The first time I wake, I don’t know where I am.
Not the Spire. Not the tunnels. Not the Blood Pit.
But not free, either.
The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of fae lanterns embedded in the walls—soft, pulsing light that shifts between silver and violet. The air is warm, thick with the scent of pine and iron and something deeper—something him. The bed is wide, draped in black silk, the sheets cool against my skin. And beside me—
Kaelen.
He’s sitting in a high-backed chair, his storm-gray eyes closed, his face shadowed with exhaustion. His shirt is torn, his chest bandaged, dried blood streaking his arms. One hand rests on the hilt of a dagger at his belt. The other is curled into a fist, like he’s been ready to fight even in sleep.
My breath catches.
Memories flood back—Vexis. The chains. The blood. The dagger. The way Kaelen tore through the thralls like they were nothing. The way he bit his own wrist and poured his blood into my mouth. The way he carried me through fire and stone, through death and darkness, like I was the only thing worth saving.
And yet—
I don’t feel safe.
I feel… exposed.
Not just my body—naked beneath the sheets, my wrists still raw from the silver cuffs, my magic weak, flickering like a dying flame. But my mind. My heart. My mission. Everything I’ve built my life on—revenge, control, survival—feels cracked, splintered, like the walls of the Blood Pit after he broke through.
I press my fingers to the mark on my collarbone.
It’s still there.
Still warm.
Still his.
And for the first time, I wonder—
Did I want it?
Not the rescue.
Not the blood.
The claim.
That bite in the ruins. The way I arched into it. The way I let him mark me while fire roared around us, while the world was ending. I didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. I gave it to him.
And now—
I don’t know how to take it back.
—
He wakes before I can move.
One second, he’s still. The next—his eyes snap open, gold bleeding into gray, fangs lengthening just past his lip. His hand flies to the dagger, his body coiling like a spring.
Then he sees me.
And he stills.
“Zara,” he says, voice rough. “You’re awake.”
“How long?”
“Two days.” He rises, stepping to the bed. “You’ve been burning. Shaking. Calling out in your sleep.”
“About what?”
“Fire.” His hand hovers over my forehead, not touching. “Blood. Me.”
My breath hitches. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t say anything you regret.” He sits on the edge of the bed, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “You said my name. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like you weren’t sure which I was.”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not.
He saved me. Carried me. Gave me his blood. Fought an army for me.
But he also marked me. Claimed me. Bound me—again—without asking.
And I let him.
“The ledger?” I ask, voice tight.
“Safe.” He gestures to a locked chest beside the bed. “Hidden. Only I know the location.”
“And Vexis?”
“Alive.” His jaw tightens. “The Council has placed him under house arrest. Claims he was acting alone. That the Blood Pit was rogue. That the thralls were an experiment gone wrong.”
“And you believe that?”
“No.” He leans closer, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke. “But they won’t act without proof. And the ledger—while damning—isn’t enough. Not yet. They’ll say it’s forged. That we stole it. That the bond has clouded our judgment.”
My stomach drops. “So we’re back to square one.”
“No.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek. “We’re ahead. You’re alive. The survivors are free. The thralls are scattered. And the Council knows we’re coming. They’re watching. Waiting. Which means—”
“They’ll be ready.”
“Yes.” He pulls back. “But so are we.”
—
He helps me sit.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Like I’m fragile.
Like I’m not the woman who burned her way through enforcers, who fought thralls with fire in her veins, who stood in front of a silver dagger and laughed.
“I can do it myself,” I snap, shoving his hand away.
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his storm-gray eyes unreadable. “You’re weak. Your magic’s been drained. Your body’s been poisoned with silver. You’re not getting out of this bed without help.”
“Then I’ll stay in it.”
“No.” He reaches for me again. “You need to eat. To move. To heal.”
“I don’t need you.”
“No?” He leans in, his breath hot on my skin. “Then who pulled you from the fire? Who bled into your mouth? Who carried you through the tunnels while you screamed in your sleep?”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t get to pretend you didn’t need me,” he says, voice low. “You don’t get to push me away and act like this—” His hand closes around mine, the bond flaring between us. “—isn’t real.”
“It’s not about the bond,” I whisper. “It’s about trust.”
“And you don’t trust me.”
“Do you trust me?” I ask, pulling my hand free. “You marked me without asking. Again. You carried me like I was a child. You made decisions for me—where to go, what to do, who lives, who dies. You don’t see me as your mate. You see me as your project.”
He freezes.
Then—
“I see you,” he says, voice rough. “As the woman who walked into the Spire with fire in her veins and vengeance in her heart. As the one who stood in front of Vexis and spat in his face. As the one who fought thralls with nothing but flame and fury. As the one who let me mark her because she knew—deep down—that it was right.”
“It wasn’t right,” I say. “It was survival.”
“Then why did you stay?” He leans in, his eyes dark. “After the blood test. After the scriptorium. After I left you trembling in the dark—you could’ve run. You could’ve vanished. But you didn’t. You stayed. You fought. You chose me.”
My breath stops.
Because he’s right.
And I hate that.
—
He leaves me to dress.
Not because I asked.
Because he knows I need space.
I pull on black trousers, a fitted tunic, boots laced tight. No silk. No velvet. No masquerade. I’m not Lady Selene. I’m not Kaelen’s mate. I’m Zara. And I will not be played.
When he returns, he brings food—warm bread, roasted venison, a goblet of bloodwine. He sets it on the table, then stands by the window, his back to me, his body a wall.
“Eat,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re starving.”
“Then I’ll starve.”
He turns.
And for the first time, I see it—
Fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
“You don’t get to do this,” he says, voice low. “You don’t get to punish me for saving your life. For loving you. For being the only one who sees you—truly sees you—and doesn’t look away.”
“Love?” I laugh, sharp, bitter. “You don’t love me. You want me. You need me. The bond demands it. The heat demands it. But love? That’s a choice. And you didn’t choose me. You took me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You think I don’t choose you?” His voice is rough. “Every day. Every breath. Every time I pull back when all I want to do is claim you. Every time I let you go when all I want is to keep you. I choose you. Even when you hate me. Even when you fight me. Even when you try to burn me alive.”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t want to be your prisoner,” I whisper.
“You’re not.” His hand slides to my neck—not choking, not hurting. Claiming. “You’re my equal. My partner. My fire.”
“Then treat me like one.”
He stares at me.
Then nods.
“Then eat,” he says. “Not because I command it. But because you choose to. Because you’re strong enough to survive this. To fight. To win.”
I don’t want to.
But I do.
Because he’s right.
And because I’m not done.
—
Later, he tends my wounds.
Not with magic. Not with fire.
With water. With cloth. With hands that tremble just slightly.
He kneels beside the bed, a basin of warm water in his lap, a clean cloth in his hand. “Your back,” he says. “The silver burned through.”
I don’t argue.
I turn, lifting my tunic, baring my back to him.
And then—
His fingers brush my skin.
Not clinical. Not cold.
Gentle.
Warm water flows over the raw, blistered flesh, soothing the burn, easing the pain. His touch is careful, precise, his breath steady. But I feel it—the bond, pulsing with something deeper than possession. Need. Not for my body. Not for my fire. For me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, voice low.
“Yes, I did.” His fingers trace the edge of the burn, not flinching, not pulling back. “You’ve spent your life thinking you have to do everything alone. That no one will come for you. That no one will stay. But I’m here. And I’m not leaving.”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just presses the cloth to my skin, his touch steady, his presence a wall.
And then—
His hand slides up my back, over my shoulder, to my neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. His thumb brushes my pulse.
“You feel that?” he asks, voice rough. “Your heart. Racing. Not from fear.”
“No,” I whisper.
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
He leans in, his lips hovering over my ear. “Then say it. Say you’re mine.”
My breath catches.
Not from fear.
From the terrifying, undeniable truth in his words.
He’s not asking for submission.
He’s asking for consent.
And I give it.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me, his thumb still brushing my pulse, his body still pressed to mine.
“Say it again,” he says.
“I’m yours.”
And then—
His mouth crashes down on mine.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and teeth and need. His lips are rough, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine like a claim. I gasp, my hands flying to his chest, not to push him away, but to hold on.
He tastes like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is brutal, desperate, a battle for control. His fangs graze my lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make me whimper.
And then—
He stops.
Breaks the kiss. Steps back.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. My lips are swollen. My body aches. My core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
He stares at me, his eyes dark, his chest heaving. “You feel that?” he asks, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not her. That’s us.”
“You don’t get to do that,” I whisper.
“I do.” He steps closer, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Because you’re mine. And no matter how much you hate me, no matter how much you fight it—you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Liar.” He leans in, his lips hovering over mine. “You’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
And before I can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving me trembling in the shadows, my body humming with the ghost of his touch, my mind screaming one word—
Yes.
—
That night, I dream of fire.
Of him.
Of a mark burning into my skin, of fangs at her throat, of a voice whispering, “You’re mine.”
I wake drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my body aching.
And in the silence, beneath the fury and the fear and the mission—
I feel it.
The truth.
The bond.
And the fire that will either consume us both…
Or make us unbreakable.