I don’t sleep.
Not when she’s so close.
Not when the bond thrums in my veins like a live wire, pulsing with every breath she takes, every shift of her body on the bed just feet from me. She’s asleep now—finally—curled beneath the black silk sheets, one arm flung above her head, the other resting on her stomach. The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting flickering shadows across her face, catching the faint silver of the scar on her wrist, the delicate curve of her collarbone above the neckline of her nightgown.
She looks younger like this. Softer. Not the avenger. Not the witch who came here to bury me. Just Cascade. Mine.
And I’m on the floor.
Again.
For the third night in a row.
The Council’s decree is clear: seven nights of cohabitation. One week of forced proximity, of shared space, of sleeping under the same roof, breathing the same air, feeling the same magic. A test of unity. A performance for the courts. But the bond doesn’t care about politics. It only knows what it wants—what it *needs*.
Her.
And me.
Together.
Bound.
I shift, the cold stone biting through the thin cloak I’ve wrapped around myself. My back aches. My fangs press against my gums. My cock is hard—has been since the moment she walked into the chamber tonight, her hair loose, her scent thick with moon-bloom and iron and something sweet, something *hers*. I’ve spent centuries mastering control. Centuries ruling with ice in my veins and fire in my eyes. But this—this bond, this woman—is unraveling me, thread by thread.
And I don’t want it to stop.
She stirs in her sleep. A soft sound escapes her lips—half sigh, half moan—and my body tenses. The bond flares, a surge of heat racing up my spine, tightening my chest. I close my eyes, breathe through it. I’ve felt her arousal before—the flush of her skin, the hitch of her breath, the way her thighs press together when I’m near. But tonight, it’s different. Stronger. Closer. As if the bond is pushing us, demanding more.
And then—
She rolls onto her side.
Facing me.
Her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of her breast, the faint pink of her nipple beneath the thin fabric. One leg is bent, the sheet tangled around her thighs, exposing the long line of her calf, the delicate arch of her foot. Her lips part in sleep. Her breath comes slow and even.
And the mark on her spine—
It glows.
Faintly. A soft, silvery light beneath her skin, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The Thornline mark. The bond’s anchor. The relic of a promise made before either of us could speak.
I’ve seen it before. Felt it burn when I touched her. But never like this. Never so *alive*.
It’s waking up.
And it’s calling to me.
I clench my jaw. My fingers curl into fists. I don’t move. I *can’t* move. Not without breaking the fragile truce between us. Not without shattering the progress we’ve made—the trust, the truth, the kiss that wasn’t born of magic or rage, but of *choice*.
She chose me.
Not the bond.
Not the Council.
Me.
And I won’t ruin that by taking more than she’s ready to give.
But gods, I want to.
I want to crawl onto that bed. I want to peel that nightgown off her body. I want to taste every inch of her, to feel her arch beneath me, to hear her scream my name as I claim her—fully, completely, *irrevocably*.
But I won’t.
Not until she says yes.
Not until she *begs* for it.
---
The morning comes too soon.
Dain knocks at the door, voice low. “My prince. The Council convenes in an hour. Elder Mareth requests your presence.”
I rise, stretching the stiffness from my muscles. Cascade stirs but doesn’t wake. I move quietly, pulling on a black shirt, leaving it unbuttoned at the top. My boots. My dagger. I glance at her one last time—still asleep, still beautiful, still *mine*—before I open the door.
Dain stands in the hall, expression neutral, but his eyes flick past me to the bed. “She slept through the night?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I kept watch.”
He nods. “The bond?”
“Stronger. It’s waking up.”
“And her?”
“She’s starting to believe.”
Dain exhales, almost a sigh. “You flinch when she pulls away.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Last night,” he says, voice quiet. “When she turned in her sleep. You tensed. Like you were stopping yourself from reaching for her.”
I don’t answer.
He’s right.
I did.
“You’re not just fighting the bond,” he says. “You’re fighting *for* her. That’s new.”
“She’s not ready,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But she will be. And when she is—”
“I’ll be ready,” I cut in. “I’ll wait. However long it takes.”
Dain studies me. Then nods. “Good. Because if you break her trust now, after everything, the bond won’t save you. *She* won’t save you.”
I meet his gaze. “I know.”
---
The Council chamber is tense.
Elders from all four species sit in their thrones, voices low, expressions wary. The failed assassination on Mareth still hangs over us like a storm. Whispers of war ripple through the air. And now—this. Our forced engagement. The bond. The *spectacle* of it all.
Mareth rises, his voice echoing. “The seven nights of cohabitation have begun. Prince Vaelen, Cascade of the Thornline—your compliance is noted. But the bond must be tested. Strengthened. Proven.”
I keep my face neutral. “We are complying with the decree.”
“Compliance is not enough,” Mareth says. “The bond must be *seen*. Felt. Validated.”
“By whom?” Cascade asks, voice sharp. She stands beside me, dressed in a gown of deep red, her hair pinned with silver thorns. Her mask is gone. No glamour. Just defiance. Just *fire*.
“By the court,” Mareth says. “By the people. By the magic itself.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” I ask, voice cold.
“A public display,” Mareth says. “A shared bed. For all to see. Tonight, at the Blood Moon Gala, you will retire to a chamber in the east wing—glass-walled, warded, visible to the guests. You will sleep together. Not just in the same room. In the same bed. And the bond will be monitored.”
My blood runs cold.
“You’re asking us to perform,” I say, voice low. “To *expose* her.”
“It’s not exposure,” Mareth says. “It’s proof. Unity. Peace.”
“It’s humiliation,” Cascade snaps. “You want to put me on display like some prize? Like a broodmare for your political games?”
“It’s tradition,” Mareth says. “For bonded pairs during times of unrest. To prove the bond is real. To quell dissent.”
I turn to her. “You don’t have to do this.”
She glares at me. “Don’t patronize me. I know what’s at stake. War. Death. I know.”
“Then say no,” I say. “I’ll face the consequences.”
“And let thousands die?” she asks. “No. I’ll do it. But not for *them*.” She gestures to the Council. “For *us*. For the bond. For the truth.”
I hold her gaze. “Then I’ll make sure you’re safe. No one will touch you. No one will see more than I allow.”
She nods, just once. “Good.”
---
The evening comes too fast.
The Blood Moon Gala is in full swing—vampires in silk and shadow, werewolves in leather and steel, fae in living illusions, witches in blood and bone. Music thrums through the halls, a deep, primal beat that echoes the pulse of the bond. The air is thick with magic, with tension, with *hunger*.
And then—
They announce us.
“Prince Vaelen Duskbane and Cascade of the Thornline!”
The crowd parts. We walk together, hand in hand—her fingers cold in mine, her breath shallow. The east wing has been transformed. A chamber of glass and silver, warded with runes that glow faintly blue. Inside—a bed draped in black silk, candles floating in the air, the scent of moon-bloom heavy in the air.
And all around—
Guests.
Watching.
Waiting.
For a show.
For a scandal.
For blood.
We step inside. The door seals behind us with a soft click. The wards hum, a barrier between us and the world. But the glass—
It’s transparent.
Every movement. Every breath. Every touch—will be seen.
Cascade turns to me, her eyes wide. “I feel like a caged animal.”
“Then let’s make them regret it,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s give them something to remember.”
She glares at me. “Don’t you *dare* try to seduce me in front of an audience.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice low. “I’m reminding you that you’re not alone. That I’m here. That I won’t let them take anything from you.”
She looks at me—really looks—and for a second, I see it. Not fear. Not anger.
Trust.
Then she turns, walks to the bed, and sits on the edge. “How long do we have to stay here?”
“Until dawn.”
“And if we don’t sleep?”
“Then we don’t sleep.”
She exhales, unpinning her hair. It falls in waves down her back, dark as midnight. She pulls off her shoes, then lies down, pulling the sheet up to her waist. “Then I hope you’re comfortable on the floor.”
I smirk. “I’ve slept on worse.”
But I don’t move to the floor.
I sit beside her.
Close.
Our thighs brush.
The bond *screams*.
She gasps. I growl. The air between us crackles, thick with magic, with heat, with *need*.
“Vaelen—”
“Shh,” I murmur, lying down beside her. “Just feel it.”
She turns her head, her eyes blazing. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying *you*,” I say, rolling onto my side to face her. “Your scent. Your heat. The way your body betrays you when I’m near.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” I interrupt. “Your pulse is racing. Your skin is flushed. Your core is slick with need. I can *smell* it.”
She glares at me. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re beautiful,” I say, reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. My thumb traces her jaw. “Even when you’re furious.”
She doesn’t pull away.
The bond flares, a surge of heat spiraling through me. I can feel her—her arousal, her fear, her *want*—thick and sweet and undeniable. My cock strains against my trousers. My fangs press against my gums. But I don’t move. I don’t take.
Not yet.
“You said you’d wait,” she whispers.
“I will,” I say. “Until you say yes.”
She studies me. Then, slowly, she turns onto her side, facing me. Our faces are inches apart. Our breaths mingle. The bond hums, restless, *hungry*.
“Then stay,” she says. “But on the floor.”
I smirk. “Spoilsport.”
But I rise, walk to the foot of the bed, and lie down on the cold stone. The distance is agony. The bond screams for closeness, for contact, for *union*. But I endure it. For her.
Minutes pass. Hours. The guests outside begin to leave, whispers fading, footsteps retreating. The fire burns low. The candles flicker.
And then—
She speaks.
“Vaelen.”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
My heart hammers.
“Why?”
“Because I’m cold,” she says. “And the bond is making it worse.”
I don’t move. “You said—”
“I know what I said,” she snaps. “But I’m not made of stone. And neither are you. So stop pretending.”
I rise slowly, every muscle tense. I walk to the bed. Climb in. Lie beside her.
Our bodies are inches apart.
But the heat—
It’s unbearable.
Our breaths sync. Our hearts beat in time. The bond flares, a tidal wave of sensation crashing through me—her warmth, her scent, her *nearness*. My cock is hard, aching, *begging* to be inside her. My fangs throb. My hands clench the sheets.
And then—
She shifts.
Just slightly.
Her thigh brushes mine.
Fire explodes in my veins.
I groan. She gasps. The bond *screams*, a primal demand for more.
“Cascade—”
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Just… stay.”
I turn my head. Her eyes are closed. Her breath is shallow. Her body is tense, trembling.
And her scent—
It’s thick with arousal.
I reach out. Slowly. Carefully.
My hand finds hers.
Our fingers intertwine.
The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a surge of magic and emotion that throws us both into the pillows.
And for the first time—
We don’t fight it.
We let it in.
We let *each other* in.
And as the Blood Moon rises, casting its crimson light through the glass—
We sleep.
Together.
Hand in hand.
Bound.