The weight of him behind me is unbearable.
Not the arms around my waist, not the heat of his chest against my back, not even the slow, steady rhythm of his breath fanning over my neck. It’s the *knowing*. The quiet certainty in the way he holds me—like he has every right, like I belong here, like this is where I’ve always been meant to be.
And the worst part?
I don’t pull away.
After everything—after the ritual, after the almost-kiss, after the way I *ached* for him, after the slap, after the sobs—I should fight. I should run. I should take my dagger and carve my way out of this gilded prison, out of this cursed bond, out of this *weakness*.
But I don’t.
I stand at the balcony, wrapped in Kael Draven’s arms, and I let myself *feel*.
The wind is cool, sharp with the scent of night-blooming magnolias and damp earth. The gardens below are still, the fountains frozen in silver moonlight, the hedges casting long, skeletal shadows. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
And utterly false.
This court is a viper’s nest. And I’m standing in the center of it, bound to the most dangerous snake of all.
But right now, with his arms around me, his heartbeat steady against my spine, his breath warm on my skin—I don’t care.
I’m tired.
Not just from the ritual, from the bond, from the fight.
From the weight of vengeance.
From the memory of my father’s scream.
From the truth I can no longer deny: Kael didn’t kill him. He tried to save him. And failed.
And now, instead of hating him, I’m pressed against him, trembling, *needing* him.
“You should go,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Before I do something I regret.”
He doesn’t move. Just tightens his hold, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You already did.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant every second of it,” he murmurs. “The kiss. The touch. The way you arched into me. The way you whispered my name.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
I did.
And I’d do it again.
“I hate you,” I say, the words hollow now, brittle.
“Then why,” he says, voice low, rough, “do you feel like you’re coming home?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Because if I say it—if I admit that being in his arms feels like the first moment of peace I’ve known in ten years—then I’ve lost.
Then the mission is over.
Then I’ve betrayed my father.
He turns me in his arms, his hands cradling my face, his storm-gray eyes searching mine. “You don’t have to choose,” he says. “Not yet. Not between vengeance and… this.”
“There is no *this*,” I whisper. “There’s only the bond. The magic. The Concord.”
“And what if there’s more?” he asks. “What if it’s not just fate? What if it’s *us*?”
“You don’t know me,” I say, pulling back. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’m capable of.”
“I know you carry a dagger forged from stolen Fae bone,” he says. “I know you lied to get into this court. I know you came here to kill me.”
My pulse jumps.
“And?”
“And I know you didn’t do it,” he says. “Not when you had the chance. Not when I was vulnerable. Not when the bond was raw and the ritual left me exposed.”
“Maybe I was waiting for the right moment.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer. “Or maybe you hesitated. Maybe you *felt* something. Maybe you’re not as cold as you pretend.”
I turn away, gripping the balcony railing. “I don’t have time for this. For *you*.”
“Then what do you have time for?” he asks. “Revenge? Justice? Or are you just running from the truth?”
“What truth?”
“That you’re not alone,” he says. “That you don’t have to carry this burden by yourself. That you can *let* someone in.”
My throat tightens.
Let someone in?
After my father died, after my mother vanished, after I spent ten years in the shadows, training, planning, *hating*—the idea is foreign. Dangerous. Like opening a door to a room I’ve kept locked for a decade.
And yet—
I want to.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t trust you.”
“Then don’t trust me,” he says. “Trust the bond. Trust what you felt in the ritual. Trust that I’ve been fighting the same war you have—just from the other side.”
I look at him. “You really believe that?”
“I know it,” he says. “And one day, you will too.”
He steps back. “Get some rest. The bond will be stronger tonight. It will… demand attention.”
And then he’s gone, the connecting door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
I don’t move.
Just stand there, listening to the silence, feeling the echo of his touch on my skin.
He’s right.
The bond *is* stronger.
It hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, like a second heartbeat. My breath comes too fast. My skin is too sensitive. Every shadow in the room feels like it’s watching me. Every flicker of fire feels like a caress.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t lie in that bed, knowing he’s just on the other side of the wall, knowing he can *feel* me, knowing the bond will pull me toward him like gravity.
But I have no choice.
Because the moment I step outside this wing, Mab’s assassins will come for me.
And Kael—damn him—was right about one thing.
He’s the only one who’ll keep me alive.
I strip off my torn dress, let it fall to the floor. The air is cool against my bare skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my veins. I pull on a thin silk nightgown—black, of course, his taste—and crawl into bed.
The sheets are cold.
But they won’t stay that way.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. The bond hums, a constant, maddening presence. My magic—trapped, restless—itches in my veins. My body remembers his touch, his kiss, the way he tasted me, the way he filled me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t *feel* it.
But the memory is too strong. The heat too real. My thighs clench. My nipples tighten. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
I roll onto my side, curl into a ball, press my face into the pillow.
And that’s when I hear it.
A soft, rhythmic sound.
From the other room.
His breathing.
Slow. Steady. Controlled.
But not asleep.
He’s awake.
Listening.
Waiting.
The bond flares—heat surges through my veins, my skin prickling, my pulse racing. I can *feel* him. Not just his presence. His *hunger*. His need. His desire—for me.
I press my thighs together, trying to quell the ache, but it only makes it worse. My body is betraying me, aching for his touch, his claim, his fangs in my throat.
I won’t give in.
I *can’t*.
Because if I do—
If I let myself want him—
Then I’ve lost.
Then vengeance is dead.
Then I’ve become the thing I swore I’d never be—
His.
I force my eyes open, stare at the wall between us.
And I swear I can see through it.
See him—lying in that massive bed, shirtless, his chest marked with old scars, his fingers clenched in the sheets, his fangs pressing against his gums.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Needing.
Just like me.
The thought is unbearable.
I roll onto my other side, face the balcony, try to focus on the night. The moon. The stars. The quiet.
But the bond won’t let me.
It pulls me toward him, a live wire, a siren song. My skin remembers the weight of his body. My blood remembers the sound of his heartbeat. My magic—stolen, hunted, *alive*—itches to reach out, to touch, to *connect*.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Just stop.”
But it doesn’t.
It only grows stronger.
And then—
The connecting door opens.
I freeze.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Maybe he’ll go back. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.
But he doesn’t.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
He’s coming.
My heart hammers.
Should I reach for the dagger? Should I fight? Should I scream?
No.
Because part of me—
Part of me *wants* him to come.
The footsteps stop at the edge of the bed.
I don’t look.
Just lie there, rigid, my breath shallow, my body tense.
And then—
The mattress dips.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the dark, intoxicating pull of his skin.
“Magnolia,” he says, voice low, rough.
I don’t answer.
“I know you’re awake.”
Still silence.
“The bond is strong tonight,” he says. “I can feel it. You’re burning.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
I am.
“I won’t touch you,” he says. “Not unless you ask. Not unless you *want* me to.”
My chest tightens.
He’s giving me a choice.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if I say yes—
If I let him touch me—
Then I’ve chosen him.
Then I’ve given up.
But if I say no—
If I push him away—
Then I’ll spend the night aching, burning, *needing*.
And I don’t know which is worse.
The silence stretches.
Then—
I turn.
Slowly.
And look at him.
He’s shirtless, his chest a map of scars and power, his storm-gray eyes dark with hunger, his fangs just visible behind his lips. He doesn’t move. Just watches me, waiting.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
“And I don’t want this.”
“You do,” he says. “You just don’t want to want it.”
My breath catches.
He’s right.
I do.
“Stay,” I say, the word barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t move. “Say it again.”
“Stay,” I say, louder this time. “Please.”
And then he’s moving.
Not fast. Not rough.
Slow. Deliberate.
He slides under the covers, pulls me against him, his arm wrapping around my waist, his chest to my back, his legs tangling with mine.
Heat.
Fire.
The bond *ignites*—a surge of pure, unfiltered sensation that rips through me like lightning. My skin ignites. My blood sings. My magic roars to life, responding to his touch like a starving thing.
I gasp.
So does he.
His breath fans over my neck, hot, ragged. His fangs graze my shoulder—just once.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “Even when you hate me. Even when you fight me. You’re *mine*.”
I don’t answer.
Just press back into him, my body arching, aching, *needing*.
And then—
His hand slides up.
Over my hip. My waist. My ribs.
Higher.
Until his fingers brush the underside of my breast.
He stops.
Waiting.
For permission.
For surrender.
And I—
I don’t stop him.
My breath hitches.
His fingers slide higher.
Until his palm cups my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple.
I moan.
Soft. Broken.
And he groans, his hips pressing against my back, his cock hard and thick against my ass.
“Magnolia,” he whispers, his lips against my neck. “Say it. Say you want me.”
I don’t.
Just arch into his touch, my body betraying me, *needing* him.
And then—
His hand slides down.
Over my stomach. My hip. My thigh.
Higher.
Until his fingers brush the apex of my thighs.
He stops.
Again.
Waiting.
And I—
I spread my legs.
Just slightly.
But it’s enough.
His fingers slip between my folds—slow, deliberate—and find me drenched, trembling, *ready*.
“Gods,” he growls, his voice rough. “You’re soaked for me.”
I don’t answer.
Just press back into his hand, my breath coming fast, my body aching.
And then—
He strokes.
Slow. Teasing. Maddening.
His thumb circles my clit, his fingers sliding inside, curling, stroking.
I cry out, my back arching, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“Kael—please—I need—”
“I know,” he murmurs, his lips against my neck. “I know what you need.”
And then—
He makes me come.
Hard.
My body clenches around his fingers, my cry tearing through the room, my vision white with pleasure.
He doesn’t stop.
Just keeps stroking, keeps teasing, until I’m trembling, breathless, weak in his arms.
And then—
He pulls his hand away.
I whimper.
“Shh,” he murmurs, pulling me tighter against him, his cock still hard against my back. “Sleep now.”
“But you—”
“I’ll wait,” he says. “Until you ask. Until you *choose* me.”
And then—
He presses a kiss to my shoulder.
And whispers—
“Don’t go.”
My breath stills.
Don’t go?
As if I could.
As if I’d ever want to.
I close my eyes, press back into him, let his heat, his scent, his heartbeat lull me into the first real sleep I’ve known in years.
And as I drift off, the bond humming between us, his arm tight around my waist, his breath warm on my neck—I whisper into the dark:
“I came here to kill you.”
“But right now…
“I don’t want to let you go.”