The world tilted.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. But *physically*—a lurch in my stomach, a rush of black at the edges of my vision, the floor tilting up to meet me like a lover I no longer wanted.
I collapsed.
One second I was pressed against the cold silver runes of the ritual chamber wall, Kaelen’s blood still burning through my veins, my body humming with the aftershock of forbidden knowledge and something far more dangerous—*arousal*. The next, my knees gave out, my breath seized, and darkness swallowed me whole.
The last thing I felt was his hands.
Not holding me down.
Not forcing me.
But *catching* me.
Strong. Sure. Cold.
And then—nothing.
—
I came back in pieces.
First, sound—the soft, rhythmic tap of boots on stone. Then scent—cold iron, old magic, and beneath it, something darker, richer: *him*. Kaelen. His blood still pulsed in my veins, a second heartbeat, a ghost of his power winding through mine.
Then touch.
My body was cradled against something hard and unyielding—his chest. My legs were looped around his waist, my arms draped over his shoulders, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. The fabric of his tunic was cool against my fevered skin, but the heat radiating from his body was undeniable. Not warmth. Not life. But *power*. A deep, thrumming current, like the ley lines beneath the city, alive and pulsing.
I was being carried.
And worse—
I *liked* it.
My breath hitched. My pulse spiked. The Mark of the Eclipse flared beneath my collar, a slow, insistent throb that matched the rhythm of his steps. Each movement jostled me slightly, my core brushing against the hard plane of his abdomen, sending a jolt of sensation straight through me.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low, smooth. Not a question. A statement.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stayed where I was—curled against him, dependent, *vulnerable*.
“You passed out,” he continued, as if reciting a medical report. “After the blood-sharing. Your body wasn’t ready for the bond’s depth. Or the truth.”
My jaw clenched. The truth.
I’d seen it in the blood-memory—the flash of images that came with drinking from a vampire, especially one bound to you by magic. My mother, alive. Laughing. Standing beside Kaelen at the Eclipse altar, their hands clasped not in betrayal, but in alliance. Then the cloaked figure. The blade. The scream. And Kaelen—*struggling*, bound by magic, *watching her fall*.
He hadn’t killed her.
He’d *tried* to save her.
The realization had hit me like a knife to the gut. And then—his fangs on my neck. The whisper of pressure. The way my body had *arched* into it, desperate, *needy*.
Shame burned through me, hot and sharp.
“Put me down,” I said, voice hoarse.
He didn’t. Just kept walking, his steps steady, unhurried. “You’d only fall again.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
I stiffened. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend you give a damn about me.”
He stopped.
Just like that. In the middle of the corridor, the torchlight flickering against the obsidian walls, casting long shadows that made him look more like a wraith than a man. Slowly, he turned his head, those molten gold eyes locking onto mine.
“I don’t pretend,” he said, voice quiet, dangerous. “I *know* what I feel. And I know what you felt when I bit you.”
My breath caught.
“I didn’t—”
“You *arched*,” he cut in. “Your body pressed into mine. Your pulse jumped. Your scent—*goddess*—you were *aroused*.”
I turned my face away. “It was the bond. The blood. It twisted—”
“No,” he said, stepping forward again. “It didn’t twist anything. It *revealed* it. The bond doesn’t lie, Indigo. It only shows the truth you’re too afraid to face.”
“And what truth is that?” I snapped, still not looking at him.
“That you want me.”
I sucked in a breath.
He kept walking. “That you’ve wanted me since the moment our hands touched. That every time you say you hate me, your body says the opposite. That when I touch you—” His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, where his pulse met mine. “—you *burn*.”
My skin *did* burn. My core clenched. The Mark of the Eclipse flared, a pulse of heat that made me gasp.
“You’re not some pawn in your revenge game,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “You’re my bondmate. My equal. And whether you like it or not—” His voice dropped, rough, intimate. “—you’re *mine*.”
I wanted to fight him. Wanted to slap him, kick him, scream that I’d never be his. But the truth was—
I was weak.
Not just from the blood-sharing. Not just from the bond. But from *him*. From the way his voice wrapped around me, cold and velvet, from the way his body felt against mine, from the way his presence filled the space like a storm no one could escape.
And so I stayed silent.
Let him carry me.
Let him think he’d won.
Because I wasn’t done yet.
—
He carried me through the winding corridors of the D’Vire residence, past silent guards, past flickering torches, past doors carved with ancient sigils. The deeper we went, the colder the air became, thick with the scent of stone and old magic. This wasn’t the living quarters. This was the lower level—the private wing, reserved for the High Sovereign and his closest allies.
Finally, he stopped at a set of double doors, black as night, etched with the D’Vire crest—a serpent coiled around a dagger. He didn’t knock. Didn’t call for entry. Just pressed his palm to the stone, and the doors groaned open.
Inside was not what I expected.
No opulent bedroom. No throne-like bed draped in crimson. Just a vast, minimalist space—high ceilings, obsidian floors, walls lined with ancient weapons and maps of the ley lines. A fire burned low in a stone hearth, casting long shadows. And in the center, a massive bed, low to the ground, covered in black silk and fur.
His bed.
My pulse spiked.
He stepped inside, then turned, lowering me slowly, deliberately, until my feet touched the floor. But he didn’t let go. One arm remained around my waist, holding me close, his other hand still gripping my wrist.
“You’re not staying here,” I said, voice tight.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re staying in your chamber.”
“Then why—”
“Because I needed to speak to you. Without interruption. Without witnesses.”
I tried to pull away. “Then speak.”
He didn’t release me. Just leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath cold against my lips. “You sabotaged the vote. You accused me of hiding the truth. You forced my hand.”
“And you punished me,” I shot back. “Forced blood-sharing is a *crime*.”
“It was a *lesson*,” he corrected. “You think power is in words? In votes? In *lies*? No. Power is in *control*. And right now, you have none.”
“I have the bond,” I said, lifting my chin. “And it’s *mine* as much as it is yours.”
His eyes darkened. “Then use it. Challenge me. Fight me. But don’t pretend you don’t *feel* it.”
“I feel *nothing* for you.”
“Liar.”
He moved fast—too fast. One hand slid up my arm, over my shoulder, to the back of my neck. The other tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My breath caught. My body *arched*. The heat between my thighs flared, sharp and sweet.
“You feel this,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the pulse at my throat. “Your heart is racing. Your scent is thick with need. Your magic—” His other hand slid down, over my hip, to the curve of my ass, pulling me harder against him. “—is *aching* for me.”
I gasped.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough. “Say you want me.”
“Never.”
He smirked. Slow. Dangerous. “Then I’ll make you.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative. But *hard*—his lips crashing into mine, his fangs grazing my bottom lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. I tried to pull away, but he held me, relentless, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming, *consuming*.
And then—
The bond *exploded*.
Fire ripped through me, not pain, but *pleasure*—white-hot, blinding, *inescapable*. My knees buckled. My hands fisted in his tunic. My body pressed into his, desperate, *needy*.
He groaned, low and deep, and lifted me, one hand under my thigh, the other at my back, carrying me to the bed. He didn’t lay me down. Just set me on the edge, his body between my legs, his hands on my hips, his mouth still fused to mine.
I should have fought.
Should have pushed him away.
But I didn’t.
Because for one traitorous, *unforgivable* moment—
I kissed him back.
My tongue met his. My hands slid up his chest. My hips *grinded* against his, seeking friction, seeking *more*.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Insistent.
The door.
We broke apart, gasping, my lips swollen, my breath ragged, my body *thrumming* with want.
Kaelen didn’t move. Just rested his forehead against mine, his breath cold, his eyes molten. “Ignore it.”
But the knock came again.
“Kaelen,” came Silas’s voice, muffled. “It’s urgent.”
Kaelen exhaled, long and slow, then pulled back, his hands lingering on my hips. “Stay.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
He turned, walked to the door, and opened it just enough to speak. I couldn’t hear the exchange—just low murmurs, Silas’s neutral tone, Kaelen’s clipped responses. Then the door closed.
He turned back to me.
“Duty calls,” he said, voice rough. “But this isn’t over.”
“It never was,” I said, standing, my legs still unsteady. “And it never will be.”
He smirked. “Good. Because I’m not done with you.”
I didn’t answer. Just walked past him, my boots silent on the stone. My body still burned. My core still ached. The bond still pulsed, a live wire beneath my skin.
But I wasn’t broken.
Not yet.
Not ever.
I reached the door to my chamber, hand on the handle—
“Indigo.”
I stopped.
Didn’t turn.
“The bond won’t let you run,” he said, voice low. “Not from me. Not from *this*.”
I turned my head, just slightly. “Then I’ll make it *bleed*.”
And I stepped inside.
Locked the door.
And slid to the floor, my back against the wood, my hands trembling, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
Because the truth was—
I wasn’t afraid of the bond.
I wasn’t afraid of the magic.
I wasn’t even afraid of *him*.
I was afraid of *me*.
Of the way my body responded to his touch.
Of the way my heart raced when he looked at me.
Of the terrifying, undeniable fact—
I wasn’t sure I wanted to destroy him anymore.
I was afraid I was starting to *need* him.
And that—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
—
Later, when the tremors had subsided and my pulse had slowed, I stood, stripped off my jacket, my blouse, anything that carried his scent, anything that reminded me of his touch. I threw them into the corner, then paced, fists clenched.
I needed a plan.
Needed to regain control.
But before I could think, the door creaked open.
“Mira?” I whispered.
My handmaiden slipped inside, her eyes wide with worry. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, exhaling. “Just… used.”
She moved to me, pressing a small cloth into my palm. “I found this.”
I unfolded it.
A single drop of blood, dark and glistening, dried on the fabric.
Kaelen’s blood.
From the ritual.
From my neck.
“It’s not just a mark,” she said, voice hushed. “It’s a *claim*. And if you don’t break it soon—”
“I will,” I said, tucking the cloth into my pocket. “Before it breaks me.”
She nodded.
But as I turned back to the room, I caught my reflection in the polished obsidian wall.
And for one terrifying second—
I didn’t see the avenger.
I didn’t see the infiltrator.
I saw a woman whose lips still burned from a vampire’s kiss.
Whose body still *ached* for his.
Whose heart—
Whose heart wasn’t sure if it wanted to destroy him…
Or *keep* him.
And then—
A whisper.
From the bond.
Not words.
Just a *pull*.
Toward him.
Toward the truth.
Toward the one thing I feared most—
That I was already his.