SLOANE I wake before dawn, tangled in sweat and silence. Lazarus is already gone. The bed is cold where he should be, the furs thrown back like he rose in a hurry. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the high, narrow window, painting a silver line across the stone floor. The fire has burned to embers, glowing faintly in the hearth. The air is still, heavy with the scent of pine and something deeper—*him*—but the bond hums at a low, steady thrum, not the fevered pulse of last night. Good. I need clarity. Not heat. Not *want*. I push myself up, wincing as my muscles protest. My body feels… different. Not just from the bond—though that’s a constant, low ache beneath my skin—but from the fight. From the shame. From the truth I whispered in the dark: *I believe you.* Three words. And yet they feel heavier than the dagger strapped to my thigh. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. My clothes are rumpled, my hair a mess, my skin still tingling from the ghost of his touch. I press my palms to my temples, breathing through the lingering fog of sleep, of dreams I don’t want to remember. Dreams where I wasn’t fighting him. Dreams where I was *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 against me, his breath on my neck, his voice in my ear. *You’re mine, Sloane. And you know it.* I clench my jaw. No. I don’t. I won’t. But the bond disagrees. It flares—a low, insistent throb—just as the door opens. He walks in like he owns the air. Lazarus Vane. Dressed in black training gear—tight pants, fitted shirt, boots laced to the knee. His hair is pulled back, his face clean-shaven, his scars stark in the firelight. He carries a wooden staff in one hand, the other flexing at his side like he’s already fighting. And his eyes—*God*, his eyes—are gold. Not dark. Not human. *Wolf-gold.* Primal. Possessive. “Get dressed,” he says, tossing a bundle of black fabric at my feet. “We’re sparring.” I don’t move. “I’m not your soldier.” “You’re my mate.” He steps closer, the staff tapping against the floor. “And if you want to survive the Council, you need to learn how to fight *with* me, not just *against* me.” “I don’t need your protection.” “No.” He circles me, slow, deliberate, like a predator testing its prey. “You need to stop being a liability.” My spine stiffens. “I’m not—” “You attacked Lyra in front of the Council.” His voice drops. “You gave them a reason to doubt us. To *break* us. And if they break the bond—” “We die.” I finish for him. “I know.” “Then prove it.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body, the low, steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with mine. “Prove you’re not just a witch with a grudge. Prove you’re strong enough to stand beside me.” I glare. “You don’t get to decide what I am.” “I don’t.” He lifts the staff, pressing the tip to my chest. “The bond does.” I knock it aside. “Then let’s see what it says.” --- 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.