The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I stop.
Not because I want to. Not because I need to.
Because my body *forces* me to.
I press my back against the corridor wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, breath ragged. My heart—no, *our* heart—thuds too fast, too hard, like it’s trying to escape my chest. My skin burns. My fangs ache. My cock is steel, straining against the fabric of my trousers, still throbbing from the memory of her wrapped around me, grinding against me, *kissing* me like she wanted to devour me whole.
Gold.
She kissed me.
Not in hate. Not in rage.
In *need*.
And when she shoved me away, when she whispered *“I hate you”* like a prayer, I didn’t believe her.
Because I felt it.
Through the bond. Through her pulse. Through the wet heat soaking through her dress where she pressed against me.
She wants me.
And not just because of the magic.
Because of *me*.
I push off the wall, forcing my legs to move. I don’t go to my chambers. Not yet. I can’t. Not with her scent on my skin, her taste still on my tongue, her fire still burning in my veins. I’d go back. I’d break the door down. I’d strip that dress off her with my teeth and bury myself inside her until she screamed my name.
And I won’t.
Not like this.
Not with her still fighting herself.
I stride through the Obsidian Court, shadows curling at my heels, guards bowing as I pass. The air is thick with tension—vampires whispering about the ritual, werewolves growling about the fire, witches murmuring sigils under their breath. The Fae are silent, but their eyes are sharp, calculating. They smelled the shift in the bond. They know something changed.
And so do I.
She’s close. So close to breaking. Not the bond. Not her mission.
Her walls.
And when she does?
I’ll be ready.
I reach the east wing—my private chambers, sealed with blood and shadow. The door dissolves at my touch, revealing the vast suite of black marble and crimson silk. The hearth burns low, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The bed—too large, too empty—beckons like a temptation.
I don’t go to it.
I go to the desk. To the file.
The one I took from the Blood Archive.
Elara’s file.
I unroll the scroll, pressing it flat with my palm. Her name is written in silver ink—*Elara of House Frostveil, Winter Fae, mate of Cassian D’Vraeth, taken by shadow, not by choice.*
I never showed it to Gold.
Not because I didn’t want her to see it.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid she’d see my grief as weakness. Afraid she’d use it against me. Afraid that if she knew how broken I was, she’d never let herself want me.
But now?
Now I think she needs to.
Because Malrik didn’t just kill her.
He killed the man I was.
And Gold—
She’s rebuilding me.
I hear her before I see her.
Not footsteps. Not breath.
The bond.
It *pulses*, a hot surge of energy that makes my spine straighten, my fangs extend. She’s coming. Not running. Not fleeing.
Walking.
Like she knows exactly where she’s going.
And she does.
The door opens.
She stands there—tall, fierce, dressed in black again, but different now. Her hair is down, silver streaks catching the candlelight. Her eyes are gold-flecked, glowing faintly with witch-fire. Her lips—swollen, kissed—are parted, breath shallow.
She looks like vengeance.
She looks like *mine*.
“You took something from the Archive,” she says, voice low. “I felt it. Through the bond.”
I don’t deny it. “I did.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
She steps inside, closing the door behind her. The lock clicks. Not sealed. Not trapped.
Just… closed.
“Why not?” she challenges, moving closer. “Afraid I’ll see your pain? Afraid I’ll use it against you?”
“Afraid you’ll run,” I say. “When you see how broken I am.”
She stops. “You’re not broken.”
“I was,” I say. “Until you.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate. Her scent—jasmine and storm, with the wild musk of a wolf in heat—fills the room.
“Show me,” she whispers.
I don’t move.
“Show me,” she says again, stepping closer. “Or I’ll take it from you.”
“You could try,” I murmur.
And then—
She lunges.
Not with a knife. Not with claws.
With her *hands*.
She slams into me, knocking me back against the desk, her fingers digging into my shoulders. The scroll rolls, falling to the floor. She doesn’t care. Her mouth crashes against mine—fierce, desperate, *hungry*. Her tongue demands entry, and I give it, groaning as she tastes me, as she *claims* me.
I kiss her back like I’m starving.
Like I’ve waited centuries for this.
Like if I stop, I’ll die.
My hands slide to her waist, lifting her, pressing her back against the wall. Her legs wrap around me, thighs clenching, grinding against my erection. The bond *flares*, a surge of energy that makes the lights flicker, the sigils on the walls glow. My magic—dormant, controlled—shivers, *awake* at her touch.
She breaks the kiss, trailing her lips to my neck, teeth scraping my pulse. “Show me,” she growls. “Or I’ll burn it out of you.”
I laugh—low, dark, *dangerous*. “You already are.”
My hands slide under her dress—up her thighs, over the curve of her ass, fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear. She gasps, arching, pressing her core against me. I can feel her—wet, hot, *ready*—and it nearly breaks me.
“You want me to show you pain?” I whisper, biting down—just enough to sting, not to claim. “I’ll show you pain. I’ll show you *everything*.”
My fingers slide under the fabric, skimming the soft skin of her inner thigh, then higher—until I brush the edge of her folds.
She *moans*.
Soft. Unintended. But it rips from her throat like surrender.
“Cassian—”
“Say it,” I growl, circling her clit with my thumb. “Say you want me.”
She shudders, head falling back. “I *hate* you.”
“Liar,” I whisper, pressing harder. “You’re dripping for me. You’re *aching*. You’re *mine*.”
She gasps, hips bucking. “No—”
“Yes,” I say, sliding one finger inside her. “And you know it.”
She cries out, back arching, nails biting into my shoulders. Her walls clench around me, wet and tight, *perfect*. I add a second finger, curling them, pressing against her sweet spot. She moans, grinding against my hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You feel that?” I murmur, watching her, memorizing every flicker of pleasure on her face. “That’s not the bond. That’s *you*. That’s *us*.”
She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Her body is on fire, her magic pulsing, her core clenching around my fingers. I stroke her, slow then fast, teasing then relentless, until she’s trembling, on the edge.
“Come for me,” I growl. “Let me feel you.”
And then—
She does.
Her back arches, her head falls back, a cry tearing from her throat as she comes—hard, violent, *beautiful*. Her walls pulse around my fingers, wet heat soaking through my hand, her scent—her *arousal*—filling the room.
I don’t stop.
I keep stroking, drawing it out, making her ride through the waves until she’s gasping, trembling, *broken*.
And then—
I pull my hand back.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like I’m savoring the moment.
She stares at me, eyes dazed, lips parted, chest heaving. Her dress is rumpled, her hair wild, her skin flushed. She looks like she’s been fucked.
And she has.
Just not the way she wanted.
“You’re cruel,” she whispers.
“No,” I say, bringing my fingers to my mouth, licking them clean. “I’m patient. And I’m not done with you.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate. Her core *clenches*.
“You don’t get to do that,” she says, voice shaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me like that and then stop.”
“I don’t?” I murmur, stepping closer. “Then what will you do about it?”
She shoves me—hard—but I don’t move. I let her push, let her rage, let her fight. But when she tries to shove me again, I catch her wrists, pinning them to her sides.
“Let go,” she hisses.
“No.”
“Did you *want* her?” she demands, voice breaking. “Did you *desire* Elara?”
“I loved her,” I say, voice low. “And I failed her. But I’ve never *ached* for anyone like this. Never *burned* for anyone like you.”
She trembles. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to *feel* that.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I say. “And neither do you.”
Her breath comes fast. Her chest rises and falls. Her scent—her *arousal*—fills the room.
And then—
She surges forward.
Not to strike.
Not to fight.
To *kiss* me.
Her lips crash against mine—fierce, desperate, *needy*. Her hands—now free—dig into my shoulders, nails biting through fabric. I groan, my grip tightening, pulling her against me. Her body is fire, her mouth is war, her thighs clamp around my waist, grinding against my erection.
I kiss her back like I’m starving.
Like I’ve waited centuries for this.
Like if I stop, I’ll die.
My hands slide to her waist, lifting her, pressing her back against the wall. Her legs wrap around me, thighs clenching, grinding against my cock. The bond *flares*, a surge of energy that makes the lights flicker, the sigils on the walls glow. My magic shivers, *awake*, pulsing in time with our kiss.
She breaks the kiss, trailing her lips to my neck, teeth scraping my pulse. “Show me,” she growls. “Show me the truth.”
I don’t answer.
I just move.
I carry her to the bed—across the room in three strides, laying her down with terrifying ease. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t resist. Just watches me, eyes dark, breathless, *wanting*.
I kneel beside her, peeling off my shirt, then hers. Her dress slides over her head, revealing her in black lace—bra, panties, the sigil on her hip glowing faintly gold. I trail my fingers down her body—over her collarbone, between her breasts, over her stomach—until I reach the edge of her panties.
“Say it,” I murmur, hooking my fingers into the fabric. “Say you want me to take these off.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just lifts her hips, *begging*.
I smile.
And I pull them down.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like I’m savoring the moment.
And then—
I’m between her legs.
My hands on her thighs, spreading them. My breath on her core. My fangs—long, sharp, *hungry*—just above her.
“Cassian—”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Let me taste you.”
And I do.
My tongue slides through her folds—slow, deep, *thorough*. She gasps, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets. I lick her—up, down, circling her clit—until she’s trembling, moaning, *begging*.
“You taste like fire,” I murmur, looking up at her. “Like *mine*.”
She doesn’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I dive back in—faster, harder, relentless—until she’s coming again, screaming my name, her body convulsing beneath me.
And then—
I rise.
Unbuttoning my trousers. Sliding them down. My cock—hard, thick, *needing*—springs free. I crawl over her, pressing the tip to her entrance, watching her, *waiting*.
“Say it,” I growl. “Say you want me.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, breathless, *broken*.
And then—
She whispers—
“Yes.”
And I—
—
CRASH.
The door explodes inward.
Wood splinters. Stone cracks. The bond *screams*—not in pleasure, but in *pain*.
I roll off her, shielding her with my body, fangs bared, shadows writhing around me. She gasps, scrambling back, pulling the sheets over her, eyes wide with shock.
And there she is.
Lysara.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in black leather, a silver dagger in her hand, her eyes blazing with fury.
“You always did prefer broken things,” she spits, stepping inside. “But you’ll never have her.”
Gold freezes.
And in that moment—
I see it.
Not just the lie.
The *truth*.
Malrik didn’t just frame me.
He’s been using Lysara all along.
And now?
He’s coming for her.
For *us*.
I rise, slowly, deliberately, pulling my trousers up, buttoning them. I don’t look at Gold. Don’t speak to her.
Just step in front of her—between her and the blade.
“Get out,” I say, voice low, deadly. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Lysara laughs—short, bitter. “You won’t. Because you need me. To keep her *doubting*.”
“I don’t need you,” I snarl. “I don’t want you. And if you touch her—”
“You’ll what?” she challenges, stepping closer. “Kill me? Go ahead. But she’ll never believe you then, will she? She’ll think you’re silencing me. Hiding the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
Gold won’t believe me.
Not now.
Not after this.
But I don’t care.
Because I know the truth.
And one day, so will she.
I turn—just enough to meet Gold’s eyes over my shoulder.
She’s watching me. Not with fear. Not with anger.
With *recognition*.
She knows.
She *feels* it.
Through the bond.
Through her blood.
Through her soul.
And when she finally turns back?
I’ll be waiting.
Not as a king.
Not as a monster.
But as the man who would burn the world for her.
Even if it costs me everything.