough against my skin. I slept in my clothes—black trousers, a fitted tunic, boots still on—like I was ready to run. Like I thought I could. But there’s nowhere to run. The bond would drag me back. Or kill me trying. 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. My skin still burns where he touched me. My thighs are damp. My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my tunic, aching with phantom pressure. *Stop it.* I push myself up, wincing as my muscles protest. Every movement feels heavier, *charged*, like the air itself is thick with magic. The bond isn’t just emotional. It’s *physical*. A leash made of blood and fire, and I can feel every tug. Across the room, the bed creaks. I freeze. He’s awake. I don’t turn. Don’t look. But I can *feel* him sitting up, the shift in the air, the slow, deliberate drag of fabric as he moves. My breath hitches. My pulse stutters. Then—footsteps. Soft. Bare. *Close*. I force myself to turn. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, shirtless, his torso a landscape of scarred muscle—old wounds, claw marks, the thick ridge of a healed bullet wound just below his ribs. His pants hang low on his hips, the V of his pelvis disappearing beneath the fabric. His hair is tousled from sleep, his eyes still heavy with it—dark, unreadable. And he’s watching me. Not with anger. Not with triumph. With *awareness*. Like he can feel everything I’m feeling. Because he *can*. “The bond’s stronger this morning,” he says. His voice is rough, sleep-roughened, but steady. “It’s feeding off the heat. Off *us*.” I cross my arms. “I don’t feel anything.” He smiles—just a flicker, dangerous. “Liar.” I glare. “You don’t know what I feel.” “I know you woke up wet.” He takes a step forward. “I know your heart’s racing. I know your breath hitches every time I move closer.” Another step. “And I know you dreamed about me.” My face burns. “That’s *not*—” “You were moaning my name.” His voice drops, a velvet threat. “In your sleep. Soft. Desperate. Like you were begging me to touch you.” “That’s *bullshit*.” “Is it?” He stops just out of reach, but the heat between us is unbearable. “You can deny it all you want. But the bond doesn’t lie. And neither does your body.” I step back. “Stay away from me.” “I can’t.” He lifts his hand, palm up. “And neither can you.” The bond flares—a pulse of heat so intense it makes my knees weak. My skin burns. My breath comes in shallow gasps. And then—knocking. Sharp. Official. We both turn. The door opens before either of us can respond. Two vampire guards stand in the doorway, clad in black armor, faces impassive. Behind them, a third figure—Silas Thorne, the councilman who set me up, his lips curled in a smirk. “Alpha,” one of the guards says. “The Blood Council requests your presence. And your *mate’s*.” Lazarus doesn’t move. “For what?” “A decree.” Silas steps forward, his gaze sliding over me, cold, calculating. “Regarding the bond. It must be… *stabilized*.” I stiffen. “What does that mean?” Silas smiles. “It means, little witch, that you and the Alpha must share a bed. For thirty days. Or the bond will consume you both.” My stomach drops. Lazarus’s jaw tightens. “That’s not how the Vow works.” “It is now,” Silas says. “The Council has reviewed the ritual. Your bond was forged in poison, in violence. It’s unstable. Unnatural. Without proper… *nurturing*…” His eyes flick to me. “It will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Hallucinations. Fever. Organ failure.” I look at Lazarus. “You’re lying.” But I see it in his face. He *knows*. He *believes* him. “The Council doesn’t have the authority to—” Lazarus starts. “They do,” Silas interrupts. “And they’ve exercised it. You will sleep together. Every night. For thirty days. Or you will both be executed for endangering the peace.” Silence. The bond pulses, a deep, warning throb. Execution. Or *this*. I look at the bed—the massive four-poster, the black furs, the space where he slept, where I dreamed of him. I can’t do this. I *won’t*. But if I refuse… I’ll die. And so will he. Because the bond is real. And it’s *killing* us. Silas smiles. “The decree takes effect tonight. Enjoy your day, mates.” He turns, the guards following, and the door shuts behind them with a final, echoing *click*. I turn on Lazarus. “You *knew* this could happen.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I knew the bond was unstable. I didn’t know the Council would weaponize it.” “Of course they would.” I pace, my boots loud on the stone. “They hate hybrids. They hate *me*. This is about control. About humiliation.” “It’s about survival.” He steps toward me. “If the bond fails, we both die. You know that.” “I’d rather die than sleep with you.” “Then you’ll die.” His voice is flat. Final. “And I’ll be buried beside you.” I stop. “You don’t care.” “I care about *survival*.” He meets my gaze. “And right now, the only way to survive is to *comply*.” “Comply?” I laugh, sharp, bitter. “You mean *submit*.” “I mean *live*.” He takes another step. “You think I want this? To share my bed with the woman who tried to kill me? To feel your fear, your hate, your *arousal* every time I breathe? I don’t. But I don’t have a choice. And neither do you.” I look at the bed again. Thirty nights. Trapped. Bound. *Touched*. And the bond—God, the bond will only get stronger. More *intimate*. More *inescapable*. I press my hands to my temples. “This is a trap. Silas—” “Silas is a pawn,” Lazarus says. “Someone else is pulling the strings.” I look up. “Who?” “I don’t know.” He steps closer. “But your mother’s death wasn’t what you were told. I can feel it in the bond. In *you*. There’s a lie at the heart of this. And it’s not just about us.” My breath catches. “What do you know?” “Enough to know you were *framed*.” His voice drops. “The ritual you sabotaged? It wasn’t meant to unite the packs. It was a *trap*. For *you*.” I stare at him. “What?” “The poison you used—it wasn’t yours, was it? It was given to you. By someone who knew you’d use it. Who knew it would trigger the bond.” My blood runs cold. Because it’s true. The poison came from a contact in the Hollow. A trusted source. Someone who said it would weaken him, expose him. Not bind us. Not *this*. “Who?” I whisper. “I don’t know.” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my wrist. It glows faintly under his touch. “But someone wanted us together. And they used your revenge to do it.” My stomach twists. All this time—I thought I was hunting *him*. But I was being *hunted*. And now—now I’m trapped. Bound. *Marked*. And the only person who might help me find the truth… is the man I came here to kill. I look at him—really look at him. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His jaw is tight. His body is coiled, tense, like he’s fighting the bond too. And for the first time, I wonder—*is he as trapped as I am?* “Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “Because if we’re going to survive,” he says, “we need to stop pretending we’re enemies.” I step back. “We *are* enemies.” “No.” He shakes his head. “We’re *bait*. And if we don’t figure out who’s holding the line… we’re both dead.” Silence. The bond pulses between us, a low, insistent thrum. I don’t trust him. I don’t *want* to trust him. But he’s right. If the bond fails, we die. And if we don’t find the truth… We’ll die anyway. I close my eyes. “Thirty nights.” He nods. “Thirty nights.” I open my eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.” “It changes *everything*.” He steps back. “But I won’t touch you. Not unless you want it.” I almost laugh. “I’ll *never* want it.” “We’ll see.” He turns, walking to the hearth. “Get some rest. Tonight… starts now.” I don’t move. Because I know what tonight means. I’ll lie beside him. Inch by inch. Heat by heat. And the bond will pull us closer, whether we want it or not. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the silence, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I’m scared.” Not of him. Not of the bond. Of what I might *want*. And from the hearth, soft, rough, I hear his voice. “So am I.” --- Night falls like a shroud. The fire burns low. Shadows stretch across the stone walls. The air is thick with tension, with *heat*. I’m still dressed. Boots on. Knife at my thigh. Like I’m ready for battle. Because I am. The bed looms in the center of the room, a black island in a sea of stone. Lazarus stands beside it, shirtless, his back to me, pulling back the furs. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. The bond hums between us, a constant, maddening thrum. Every shift of his body sends a pulse of heat through my skin. My nipples tighten. My breath comes shallow. He turns. His eyes lock onto mine. No words. Just *intent*. He lifts the edge of the furs, offering the space beside him. An invitation. A command. I don’t move. My heart hammers. My palms sweat. *This is it. The point of no return.* If I lie beside him… I lose. If I don’t… I die. Slowly, I push myself up. One step. Then another. The bond flares with every movement, heat coiling low in my gut. My skin burns. My breath hitches. I stop at the edge of the bed. He watches me, silent, unreadable. Then, slowly, I kick off my boots. Sit on the edge. Pull back the furs. And lie down. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. But the heat between us is unbearable. I lie on my side, facing away from him, my back rigid, my hands clenched in the furs. Silence. Then—the bed dips. He lies down beside me. Inch by inch. Heat by heat. I don’t move. Can’t. The bond pulses, a deep, insistent throb. My skin burns where his arm brushes mine. My breath comes in shallow gasps. Then—his hand lands on my hip. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… *there*. A connection. A tether. I don’t pull away. Can’t. Because the bond *needs* this. And so, terrifyingly, do I. His breath brushes my neck. His heat surrounds me. And in the dark, with his hand on my hip and his body pressed to mine, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I will end you, Lazarus Vane.” A pause. Then, soft, rough, his voice in the dark. “I know.” “And I’ll do it wearing your mark.” Another pause. Then—his arm tightens around me, pulling me back against his chest. His lips brush my ear. “Then I’ll die loving you too.”