I came here to kill you.
The thought is a blade I press between my ribs with every breath, sharp and familiar. It’s the only thing grounding me as I stand in the ritual chamber—the same one where my moonfire first erupted, where Vale forced me to train, where I first felt alive. The air hums with ancient energy. The lunar sigils on the floor glow faintly. The floating orbs of moonlight pulse like hearts.
But I’m not thinking about magic.
I’m not thinking about the Blood Moon Pact.
I’m not even thinking about revenge.
I’m thinking about the way his mouth crashed into mine. The way his fangs grazed my lip. The way my body arched into his, like it was made to fit there. The way I came—silent, sudden, uncontrollable—just from his hand on my hip, just from the heat of his breath on my neck.
I’m thinking about the kiss.
The first real kiss.
And I hate myself for it.
It shouldn’t have happened. It was reckless. It was weak. It was everything I swore I wouldn’t do. But it wasn’t the bond. It wasn’t the heat cycle. It wasn’t the full moon or the cave or the storm.
It was him.
And that terrifies me more than any mission.
—
It started with blood.
Not mine.
Not the Pact’s.
But his.
I was in the eastern corridor, returning from the archives after another fruitless search for the original Pact scroll—Silas still has it, I’m sure of it—when I heard the whisper of steel. A flicker in the shadows. The scent of iron and something deeper—vampire.
And then—
A blade.
It came from nowhere, slicing through the air toward Vale’s throat as he turned the corner, his coat billowing like wings. He didn’t see it. Didn’t sense it. Too focused on the report in his hand, too lost in whatever cold calculation ruled his mind.
And I—
I moved.
Before I could think. Before I could stop myself. I lunged, shoving him aside, my body taking the hit meant for his neck.
The dagger slashed across my forearm—shallow, but enough to draw blood. I hissed, staggering back, but I didn’t fall. I couldn’t. Because the assassin was already gone—vanished into the shadows, a flicker of gray fabric, the scent of fae poison lingering in the air.
And Vale—
He was on his knees.
Not from the blade.
From me.
His golden eyes were wide, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they reached for my arm. He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Didn’t call for guards. He just stared at the blood welling from the cut, his fangs bared, his pupils blown wide with something I’d never seen before—fear.
“You’re hurt,” he whispered, voice raw.
“It’s nothing.” I tried to pull away, but he held on. His grip was iron, his touch burning. The bond flared—hot, insistent—sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. My breath hitched. My thighs pressed together. The mark on my hip pulsed, not with pain, but with need.
“It’s not nothing.” He tore a strip from his coat, pressing it to the wound. His fingers brushed my skin, slow, deliberate, and I shivered. “You took a blade meant for me.”
“I didn’t think.”
“No.” He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine. “You just acted.”
And that was the problem.
I didn’t plan it. Didn’t calculate it. Didn’t use it as leverage. I just… did it. Like my body knew before my mind. Like the bond wasn’t just a curse, but a compass.
“Why?” he asked, voice low. “Why save me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Because the woman who came to destroy him shouldn’t have cared if he lived or died.
But I did.
And that was worse than any wound.
—
He carried me to the ritual chamber.
Not gently. Not like I was fragile. But like I was his. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, his body a wall of heat and power. I should have fought. Should have kicked. Should have screamed that I didn’t need his help, that I wasn’t some damsel to be rescued.
But I didn’t.
I let him.
I let my head rest against his chest. I let my fingers curl into the fabric of his coat. I let the bond hum between us, a low, insistent thrum that synced with his heartbeat, with his breath, with the way his body moved like a predator.
And when he set me down on the stone bench, when he knelt before me and began to clean the wound with a cloth soaked in moonwater, I didn’t pull away.
His hands were steady. His touch was precise. But his breath was uneven. His jaw was tight. His eyes—gold fire in the dim light—kept flicking to my face, to my lips, to the pulse in my neck.
“You’re staring,” I said, voice rough.
“I’m assessing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He pressed the cloth to the cut, and I hissed. His gaze snapped to mine. “You flinch.”
“It stings.”
“And yet you took a blade for me.” He leaned closer, his scent wrapping around me—cold stone, old blood, moonlight. “You could have died.”
“So could you.”
“But you didn’t let that happen.”
“Neither did you.” I lifted my chin. “You caught me. After the attack. You pulled me out of the carriage. You saved me.”
“Because you’re mine.”
“I’m not.”
“Your body says otherwise.” His thumb brushed the edge of the mark on my hip—just once—and fire lanced through me. My spine arched. My breath hitched. My thighs pressed together, wet and aching. “You’re trembling.”
“It’s the wound.”
“It’s me.” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “You want me. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. Because of me.”
“I hate you.”
“And yet you saved me.”
My breath caught.
He was right.
And that was the worst part.
I had saved him.
Not for the bond.
Not for the mission.
But for him.
And I didn’t know how to take it back.
—
Then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not soft. A claiming. His mouth crashed into mine, hot and demanding, his fangs grazing my lip. I gasped, and he took it, deepening the kiss, his tongue tangling with mine. My body ignited. My hands flew to his shoulders, not to push him away—to hold on.
The mark burned. The bond roared. My hips ground against him, seeking relief, seeking more.
And then—
I kissed him back.
Not because the bond forced me.
Not because the heat cycle drove me.
But because I wanted to.
My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, harder. My fangs scraped his lip, drawing a bead of blood. He groaned, low and deep, and the sound vibrated through me, sending a shock of pleasure straight to my core.
His hands were everywhere—on my waist, in my hair, on my neck—claiming, possessing, devouring. His body pressed into mine, his erection a hard line against my thigh, and I arched into him, shameless, desperate.
And then—
I bit him.
Not hard. Not to hurt. But to mark. My fangs sank into the soft skin of his lower lip, drawing blood. He froze—just for a heartbeat—then growled, low and feral, and his hand slid down, cupping my ass, pulling me against him.
“Hurricane,” he murmured against my mouth, voice rough. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you want me.”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.” He nipped my lip, just hard enough to sting. “You’re grinding against me. Your magic is flaring. Your breath is ragged. You’re wet.”
My hips twitched, seeking friction. The bond flared—hot, insistent. My core clenched, aching.
“You want me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Say it.”
“Never.”
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving, his lip still bleeding. “Then why did you save me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Because the truth was too dangerous.
Because if I said it—if I admitted that I needed him, that I wanted him, that I was afraid of how much I cared—then the mission would be over.
And so would I.
—
He didn’t push.
He just watched me, his thumb stroking my lower lip, smearing the blood from his bite. His touch was possessive. His gaze was unrelenting.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said quietly. “The bond knows. Your body knows. I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I want to hear it from your lips.” He leaned in, his breath warm against my skin. “I want you to stop fighting. Stop lying. Stop pretending you don’t feel what I feel.”
“And what do you feel?”
“Everything.” His hand slid up my spine, under my shirt, his palm hot against my skin. “The heat. The need. The pull. The way my chest tightens when you’re near. The way my fangs ache when you look at me. The way I’d burn the world down if you asked me to.”
My breath hitched.
“I want you,” he said, voice raw. “Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Because of you. Because you’re fierce. Because you’re fire. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m not a monster.”
My heart stuttered.
“You are a monster,” I whispered.
“And yet you kissed me.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Liar.” He kissed me again—soft this time, almost tender. A contrast to the fire that had consumed us moments before. “You don’t make mistakes. You don’t act without purpose. You saved me. You kissed me. You marked me. That wasn’t a mistake. That was truth.”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
And I didn’t know how to fight it.
—
Later, I stand in the ritual chamber, hand on the mark, the crescent moon pulsing beneath my fingers.
The kiss replays in my mind—his mouth on mine, his blood on my tongue, the way his body moved against mine. I can still feel him. In my blood. In my breath. In the beat of my heart.
And I know—
I don’t know if I want to destroy him.
I don’t know if I want to save him.
All I know is—
I want him.
And that terrifies me more than any mission.
Because the woman who came to destroy him now fears she’ll do anything to keep him.
And for the first time—
She’s not sure she wants to be saved.