The slap echoed in the silence like a gunshot.
One second, his hands were on my waist, his body caging me against the thorned arch, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of my tunic. The next, I’d struck him—palm cracking across his cheek with a force that surprised even me. Not hard enough to bruise a vampire, but enough to sting. Enough to shock. Enough to make his black eyes flare with something raw, something *alive*.
And then he let go.
Stepped back.
Turned.
Walked away.
Just like that. No retaliation. No cold fury. No silent vow of retribution. He simply vanished into the shadows of the Moon Garden, his footsteps silent on the moss-covered stone, the Thorned Moon casting his long, jagged silhouette across the path like a warning.
I stayed where I was—back pressed to the arch, breath ragged, heart pounding. The thorns bit into my spine, sharp and grounding. The scent of crushed jasmine and iron hung in the air, thick with tension, with something unspoken, something *broken*.
He’d bitten me.
Just a graze. Just a drop of blood. But it had *burned*—not with pain, but with connection. A pulse of magic so intense it had ripped through my veins, synced with the bond, made the very roses around us shiver. And worse—my body had *responded*. Not with fear. Not with revulsion.
With heat.
With need.
I could still feel it—the press of his fangs against my wrist, the warmth of his mouth, the way his breath had scorched my skin. Could still taste the echo of it on my tongue, sweet and dark and *his*. Could still feel the way my magic had flared, wild and uncontrolled, like a storm finally given permission to break.
And I hated myself for it.
I wasn’t supposed to want him. I wasn’t supposed to *feel* him. I was here to expose the conspiracy, to reclaim the Blood Codex, to burn the throne room down if I had to. I wasn’t here to fall into whatever twisted game the bond had designed. I wasn’t here to let a vampire—any vampire—get under my skin.
And yet.
He’d said my name in his sleep. Had known it before I’d ever spoken it. Had *felt* the sigil the moment it flared. And when he’d pressed my wrist to his mouth, when his fangs had grazed my pulse, I hadn’t just felt the hunger.
I’d felt the *recognition*.
Like he already knew the taste of me.
Like I belonged to him.
No.
Not belonged.
*Cursed.*
That was the truth. This wasn’t desire. It wasn’t fate. It was magic. A backlash. A trap laid by bloodlines that should never have touched. The bond didn’t care about my mission. It didn’t care about vengeance. It only knew heat. Hunger. Proximity.
And it was winning.
I pushed off the arch, my legs unsteady, and turned toward our quarters. The bond tugged, sharp and insistent, reminding me of the ten-foot rule. He was still within range—somewhere in the garden, moving fast, putting distance between us without breaking the law. Coward. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d walked away because he’d seen the way my breath had hitched, the way my body had leaned into his, the way I’d *wanted* him to keep going.
And that terrified him too.
I reached the door to our suite and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind me. The fire in the hearth had died to embers. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the Moon Garden through the window. I didn’t light a candle. Didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms wrapped around myself, trying to steady my breath, to quiet the storm inside me.
And then—
It started.
Not the fever. Not the dizziness. Not the bond’s punishment for separation.
Whispers.
At first, I thought it was the wind—just the rustle of leaves, the creak of ancient stone. But then I heard it again. A voice. Then another. Then another. Soft. Murmuring. Coming from the corridor outside.
I moved to the door, pressing my ear to the wood.
“—heard they found her in his bed,” a woman said. Fae. High Court. I recognized the lilting accent. “Wearing *his* shirt. His scent all over her.”
My stomach dropped.
“And he didn’t deny it,” another voice replied. Vampire. Male. Cold. “Saw them together myself. She was *laughing*. Like she’d won.”
“Won what?” a third voice asked. Witch. Northern Circle. One of *my* people.
“The Lord of the Blood Accord,” the first voice purred. “They say he’s never looked at anyone like her. Never let anyone into his chambers. But *her*? She walks in like she owns the place.”
“And what about the witch envoy?” the witch asked. “Lady Vale?”
A pause. Then a laugh—sharp, mocking.
“Oh, she’s still around. But she’s not the one in his bed now, is she?”
The whispers faded as the voices moved down the hall, but the damage was done.
I stepped back from the door, my hands clenched into fists, my breath coming too fast. Taryn. That *bitch*. She’d done this on purpose. Worn his shirt. Let people see. Let the rumors spread. And now—now they thought she was *mine*.
No.
Not mine.
Not *his*.
I wasn’t his. I didn’t belong to him. I didn’t *want* to.
And yet—
Why did it hurt so much to hear them say it?
I turned, pacing the room, my magic sparking beneath my skin. The ring on my finger pulsed, warm and insistent, syncing with the bond. Ten feet. That was all it took. Ten feet of cursed proximity, enforced by moonsteel and blood oaths. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t *real*. He could walk away. He could let Taryn wear his clothes. He could let the world believe she was the one who mattered.
And I—
I could do nothing.
Unless I stopped pretending.
Unless I stopped fighting it.
Unless I *claimed* it.
The thought hit me like a thunderclap.
Not submission. Not surrender.
*Control.*
The bond wasn’t just a leash. It was a weapon. And if I couldn’t break it, I could *use* it. I could make it *mine*. I could force him to see me. To feel me. To *know*—without a doubt—that I was the one who mattered.
And I knew exactly how to start.
I moved to the wardrobe, pulled out a cloak—black, hooded, woven with protective sigils—and wrapped it around my shoulders. The bond tugged, sharp and sudden, as I stepped toward the door. He was still in the garden. Still close. Still *mine* to find.
Good.
Let him try to hide.
I slipped into the corridor, moving fast, silent, my boots barely making a sound on the stone. The whispers had stopped. The halls were empty. The Thorned Moon hung low in the sky, its jagged halo casting long, twisted shadows across the floor. I followed the pull of the bond, letting it guide me through the labyrinth of Eterna, past sleeping fae, patrolling enforcers, silent vampires.
And then—
I saw him.
He stood beneath the same black rose arch where he’d bitten me, his back to me, hands clasped behind him, staring up at the moon. His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled up. The silver cuff on his wrist—the one meant to dampen the bond—was dark, inactive. He was feeling every pulse, every breath, every unspoken thought that passed between us.
And he was *alone*.
Perfect.
I stepped into the garden, my cloak billowing behind me, the bond flaring as I closed the distance. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, still as stone, like he’d been waiting for me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, rough. “The garden isn’t safe at night.”
“Neither is your bed,” I said, stepping closer. “Not with Taryn in it.”
He turned.
His eyes—those bottomless black voids—locked onto mine. No anger. No denial. Just… *awareness*. Like he’d known this was coming. Like he’d been waiting for the storm to break.
“Taryn was not in my bed,” he said. “She was in *ours*.”
“And you let her wear your shirt.”
“I told her to take it off.”
“But you didn’t make her.”
“You think I should’ve used force?”
“I think you should’ve made it *clear*.”
“And what should I have said?” he asked, stepping closer. “That I don’t want her? That I never did? That the only woman I’ve thought about since the moment we touched is *you*?”
My breath caught.
He saw it. Of course he did.
“You think I don’t know what she’s doing?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “You think I don’t see the game? The whispers? The way she lets people believe she’s mine?”
“Then stop it.”
“How?”
“By choosing.”
“I have.”
“Then prove it.”
The bond flared.
Hot. Sudden. A pulse of magic so strong it made the candles in the garden flicker. His eyes darkened. His fangs grazed his lower lip. The scent of him—jasmine and iron and something dark, something *his*—flooded my senses.
And then—
He moved.
Fast. Blurring. One second, he was in front of me. The next, his hands were on my arms, gripping me, spinning me, pressing me back against the thorned arch. The thorns bit into my cloak, into my skin, sharp and grounding. His body caged me, hot and hard, his breath scorching my neck, his fangs grazing the pulse point at my throat.
“You want proof?” he growled, voice rough, dangerous. “You want me to choose?”
My breath hitched. My pulse roared. My magic flared, vines of thorned energy curling up the arch, around us, binding us in a cage of living magic.
“Then say it,” he demanded, his lips brushing my ear. “Say you’re mine.”
My eyes widened.
And then—
I slapped him.
Harder this time. With magic. A crack of energy that made the roses shiver, that sent a shock through his body, that made his grip falter—just for a second.
But it was enough.
“Never,” I hissed, my voice trembling with fury, with something else—something raw, aching. “I belong to no one.”
He didn’t move. Just stared at me, his cheek burning, his fangs bared, his eyes black with hunger—not just for blood.
For *me*.
“You think you’re the only one with a past?” he growled, pressing closer, his hips pinning mine to the arch, his hands sliding to my waist, gripping hard. “You think I don’t *feel* you in my bones?”
My breath caught. My back arched. My hips pressed forward, just slightly, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
The bond *screamed*.
Not pain.
Not fever.
*Need.*
Raw. Primal. A surge of heat so intense I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my body arching into his, my magic flaring, the thorned vines tightening around us, sealing us in.
And in that moment—
I knew.
I wasn’t just fighting him.
I was fighting *myself*.
And I was losing.
His lips hovered over mine—close, so close, his breath warm, his fangs grazing my lower lip like a promise.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re mine.”
And I—
I opened my mouth to refuse.
To fight.
To win.
But no words came.
Only a breath.
Only a shiver.
Only the truth.
And then—
His mouth crashed into mine.