The sigil on my wrist still burns.
Not like a wound. Not like fire. But like a heartbeat—low, steady, pulsing beneath my skin, syncing with something deeper. Something I can’t name. Something his.
I press my fingers over it as the guards drag me through the torch-lit corridors of Midnight Court, their grip bruising on my arms. I don’t fight. Not yet. Not here. I’ve spent twenty years learning when to strike and when to wait. And right now, I’m blind. Disoriented. The bond thrums in my blood like a second pulse, whispering things I don’t want to hear—safe, home, his—and my magic, usually a coiled serpent beneath my ribs, flickers like a dying flame.
It’s reacting to him.
Kaelen.
Even his name in my mind sends a jolt through me—heat pooling low, my breath hitching. I clench my teeth. No. Not now. Not ever. I came here to destroy him, not to feel him.
But the bond doesn’t care what I want.
It only knows what I am.
His.
The cell door slams shut behind me with a finality that echoes in my bones. Cold stone. No windows. A single iron cot bolted to the floor. A bucket in the corner. The air is thick with damp and old magic, the walls carved with runes that hum faintly—warding sigils, meant to suppress power. Mine. Or anyone else’s.
Good luck with that.
I step forward, my boots echoing, and press my palm to the wall. The runes flare, violet and angry, but I don’t flinch. I let my magic rise—slow, controlled. Witch-blood and Shadow Fae glamour, the two halves of me that have kept me alive this long. The runes shiver. Crack. Fade.
I exhale.
Still got it.
I turn, pacing the length of the cell. Once. Twice. My heart won’t slow. My skin won’t stop tingling. The bond is a living thing, a tether stretched between me and Kaelen, and every second I’m away from him, it tightens. Pulls. Aches.
And then—
The vision hits.
I drop to my knees, gasping, as it floods my mind: firelight. Stone walls. A bed draped in black. And him—Kaelen—stripping off his shirt, muscles rippling under golden skin, his back to me, the scars on his shoulders telling stories of battles I don’t know. He turns. His eyes lock onto mine. And he smiles.
“Cosmos,” he says, my name a growl on his tongue.
I scream. The vision shatters. I’m back in the cell, drenched in sweat, my body trembling, my thighs slick with need.
No.
No.
I press my hands to my face, breathing hard. “It’s not real. It’s the bond. It’s playing with my head.”
But it felt real. Too real. And the worst part? I didn’t want to look away.
I force myself up, pacing again, faster now. I need to think. To plan. To escape. But the bond won’t let me. It pulses, insistent, a dull throb behind my eyes, a pressure in my chest. And then—
A scent.
Pine. Fire. Him.
I freeze.
The cell door opens.
And he walks in.
Kaelen.
Alone.
His boots are silent on the stone. His armor gone. Just black trousers, a fitted gray shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle, a silver band around one wrist. His hair is slightly tousled, like he’s run his hands through it. And his eyes—
Still gold. Still burning.
He closes the door behind him. Locks it.
And then he just… looks at me.
Not with anger. Not with triumph. But with something worse.
Hunger.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, backing up. “This is a holding cell. Not a meeting room.”
He takes a step forward. “I make the rules.”
“You’re not even Fae. You’re just the warden. The Council won’t like you interfering.”
“The Council doesn’t matter,” he says, voice low. “Not right now. Not with this.”
He gestures to my wrist.
The sigil still glows faintly.
“The bond is unstable,” he says. “It’s feeding on your resistance. Every time you fight it, it gets stronger. More painful.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” He takes another step. “Denial causes hallucinations. Fever. Magic instability. In extreme cases, madness.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“Have you?” His voice drops. “Because I can smell your fear. Your confusion. And your arousal.”
My breath catches.
He can smell that?
“You’re lying,” I snap. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”
“Am I?” He’s close now. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the pulse of his presence like a drumbeat in my skull. “Then why is your heart racing? Why are your pupils dilated? Why is your scent—sweet and sharp, like burnt sugar and storm air—filling this room?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My body is betraying me, and he knows it.
“The bond wants what it was made for,” he says, voice rough. “Unity. Surrender. And if you keep fighting it, it’ll break you before it breaks me.”
“Then let it.” I lift my chin. “I’d rather die than belong to you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me, his gaze tracing my face like he’s memorizing it. And then—
He moves.
Fast. Inhumanly fast. One second he’s in front of me, the next he’s behind me, his arm locking around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. My breath explodes out of me. His other hand grips my wrist, the one with the sigil, and brings it up between us.
“Look,” he growls in my ear.
The sigil flares—bright, hot, alive. And as I watch, the lines shift, twist, form a new pattern—a crescent moon, cradling a star.
“That’s us,” he says. “Our bond. And it’s not fading. It’s growing.”
I try to pull away, but he’s too strong. His body is a wall of muscle and heat, his breath warm on my neck, his scent flooding my lungs. And then—
His teeth graze my pulse point.
Just a whisper of pressure. A threat. A promise.
And I melt.
A moan escapes me—soft, involuntary—before I can stop it. My head falls back against his shoulder. My hips arch, just slightly, seeking friction, seeking more.
No.
No.
I slap his arm, twisting, kicking back. He grunts but doesn’t let go. I elbow him in the ribs. He stumbles, just enough for me to wrench free, and I spin, launching myself at him with everything I’ve got.
He catches me mid-air.
One arm around my waist, the other behind my knees, lifting me like I weigh nothing. And then he throws me—onto the cot, the metal frame groaning under my weight.
I roll, scrambling to get up, but he’s on me before I can move.
His hands pin my wrists above my head. His body covers mine, one thigh sliding between my legs, pressing up, against me. The heat is instant, unbearable. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. My hips buck—once, twice—before I can stop them.
“Get off me,” I snarl, thrashing. “You don’t own me!”
“I don’t have to,” he says, voice dark, rough. “The bond does.”
His face is inches from mine. His eyes burn into me. His breath fans my lips. And then—
His thigh grinds up, hard, against my core.
I cry out. My back arches. My hips roll, helpless, chasing the friction. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled—and the air crackles with energy. The sigil on my wrist pulses, hot and bright, and I feel it—him—flooding my mind, my body, my soul.
Mine.
Yours.
No.
“You think this proves something?” I hiss, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You think pinning me down makes you strong? You’re just a brute. A beast in a king’s clothes.”
He doesn’t react. Just stares at me, his golden eyes unreadable. And then—
His grip on my wrists loosens.
Just enough.
“Prove it,” he says. “Fight me.”
I don’t hesitate.
I yank my hands free, shove at his chest, roll us both—using his weight against him, twisting, flipping us so I’m on top. My knees straddle his hips. My hands press into his shoulders. My hair falls around us like a curtain.
And for the first time, I see it.
Desire.
Raw. Unfiltered. In his eyes.
He wants me.
Not because of the bond.
But because of me.
And that—that terrifies me more than anything.
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “You want me to fight?” I whisper. “Then fight back.”
He does.
One hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back. The other wraps around my waist, flipping us again—back to the cot, back to him on top. His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A claim.
Hard. Possessive. Devouring.
I bite his lip. He growls. His hips grind against mine, and I feel it—hard, thick, ready—pressing against me through the fabric. My body responds instantly, heat pooling, my core clenching, my breath coming in broken gasps.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at me.
His chest heaves. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. His lip is bleeding where I bit him. And his voice—when he speaks—is ragged.
“You’re not getting out of this cell,” he says, “until you stop fighting the bond.”
I don’t answer.
I just stare at him. My heart pounding. My body aching. My mind screaming.
And then—
“Then I’ll fight forever.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze, his thumb brushing my lower lip—where his mouth was, where my pulse thrums.
And then he stands.
Leaves.
Locks the door behind him.
I stay on the cot, trembling, my body still humming with need, my skin still burning where he touched me.
The sigil pulses.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
I came here to destroy him.
But the bond?
The bond wants me to keep him.