I wake with a scream caught in my throat.
Not from a nightmare. From *him*.
His breath—slow, deep, controlled—echoes in my lungs like it’s my own. His heartbeat thuds against the inside of my ribs, steady as a war drum. I press a hand to my chest, half-expecting to find two hearts beating beneath my skin, one mine, one stolen.
The room is silent. Dark. The only light bleeds in from the corridor under the door—cold, electric blue. I’m still in the gilded cell, stretched across the velvet chaise longue, fully dressed, boots still on. My fingers twitch toward my magic, testing the air for fire, for spark, for *something*—but it’s muffled, like a voice screaming through water.
And then I feel it again.
Not just his pulse. His *presence*.
It’s not in the room. It’s in my *mind*—a shadow at the edge of my thoughts, cool and vast, like standing at the mouth of a cave and sensing the depth beyond. I can’t see it. Can’t touch it. But I know it’s there. Watching. Waiting.
“Get out,” I whisper, curling into myself. “Get out of my head.”
No answer. Just that heartbeat. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use—his rhythm pulls mine into sync, slower, deeper, until I’m breathing *for him* as much as for myself. My skin prickles. My blood hums. I feel… invaded. Claimed. Not just bound—*rewired*.
This isn’t just a blood-bond.
It’s a *takeover*.
I push myself up, wincing at the ache in my ribs from Kael’s throw last night. My wrist stings where Cassian touched it—still marked with the faint smear of Kael’s blood, now dried and black. I wipe it off with my sleeve, but the heat beneath the skin remains. A brand, even if there’s no mark.
I pace. Ten steps one way. Turn. Ten steps back. The room is small—forty feet across, maybe—gilded like a mausoleum. Gold leaf on the ceiling, obsidian pillars at each corner, a chandelier made of black crystal. No windows. No escape. Just the door, the bed, the chaise, and me.
And *him*.
I stop pacing. Press my palms to the wall. Focus. *Think*. The bond shouldn’t exist. Blood-bonds require *intent*, ritual, three exchanges. This was one drop—mine on his shoe, his on my wrist. An accident. A mistake.
But the old magic doesn’t care about rules.
It cares about blood.
And mine—Silvershade blood, witch-fire and wolf-fury—is clearly *interesting* to whatever ancient force sealed this between us.
I exhale, slow. My parents’ faces flash in my mind—my mother’s laughter, my father’s voice chanting protection spells. They’re gone. Burned. And I was supposed to avenge them.
But now?
Now I’m trapped. Bound. Powerless.
And worse—my body *knows* him.
I feel a flicker—deep in my core—something dark and warm uncoiling. Not fear. Not anger.
*Arousal*.
I freeze.
No. Not mine. It can’t be.
But the heat spreads, low and insistent, pooling between my thighs. My breath hitches. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress. I press my thighs together, trying to smother it, but it only makes it worse—like rubbing a wound.
And then I feel *him*.
Not his voice. Not his presence.
His *desire*.
It floods through the bond—hot, sharp, *male*—and it’s not vague. It’s *directed*. At *me*. I feel the weight of his gaze, even though he’s not here. The heat of his hands, though he hasn’t touched me. The low, predatory hunger in his chest, echoing in mine.
He’s watching me.
And he’s *aroused*.
“No,” I hiss, backing into the wall. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to *feel* me. To *use* me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the bond doesn’t work like that. It’s not a door. It’s a window—wide open, no curtains, no lock. I can’t close it. Can’t shut him out.
And then—his voice, not in the room, not in my ears.
In my *mind*.
You’re awake.
I gasp, head snapping up.
“Get out!” I scream. “I’m not yours! I’m not your whore, your pet, your *mate*! You don’t get to touch me like this!”
Silence.
Then—amusement. Not laughter. Not words. Just the *feeling* of it, sliding through the bond like oil. He’s *enjoying* this. My rage. My helplessness. My body’s betrayal.
I sink to the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees. My breath comes fast, but his slows it, pulls it into rhythm. My pulse races, but his drags it down. I’m not in control. Not of my body. Not of my breath. Not of my *desire*.
And that’s the worst part.
Because despite everything—despite the hatred, the mission, the vow I made over my parents’ ashes—I can’t deny it.
My body wants him.
Not because of the bond. Not just because of it.
But because of *him*.
The way he stood there, unflinching, as I lunged at him. The way his eyes darkened when he touched my wrist. The way his voice curled around the word *mine* like it was a promise.
I hate him.
And I want him.
The contradiction tears at me, sharp as claws.
I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe through it. The heat between my legs won’t fade. If anything, it’s growing—pulsing in time with his heartbeat. I feel wetness, subtle but undeniable, soaking through my underwear. My thighs tremble.
This isn’t just the bond.
It’s *me*.
The wolf in me recognizes him—Alpha. Predator. Mate.
The witch in me feels his power—dark, ancient, magnetic.
And the woman in me?
She’s *aching*.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the urge to touch myself, to relieve the pressure, to give in to the storm inside me. But I won’t. I *can’t*. That’s surrender. And if I give him that, he wins.
So I stay still. Breathe. Wait.
Minutes pass. Hours? I don’t know. The bond distorts time. His breath in my lungs. His pulse in my veins. His presence at the edge of my mind.
And then—movement.
Not in the room.
In the bond.
He’s *coming*.
I feel it before I hear the footsteps—his energy shifting, drawing closer, like a storm rolling in. My body tenses. My breath catches. My skin prickles with awareness.
The door unlocks.
It opens slowly, revealing Cassian D’Vraeth in the doorway.
He’s dressed differently—black silk shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, no jacket. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s been running a hand through it. His eyes are storm-gray, unreadable, but I feel the heat beneath—the hunger, the control, the *curiosity*.
He steps inside.
The door closes behind him. Locks.
We’re alone.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low, smooth as velvet over stone.
I don’t answer. I don’t move. I keep my back to the wall, my arms around my knees, but I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze. Defiant. Unbroken.
He studies me. Not with pity. Not with anger. With *interest*.
“The bond is strong,” he says. “Stronger than I’ve ever seen. Your blood… it sings.”
“It’s not a song,” I snap. “It’s a curse.”
He tilts his head. “To you, perhaps. To the magic? It’s a symphony.”
He takes a step forward. I don’t flinch, but my breath hitches—his scent hits me like a wave. Smoke. Iron. Dark honey. And beneath it—the wild, intoxicating musk of a vampire in heat.
My body responds instantly—nipples tightening, core clenching, heat flooding my veins. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, drawing blood, using the pain to ground myself.
He smiles. Not kindly. Predatory.
“You feel it,” he murmurs. “Don’t you? The pull. The *need*.”
“I feel *you*,” I say, voice raw. “In my head. In my blood. In my *body*. And I hate every second of it.”
“Liar,” he says softly.
Another step.
Now he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Not body heat. Something deeper. Older. Magic.
He crouches in front of me, same as last night. But this time, his eyes are different. Not cold. Not distant.
*Hot*.
“You think this is about control,” he says. “About possession. But it’s not.”
“Isn’t it?” I challenge. “You called me yours. You locked me in here. You’re *in my mind*.”
“And you’re in mine,” he says. “Did you know that? You’re a storm in my thoughts. A fire I can’t extinguish. You *burn*, Gold Silvershade. And the bond—it doesn’t care about your mission. Your revenge. It only cares about *truth*.”
“The truth is you killed my parents,” I say, voice trembling. “The truth is I came here to end you.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch.
He just watches me. And then—
“The truth,” he says, “is that your body knows I didn’t.”
I freeze.
His hand lifts—slow, deliberate. Not to touch my face. Not to grab me.
To my wrist.
His fingers brush the spot where Kael’s blood dried. Where he touched me last night.
Fire erupts up my arm.
I gasp, jerking back, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, but not painful. Just… *present*.
And then—
The bond *flares*.
His heartbeat slams into mine, not just in rhythm, but in *force*. I feel his blood rushing through his veins. His breath in his lungs. The heat in his core—focused, *directed*—and aimed right at me.
And beneath it—his desire. Raw. Unfiltered. *Mine*.
I whimper, my back arching, my thighs pressing together. My body is on fire. My magic—dormant, muffled—shivers, *awakening* at the contact.
“See?” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “You don’t hate me. You *want* me. And the magic knows it.”
I yank my wrist back, scrambling to my feet. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My skin is too tight. My core throbs.
“Get out,” I choke. “Get out of here. Out of my head. Out of my *body*.”
He rises slowly, towering over me. Not threatening. Not backing down.
“I can’t,” he says. “And neither can you.”
He turns. Walks to the door.
And just before he opens it—
“You’ll learn to want me,” he says, glancing back. “Not because of the bond. But because of *me*.”
The door closes behind him.
I collapse against the wall, sliding to the floor.
My hand flies to my wrist, where his fingers touched me. The skin is burning. The mark—though there’s no mark—is *there*.
And deep inside me—where the bond lives, where his heartbeat echoes, where his desire lingers—I feel something shift.
Not surrender.
But *recognition*.
I came here to kill him.
And now?
Now, I’m not sure I can.
Because the truth—
The terrible, undeniable truth—
Is that my body already knows him as its mate.
And my heart?
It’s starting to believe it too.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.
And for the first time since the fire, since the hunters, since the vow—
I cry.
Not for my parents.
Not for my mission.
But for the woman I thought I’d buried.
The one who still believes in love.
The one who’s *afraid*.
Because if I let myself want him—
If I let myself *feel*—
Then everything I’ve fought for…
Everything I’ve sworn to do…
Will be for nothing.
And I’ll be lost.
Not to the bond.
But to *him*.