The air between us doesn’t just hum.
It crackles.
Like lightning trapped in a storm, like fire coiled beneath stone, like the breath before a scream. It’s not just the bond—though that thrums between us, a live wire pulsing in time with our hearts. It’s not just the truth—though that burns in my chest, raw and unfiltered, after the Council Chamber, after the kiss that shattered the crystal, after Mira’s lies turned to ash in the silence. It’s not even the war—though it looms, vast and inevitable, on the edge of every breath.
It’s this.
The space between us. The choice. The moment.
And I’m not running from it anymore.
—
He doesn’t move.
Not toward me. Not away.
Just stands there, his storm-gray eyes locked on mine, his body taut, his breath steady. The firelight from the hearth paints his face in gold and shadow—sharp angles, deep scars, the faintest tremor in his jaw. He’s waiting.
For me.
Not to attack. Not to flee.
To choose.
And I do.
I step forward.
Not fast. Not hesitant.
Like a storm breaking.
My hands slide up his chest—bare, scarred, warm beneath my palms. His breath hitches. His hands clench at his sides, not to stop me, not to pull me in, but to hold on. To let me lead.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice rough, low. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I press a finger to his lips. “But I want to.”
His eyes close. Just for a second. A flicker of pain. Of fear. Of something so deep I can’t name it.
“I don’t want you to do this out of duty,” he whispers. “Out of bond. Out of revenge.”
“Then I won’t.” I lift my hand, fingers brushing his cheek. “I’ll do it because I’m tired of fighting you. Tired of hating you. Tired of pretending I don’t feel this—” My hand slides to his neck, not choking, not hurting. Claiming. “—this fire. This need. This truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just opens his eyes.
And I see it.
Not dominance.
Not control.
Vulnerability.
“You don’t get to protect me,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t get to decide what I want. What I need. What I am.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“Yes, you are.” I tilt my head. “You always have. From the first touch. From the first lie. From the moment you marked me in the ruins and growled, ‘You’re mine.’ You think you’re protecting me. But you’re just pushing me away. Keeping me at arm’s length. Because if I get too close—”
“I’ll lose you,” he whispers.
My breath stops.
Because he’s not talking about the mission.
Not about the war.
He’s talking about himself.
“You think I’m fragile,” I say, voice low. “You think I’ll break. That I’ll run. That I’ll hate you when the fire fades. But you’re wrong.” I press my palm to his chest, over his heart. “I’ve spent my life being strong. Being hard. Being alone. But with you—” My voice cracks. “—I don’t have to be.”
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his storm-gray eyes stormy, his breath unsteady.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” I whisper.
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
He tastes like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. His fangs graze my lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make me whimper.
And then—
His hands slide up my back, over my shoulders, 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.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
He smiles—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
He lifts me.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Like I’m his.
His arms wrap around my back, one cradling my head, the other supporting my thighs, and he carries me to the bed. The black silk sheets are cool against my skin, but he’s warm—burning—his body a wall over mine, his breath hot on my neck.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
He does.
Storm-gray eyes, gold bleeding into gray, fangs just past his lip, claws retracted but ready. Not a beast. Not a monster.
Mine.
“This is mine,” I say, sliding my hand between us, fingers brushing the hard length of him through his trousers. “This fire. This need. This man. You don’t get to hide from me. You don’t get to push me away. You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”
His breath hitches.
“You’re already mine,” I say, unbuttoning his trousers, sliding my hand inside. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
He growls—low, guttural, hungry—but doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Just lets me touch him, lets me explore, lets me claim.
And I do.
I stroke him—slow, deliberate, my thumb brushing the tip, smearing the drop of pre-come. He shudders, his hips bucking, his fangs lengthening, his claws erupting—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t push in. Just lets.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whisper, leaning up, my lips brushing his ear. “You don’t have to be in control. You don’t have to be the Alpha. Just be mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just rolls us—fast, smooth, a shift of power—and suddenly I’m on top, straddling him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his.
“You’re not the only one who can lead,” he says, voice rough.
“No.” I lift my hips, sliding my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance. “But I am the one who chooses.”
And I do.
I sink down—slow, deliberate, a gasp tearing from my throat as he fills me, stretches me, claims me. He’s thick, long, hot—burning—and I take all of him, every inch, every pulse, every groan.
“Zara,” he growls, his hands flying to my hips, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
“Say it,” I whisper, grinding down, taking him deeper. “Say you’re mine.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just thrusts up—once, sharp, deep—and I cry out, my head falling back, my magic flaring beneath my skin.
“Say it,” I demand, riding him now, setting the pace, controlling the fire. “Say you’re mine.”
He growls—low, guttural, feral—but still doesn’t speak.
So I do it for him.
“You’re mine,” I say, leaning down, my lips brushing his. “And you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just flips us—fast, brutal, a shift of power—and now he’s on top, his body a wall over mine, his thrusts deep, hard, relentless. I arch into him, my nails raking his back, my fangs grazing his shoulder, my magic flaring in time with his thrusts.
And then—
He bites.
Not my neck.
Not to mark.
My shoulder—just above the scar from the Blood Pit, just where the silver burned through. A sting. A pulse. A claim.
I cry out—half pain, half pleasure—and come, hard, my body clenching around him, my magic exploding in a wave of red-gold fire that licks up the walls, searing the air.
He follows—growling, thrusting, spilling inside me, his fangs still in my skin, his body shuddering, his breath ragged.
And then—
He collapses.
Not on me.
Beside me.
One arm wraps around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
We don’t speak.
Don’t move.
Just lie there, wrapped in each other, the fire crackling in the hearth, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The heat is still there—low, insistent, alive—but it’s different now. Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Contained. Like a fire banked, not extinguished.
And then—
He shifts.
Just slightly. His head tilts, his lips brushing the column of my throat. A whisper of contact. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my neck, pooling between my thighs. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to mark.
But I don’t.
Because he’s not asking for that.
He’s asking for this.
For me to stay.
For me to hold on.
For me to be here.
So I do.
I lower my head, my lips brushing his temple, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
And then—
My hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing his cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. His breath hitches. His body betrays him, arching into me, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
Because he’s spent centuries believing he was.
That the blood in his veins—the curse, the power, the fangs and claws—made him something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, I’m saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With my hand on his face. With my breath on his skin. With the way my body fits against his like it was made for him.
“You’re not,” I say again, my thumb tracing his lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
His heart stutters.
Because he is.
He’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way his pulse jumps, in the way his magic flares, in the way his body trembles when I touch him.
But he’s not running.
He’s not fighting.
He’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
“Why?” I ask, voice rough. “Why aren’t you afraid?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, his lips hovering over mine. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to claim.
But he doesn’t.
Just… waits.
And then—
My hand slides up his chest, over his shoulder, to his neck—just like in the library. Not choking. Not hurting. Claiming. My thumb brushes his pulse.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low. “Your heart. Racing. Not from the heat.”
“No.”
“You’re not feral.”
“No.”
“You’re not lost.”
“No.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
I smile—just slightly. Not a victory. Not a challenge.
Something softer.
Something real.
And then—
I kiss him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something protective. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to hold on.
I taste like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hand slides under his shirt, fingers burning over his stomach, his ribs, his back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
His magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up his arms, searing the air between us.
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull back.
I just moan into his mouth, my body arching into his, my fingers clutching at his skin.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Steps back.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. His lips are swollen. His body aches. His core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I stare at him, my eyes dark, my chest heaving. “You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
“You don’t get to do that,” he whispers.
“I do.” I step closer, my thumb brushing his lower lip. “Because you’re mine. And no matter how much you run, no matter how much you hide—you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Liar.” I lean in, my lips hovering over his. “You’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
And before he can respond, I turn and walk away, leaving him trembling in the shadows, his body humming with the ghost of my touch, his 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.