SLOANE The full moon rises like a bloodstain in the sky. It bleeds through the high, narrow window of Lazarus’s chambers, painting the stone floor in silver and shadow. The air is thick with it—charged, electric, *alive*. My skin prickles. My pulse hammers. My breath comes shallow, like the world is pressing in, like the moon itself is pulling at my blood. And the bond—*God*, the bond—is *screaming*. It doesn’t hum anymore. It *roars*. A deep, feral pulse beneath my skin, 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 across the room, standing by the hearth, his back to me, his shoulders rigid. I don’t look at him. I *can’t*. Because if I do, I’ll see him. Shirtless. Powerful. *Real*. And I’ll remember the sparring. 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 he didn’t push further, when he walked away, when he let me keep my lies. But I can’t keep them. Not tonight. Because the moon knows. The bond knows. And so does *he*. I press my palms to the cold stone floor, grounding myself. The cot is narrow, hard, the thin blanket rough against my skin. I’m dressed—black trousers, a fitted tunic, boots still on—like I’m 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 fire crackles. He doesn’t turn. But I can *feel* him—his tension, his restraint, 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, 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 heat’s worse tonight,” he says. His voice is rough, strained. “The moon’s pulling at the bond. At *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’re 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—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.” --- I wake tangled in heat and him. Not on the cot. Not on the floor. On the bed. *His* bed. The black furs are twisted around my legs, the air thick with sweat and sex and something deeper, *primal*. My clothes are half-off—tunic torn at the shoulder, trousers unbuttoned, one boot still on. My skin is slick, my hair a mess, my body aching in places I didn’t know could ache. And he’s on top of me. No—not on. *Inside*. His cock is buried deep, thick and hard, stretching me, filling me, *owning* me. His hips grind against mine, slow, deliberate, each thrust sending a shock of pleasure through my core. His hands are on my hips, holding me down, keeping me open, keeping me *his*. And I’m *screaming*. Not in pain. In *ecstasy*. My back arches. My nails claw at his back. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, *deeper*. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my voice breaking on his name. “Lazarus—*Lazarus*—*God*, *yes*—” He growls—low, dark, *triumphant*—and bites my throat. Not hard. Not to mark. But to *claim*. And I come. Hard. Shattering. My body convulses around him, my scream muffled against his skin. And then— Darkness. Silence. Cold. I come awake with a gasp, my body slick with sweat, my core throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. But I’m not on the bed. I’m on the floor. Beside the bed. Naked. Half on my side, one leg tangled in the furs, my tunic ripped, my trousers unbuttoned. And he’s on the bed. Shirtless. Pants still on. His back to me. Breathing. *Alive*. I don’t move. Can’t. Because I don’t remember. I don’t remember getting here. I don’t remember *him*. I don’t remember *anything*. Except the dream. No. Not a dream. A *memory*. Because my body knows. My skin is tender. My thighs are slick. My core is *full*. And between my legs— I press my fingers there. Wet. *Smeared*. With *us*. “No,” I whisper. I push myself up, wincing as my muscles protest. My clothes are ruined. My hair is a mess. My skin is burning. 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 look at the bed. At *him*. He hasn’t moved. But I know he’s awake. Because the bond tells me. Because I can *feel* him. Because I can *feel* what we did. “No,” I say again, louder. He turns. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes are gold. Not dark. Not human. *Wolf-gold.* Primal. Possessive. And then I see it. His hand. On the bed. Fisted. Blood on his knuckles. *My* blood. From where I *bit* him. “Oh *God*,” I whisper. He sits up, the furs sliding down, revealing the marks on his chest—my nails, my teeth, *mine*. His pants are still on, but the front is tented, his cock thick and hard beneath the fabric. And he’s *smelling* me. Inhaling deep, like he’s savoring the air. “You were *fucking* incredible,” he says, voice rough, raw. “You rode my thigh like you were born to.” My breath catches. “What?” “You don’t remember?” He stands, slow, deliberate, his body a wall of muscle, his eyes never leaving mine. “The moon pulled at the bond. At *us*. You woke up on top of me. Half-naked. Wet. *Begging*.” “That’s *not*—” “You were *moaning* my name.” He takes a step forward. “You were *grinding* on me. You *bit* my lip. You *screamed* when I touched you.” “I *didn’t*—” “You *did*.” He stops just out of reach, but the heat between us is unbearable. “And I *let* you. Because if I’d stopped you, the bond would’ve broken. And we’d both be *dead*.” 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 look down. At my body. At the wetness between my legs. At the way my thighs press together, trying to stifle the ache, the *need*. And I know. He’s telling the truth. Because I *feel* it. Not the stretch. Not the fullness. But the *absence*. The *want*. The *hunger*. And worse— *I want more.* I press my hands to my temples. “I don’t remember.” “I know.” He takes another step. “The bond took control. The heat. The moon. It happens to Alphas. To mates. You weren’t *you*.” “And you were?” “I was *here*.” His voice drops. “I was *holding* you. Keeping you safe. Keeping you *mine*.” I look up. His eyes are dark now. 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. “What have I done?” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “You didn’t *do* anything. The bond did.” “But I *felt* it.” My voice cracks. “I *wanted* it.” “You *do*.” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s not a crime.” “It is.” I look up. “Because I came here to *kill* you.” “And now?” His voice is soft. “Now you’re not so sure.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you don’t have to fight it. 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?* 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.