SLOANE I wake tangled in heat and him. 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 whispered you’d kill me. When you said you’d do it wearing my mark.” His hand slides down, cupping my thigh, pulling it back, opening me. “You’re *mine*, Sloane. And you know it.” 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 core clenches. My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. And then—knocking. Sharp. Official. We freeze. “The Council awaits,” a voice calls from the other side of the door. “The Alpha and his mate are summoned.” Lazarus exhales, long and slow, then releases me. “Today,” he says, rolling out of bed, “we play their game.” I sit up, my body aching with unmet need. He’s already pulling on his shirt—black, fitted, the fabric stretching over his broad shoulders, the scars on his torso disappearing beneath the fabric. He doesn’t look at me as he buttons it, his movements deliberate, unhurried. “Get dressed,” he says. “We have a performance to give.” I glare. “I’m not playing *anything* with you.” “You don’t have a choice.” He turns, his eyes locking onto mine. Gold bleeding into black. “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 push myself up, wincing as my muscles protest. My clothes are rumpled, my hair a mess. I look like I’ve been *used*. Because I have. Not by his hands. By my *body*. By the bond. By the dreams. By the way I woke up pressed against him, my hips grinding back, my breath coming in soft, desperate moans. I press my palms to the cold stone wall, grounding myself. *Control. Focus. You’re not his mate. You’re his prisoner.* But the bond hums, a low, mocking thrum. And I know the truth. I’m both. --- 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. 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 address 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*. My hand flies out, magic surging through my veins. A blast of force slams into her chest, throwing her back. She hits the ground with a gasp, the fang-studded collar clattering to the stone. Silence. Then—chaos. Guards move. Council members shout. Lazarus grabs my arm, his grip iron. “*What the hell are you doing?*” “She *lied*,” I snarl. “You didn’t—” “I *told* you not to give her the satisfaction!” He drags me back, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Now they’ll think the bond is *weak*. That we’re *unstable*.” “I don’t care!” “You *should*!” He spins me to face him, his eyes gold, feral. “Because if they think we’re not united, they’ll *kill* us!” I glare at him. “You let her—” “I *didn’t*!” He grips my shoulders, shaking me. “She’s *playing* you! Can’t you see that?” I want to believe him. I *want* to. But the image of her—her hand on his chest, her lips curved in that smug, knowing smile—burns in my mind. And the bond—*God*, the bond—pulses with *jealousy*, hot and sharp and *real*. “Why should I trust you?” I whisper. “You’re a monster. A killer. You *let* them burn my mother.” His face darkens. “I didn’t.” “*Liar!*” “I *didn’t*!” His voice cracks. “And if you’d stop *fighting* me, if you’d stop *hating* me long enough to *see*—” “See *what*? That you’re some noble Alpha? That you’re *not* the monster I was taught to hate?” “I’m not *your* monster.” His grip tightens. “I’m the one who’s *trying* to keep you alive.” Silence. The chamber watches. Waiting. I look at Lyra. She’s on her feet, brushing off her dress, that same smug smile on her lips. The fang-studded collar dangles from her fingers. And I know. She *won*. She played me. And I walked right into it. Lazarus releases me. “We’re done here.” He turns, walking toward the doors. I don’t follow. Can’t. Because my hands are trembling. My skin is burning. And the bond—*God*, the bond—pulses with something worse than heat. *Shame.* Kaelen appears at my side—Lazarus’s Beta, a stoic werewolf with quiet eyes. “You should go,” he murmurs. “Before it gets worse.” I look at him. “He didn’t—” “He didn’t.” Kaelen’s voice is low, firm. “She’s lying. He was poisoned. Unconscious. She saved him. That’s all.” “And the shirt?” “He gave it to her after. As thanks. She’s been wearing it ever since.” He meets my gaze. “She’s playing you. But he’s not denying it.” My stomach twists. Because he’s right. Lazarus didn’t deny it. He didn’t say, *I never touched her*. He didn’t say, *I don’t want her*. He just said, *She saved me*. And I *believed* her. I believed the smirk. The touch. The way she said his name like she *owned* it. And now—now I’ve given them *exactly* what they wanted. A fractured bond. A weak mate. A reason to execute us both. I press my hands to my temples. “I’m *fucked*.” Kaelen hesitates. Then, softly: “He’s never looked at anyone the way he watches you when you’re not looking.” I look up. But he’s already walking away. Leaving me alone. In the silence. With the bond. With the shame. With the truth I can no longer deny. *I want him.* And worse— *I believe him.* --- 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 *humiliated* us,” he says. “In front of the Council. In front of *her*.” “I didn’t—” “You *did*.” He stops, turning on me. “You let her get inside your head. You let her *win*.” “I didn’t *know*—” “You didn’t *ask*.” His voice drops. “You didn’t *trust* me.” I glare. “Why should I? You’re the man who *bit* me. Who *claimed* me. Who—” “I didn’t *want* this!” He slams his fist into the wall. “I didn’t *want* you! I didn’t *ask* for a mate, especially not one who tried to *kill* me!” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But I’d rather die with you than live without you.” I stare at him. 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 believe you.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “You don’t have to.” “But I do.” I look up. “Because if I don’t… I’m already lost.” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “Then don’t fight it,” he murmurs. “Not me. Not this. Not *us*.” 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?*