I wake to fire.
Not the crackle of embers in the hearth. Not the distant glow of torchlight in the Undercroft’s veins. But fire beneath my skin—deep, pulsing, *consuming*. The bond-heat is back, worse than before, a fever that coils low in my belly and claws its way up my spine. My breath comes in shallow gasps. My skin is too tight, too sensitive. Every shift of the sheets against my thighs sends a jolt of sensation straight to my core.
I’m in Kaelen’s bed.
Our bed.
The fire has died to embers, but the room is warm—thick with the scent of cedar, smoke, and *him*. His coat is draped over the chair. His boots are kicked off near the door. But he’s not here.
And I’m not alone.
The dream lingers like a bruise behind my eyes—Lysara’s blood on the Council chamber floor, her throat slit by her own hand, the glamour on her neck dissolving into nothing. Silas, still pinned against the wall, his lies exposed, his power crumbling. And Kaelen—his hand in mine, our blood mingling, the Blood Oath sealing between us like a vow written in fire.
I press a hand to my chest, where the runes burn gold and crimson beneath my collarbone. The bond is stronger now. Deeper. Not just magic. Not just fate.
It’s *ours*.
And yet—
The heat won’t stop.
I roll onto my side, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body aching for touch, for friction, for *him*. The memory of his mouth on mine, his fangs scraping my lip, his hands holding me like I was something *precious*—it floods me, hot and sudden. My thighs press together, slick with need. A soft moan claws its way up my throat, and I bite it back, but it’s too late.
“You’re awake.”
His voice.
Low. Rough. *Close*.
I turn my head.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of the hall, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable. His gaze sweeps the room—bed, hearth, desk—then lands on me. On the way the sheets cling to my hips, the way my nightgown has ridden up, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs.
“You’re in heat,” he says, stepping inside and sealing the door behind him with a soft, resonant hum.
“I noticed.” My voice is hoarse, broken.
He moves toward me, slow, deliberate. The scent of him—cedar, smoke, *arousal*—fills the air. My breath hitches. My core clenches. The bond flares, a hot, electric wave that rolls through me, making my vision blur.
“The Blood Oath should have stabilized it,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over my stomach. “But it’s worse when you’re stressed. When the bond is tested.”
“You mean when I’m fighting for my life?”
“I mean when you’re afraid.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “And you’re not afraid of me anymore.”
“No.” I turn to him, my eyes searching his. “I’m afraid of *this*.” I gesture between us. “Of how much I want you. Of how much I *need* you.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yes, I do.” I sit up, the sheets falling away, my nightgown slipping off one shoulder. “Because if I let myself want you—if I let myself *love* you—then I’m not just risking my mission. I’m risking my soul.”
“And if you don’t?” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Then you’ll burn. Hallucinate. Bleed from your eyes. And when the fever breaks, you’ll be broken with it.”
My breath catches.
“You think I don’t know that?” I whisper. “You think I don’t *feel* it? The bond—it’s not just heat. It’s *hunger*. It’s *need*. It’s screaming at me to touch you, to taste you, to let you *claim* me.”
“Then let me.”
“No.” I pull back, but my body betrays me, arching toward him, my hands twisting in the sheets. “Not like this. Not when I’m—”
“When you’re what?” He leans in, his lips brushing my neck. “Afraid? Angry? *Aroused*?”
I whimper.
His hand slides under my nightgown, up my bare thigh, stopping just below the curve of my ass. His thumb brushes the edge of my panties—lace, damp with need.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “You want me to touch you. To ease the heat. To make you come.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He nips my earlobe. “You’re trembling. Your pulse is racing. And your scent—gods, your scent—is driving me insane.”
His hand moves higher, fingers tracing the seam of my folds through the lace. I gasp, hips rocking instinctively.
“Say stop,” he growls. “And I’ll stop.”
I don’t say stop.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, brushing my clit—swollen, sensitive, aching. I cry out, back arching, head falling against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let the bond have you.”
His fingers circle, slow, teasing, building the pressure. My breath hitches. My thighs tremble. The heat coils tighter, hotter, *closer*.
And then—
I hear it.
A whisper.
Faint. Familiar.
Like a voice from a dream.
Gold…
I freeze.
Not my imagination.
Not the fever.
But *real*.
Coming from the other side of the door.
“Kaelen,” comes a voice—female. Smooth. Familiar. “I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
Lysara.
But she’s dead.
I saw her bleed out on the Council chamber floor.
And yet—
The voice is *hers*.
“Ignore it,” Kaelen murmurs, his fingers still moving, his lips brushing my neck. “It’s a glamour. A trick.”
“It sounds real.”
“It’s not.” He nips my earlobe. “No one can get through the wards. No one can mimic her voice. It’s a trap.”
“Then why does it feel like a warning?”
He stills.
For a heartbeat, the world stops.
Then he pulls back, his hand sliding from my panties, his expression unreadable. “Because you’re not just fighting the heat. You’re fighting the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you’re not ready.” He stands, smoothing his tunic. “That you still don’t trust me.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
“Because I’m afraid.” I look up at him, my voice breaking. “Afraid that if I let you in—if I let myself *love* you—then I’ll lose myself. That I’ll forget why I came here. That I’ll forget *her*.”
His jaw tightens. “You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I see you.” He steps closer, his hand cupping my face. “The avenger. The heir. The *queen*. And I won’t let you forget her. I won’t let you forget *you*.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back.
“Then stay,” I whisper. “Don’t leave me alone.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods. “I’ll be right here.”
He sits beside me, his arm around my waist, his body a warm, solid presence against my side. The bond hums, not with heat, not with desire, but with something deeper.
Something like *peace*.
And then—
I hear it again.
Gold…
Not from the door.
From *inside*.
My breath catches.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
He tenses. “Hear what?”
“A voice. Whispering. It’s—”
And then I feel it.
A pull. A thread. A connection.
Not the bond.
Something else.
I close my eyes, reaching for it, following it—down, deeper, into the Undercroft’s veins, past the Council chamber, past the Chamber of Records, into a place I’ve never been but *know*.
A ritual chamber.
Dark. Cold. Filled with the scent of blood and decay.
And in the center—
A circle.
Etched into the stone, pulsing with crimson light. Candles made of human tallow flicker around it, their flames refusing to dance. And on the floor—
A name.
Written in blood.
Gold.
My blood.
My *life*.
And a voice—soft, smooth, *familiar*—whispers:
The binding ritual is ready.
I gasp, my eyes flying open, my body drenched in sweat, my heart hammering. The bond flares—hot, violent, *terrified*.
“Gold?” Kaelen’s hand is on my arm, his voice sharp. “What is it?”
“A ritual,” I whisper, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “They’re trying to bind me. To break the Soulbrand. To force me into another’s bed.”
His jaw clenches. “Who?”
“I don’t know.” I press a hand to my chest, where the runes burn. “But I heard a voice. Whispering. It said—”
And then I hear it again.
Not in my mind.
From the other side of the door.
The binding ritual is ready.
Female. Smooth. Familiar.
But not Lysara’s.
This voice—
It’s *Mira’s*.
My foster sister. My only family. The woman who raised me. Who taught me blood magic. Who swore to protect me.
And now she’s standing outside Kaelen’s door, whispering about a ritual meant to *enslave* me.
My breath catches.
“It’s her,” I whisper. “Mira. She’s here. She’s—”
“Lying,” Kaelen says, standing, his body a wall between me and the door. “It’s a glamour. A trap. They’re using her voice to lure you out.”
“But what if it’s not?” I stand, my legs unsteady. “What if she’s in trouble? What if they’re forcing her?”
“Then she’ll have to wait.” He turns to me, his eyes black with fury. “I won’t let you walk into a trap. Not for her. Not for anyone.”
“She’s my sister,” I snap. “I can’t just leave her.”
“And I can’t lose you.” His voice is low, rough, raw. “Not after everything we’ve fought for. Not after everything we’ve *become*.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back.
“Then let me go,” I whisper. “Let me see her. Let me make sure she’s safe.”
“No.” He steps closer, his hand cupping my face. “Because if you go, you’ll die. And if you die, I die with you.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t get to decide my fate,” I say, my voice breaking.
“The bond does.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “And so do I.”
And then—
The door opens.
Not with a soft click.
Not with a resonant hum.
But with a sharp, splintering crack—as if forced.
We turn.
Mira stands there, her dark hair braided tightly, her face sharp with purpose. Her eyes—green as fresh blood—lock onto mine. No warmth. No recognition. Just calculation.
And in her hand—
A vial.
Dark. Swirling. Cursed.
“The binding ritual is ready,” she says, her voice smooth, cold. “And you’re already late.”
My blood turns to ice.
She’s not here to save me.
She’s here to *destroy* me.
And the bond—
It *screams*.