TIDE
The air in the ritual chamber is thick with magic—older than stone, deeper than blood. It coils in the shadows, pulses in the veins of the black marble floor, hums beneath the silver sigils etched into the walls. I can feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the slow, steady beat of the bond that now lives between Kael and me. It’s not just a tether anymore. It’s a current. A pulse. A *truth*.
And it’s *alive*.
I stand at the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, spine straight, trying to ignore the way my skin tightens, the way my breath hitches every time he moves. Kael is across the room, stripped to his trousers, his chest bare, scars crisscrossing his ribs like ancient runes. His coat is gone, his hair loose, his fangs bared. He’s not looking at me. Not yet. Just studying the basin in the center—black water swirling, crimson light flickering beneath the surface.
“The test requires proximity,” he says, voice low. “Skin contact. Full alignment.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of alignment?”
He turns. Red eyes lock onto mine. “You’ll be on top. Straddling me. Chest to chest. Hands on my shoulders. Mouth near my throat.”
My breath catches.
“It’s not optional,” he says, stepping closer. “The bond must be stabilized. The magic must be channeled. If we don’t do this, the contract will destabilize. The Court will fracture. And Malrik will take the throne.”
“And if we do?” I ask, voice tight.
“Then the bond strengthens. The magic stabilizes. And we survive.”
“That’s it?”
“No.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the pull of the bond. “It will *feel* like more.”
“Because of the magic.”
“Because of *us*.” He reaches out, fingers brushing my jaw. Just a touch. Just a spark. “You felt it in the garden. In the storm. When you said you wanted me. This isn’t just ritual. It’s *truth*.”
“I don’t want to be used,” I whisper.
“Then don’t let me.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Fight me. Run. Scream. Or—”
“Or what?”
“Or *choose* it.”
My heart stutters.
He sees it. Smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Come here,” he says, stepping back, sitting on the edge of the basin. “Let’s get this over with.”
I don’t move.
Can’t.
The bond hums, louder now, responding to his proximity, to the anticipation, to the *need*. My rune glows beneath my collar, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. My skin is too tight. My blood too fast. My breath too shallow.
“Tide,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me come get you.”
“Or what?” I snap, stepping forward. “You’ll pin me again? Bite me? Claim me?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, voice rough. “To keep you safe. To keep the Court whole. To keep *us* alive.”
Us.
The word echoes in my chest, a jolt of heat tearing through me. I stop in front of him. Look down. His chest is bare. His scars glisten. His fangs are bared. His eyes are red. His hands rest on his thighs, waiting.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say, voice shaking.
“Then why are you trembling?”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.” He reaches up, fingers brushing my waist. “Your pulse jumps. Your skin flushes. Your thighs press together. You’re drenched in want, and you don’t even realize it.”
“It’s magic,” I whisper.
“Magic *is* desire.” He pulls me forward, just an inch. “And you want me. Even now. Even here. Even when you’re trying to pretend.”
“I don’t—”
“Let me in,” he says, voice low. “Just for this. Just for now. Let the bond do its work. Let *us* do ours.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
I move.
One hand on his shoulder. Then the other. I swing my leg over, straddling him, settling onto his lap. Our chests press together. Warm. Electric. The bond *erupts*, a shockwave of heat tearing through me, my rune blazing, my breath catching. I gasp. My back arches. My thighs press together. His hands fly to my hips, gripping me, holding me in place.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Let it in. Let it *fill* you.”
“It’s too much,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “It’s *right*.”
His head tilts. His lips brush the shell of my ear. “You’re on top. You’re in control. You can stop anytime.”
“Liar,” I breathe.
“Am I?” He shifts, grinding his hips against mine. A moan claws its way up my throat. My head falls back. My eyes close. “You’re the one with your hands on me. Your thighs around me. Your body *aching* for me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He nips my earlobe. Sharp. Precise. “You’re drenched. You’re trembling. You *want* me.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“You want me.” He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. “Say it.”
“I hate you.”
“Say it.”
“I—” My breath hitches. “I want you.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
And then—
The magic begins.
A low, insistent hum beneath the surface, rising like a tide. The runes on the floor ignite, blazing red. The basin bubbles, black water turning to steam. The air shivers, thick with power. I feel it—everything. His pulse. His breath. His *want*. His *need*. His *hunger*. And mine.
My body arches. My hands tighten on his shoulders. My head falls back. My mouth opens in a silent scream. The world tilts, spins, *burns*. I feel him—everywhere. In my blood. In my bones. In the *core* of me. His presence presses against my mind, whispering, *You’re mine. You’re safe. You’re* home.
And for the first time—
I believe it.
His hands slide up, under my tunic, burning against my bare skin. My breath hitches. My skin tightens. My thighs press together. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—up my back, over my shoulders, fingers hooking into the fabric.
“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.
I do.
He pulls the tunic over my head, tosses it aside. I’m bare from the waist up—skin pale, rune glowing, breasts rising and falling fast. His breath catches. His eyes darken. His fangs descend.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough.
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He leans in, lips brushing my collarbone. “Admire you? Want you? *Touch* you?”
His hands slide down, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips. I shiver. My breath hitches. My skin burns.
“You’re in control,” he reminds me. “You can stop this anytime.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Then why don’t you?”
Because I don’t *want* to.
Because I *want* this.
Because I *want* him.
His head tilts. His lips brush the pulse in my throat. Just a whisper of contact. But the bond *screams*, a jolt of heat tearing through me, my back arching, my hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer. He groans. Deep. Rough. *Mine*. His fangs graze my skin—sharp, precise, *agonizing*.
“Don’t bite me,” I breathe.
“Then don’t tempt me.” He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. “You want me to. You *need* it.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He shifts, grinding his hips against mine. Hard. Ready. *Hungry*. “You’re drenched. You’re trembling. You *want* my fangs in your skin. You *want* to come apart in my arms. You *want* to be *claimed*.”
My breath hitches.
“Say it,” he growls.
“I want you,” I whisper.
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
“Louder.”
“I want you!”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not kind. Not sweet.
A *claiming*.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard, possessive, *devouring*. His fangs graze my lip—sharp, precise—and I taste blood. *My* blood. The bond *erupts*, a shockwave of heat tearing through me, my rune blazing, my back arching, my hands flying to his shoulders—*not to push, but to pull*. I kiss him back—fierce, desperate, *hungry*—my tongue tangling with his, my body pressing closer, my hips grinding against his.
He groans.
Deep. Rough. *Mine*.
One hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, deepening the kiss. The other slides down, gripping my hip, yanking me against him. I can feel him—hard, ready, *aching*—through the fabric of our clothes. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My skin burns. My blood sings. The world tilts, spins, *burns*.
And then—
His hands move.
One slides to the front of my trousers, fingers hooking into the waistband. The other tangles in my hair, holding me in place. He breaks the kiss, just enough to breathe, to look at me.
“Last chance,” he murmurs. “Say stop. And I’ll let you go.”
My breath hitches.
My hands tremble on his shoulders.
My body *aches*.
And then—
I lean in.
Just an inch. Just a breath.
But it’s enough.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
He doesn’t.
One hand pulls my trousers down—just enough. The other yanks his own open. And then—
We’re skin to skin.
Heat to heat.
Need to need.
My breath hitches. My back arches. My thighs press together. His hands grip my hips, lifting me, positioning me—just above him. His fangs graze my throat. His breath is hot. His voice is rough.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
“And you’ll stay.”
“I’ll stay.”
“No more running.”
“No more running.”
“No more fighting.”
“No more fighting.”
“You’ll choose me.”
“I choose you.”
And then—
He lifts me.
Just an inch.
Just enough.
And I—
Lower myself.
Just a fraction.
Just—
—
**BRRRRRRRRING!**
The alarm blares—sharp, deafening, *relentless*. Red light floods the chamber, strobing, flashing, shattering the moment like glass. The magic dies. The steam clears. The runes dim. The bond hums, quieter now, but still present. Still *alive*.
And we’re still connected—chest to chest, breath to breath, heat to heat—but not quite where we were.
Not quite *there*.
I freeze. My hands fly to his chest, pushing back. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My skin burns. My blood sings. My body *aches*.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Just watches me, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dark, fangs bared.
“Malrik’s forces,” he growls, voice rough. “They’re at the gates.”
My breath hitches.
“This isn’t over,” he says, lifting me off him, setting me on my feet. He pulls his trousers closed, fastens them with a sharp tug. I do the same, hands trembling, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
He grabs my tunic, hands it to me. “Put this on.”
I do. Pull it over my head, smooth it down. My skin still burns. My rune still glows. My body still *aches*.
He steps closer. One hand lifts, fingers brushing my jaw. “You were going to let me.”
“I was—”
“You *were*.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “And you’ll let me again.”
“This was just a ritual,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “It was *truth*.”
And then—
He’s gone.
One moment, he’s there—chest to chest, breath to breath, fire to fire.
The next—
Darkness.
Silence.
Alone.
I stand there, chest aching, skin burning, the bond humming beneath my skin like a live wire.
Did that just happen?
Did I almost—
My fingers brush my lip. Blood. *His* blood.
And then—
Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. In my neck.
I reach up—fingers tracing the skin just below my ear.
And I feel it.
A bite.
Fresh. Tender. *Marked*.
My breath stops.
No.
No, no, *no*.
I didn’t—
He didn’t—
But the proof is there. On my skin. In my blood. In the *bond*.
I press my palm to it—warm, pulsing, *alive*.
And then—
I run.
Not to the vault. Not to the garden. Not to the balcony.
To his chambers.
His *bedroom*.
The door is locked, but I don’t care. I press my palm to it, whisper the unlocking charm, and it clicks open. I burst inside—heart pounding, breath ragged, hands trembling.
The room is dark. Silent. The black flames in the hearth have died. The runes on the walls pulse faintly. The bed is untouched. Cold.
Empty.
He’s not here.
But I am.
I stumble forward, collapse onto the mattress, clutching the sheets, my body shaking, my mind racing.
What did I do?
What did *he* do?
That kiss—was it real? Was it magic? Was it *me*?
And the bite—
Did he claim me?
Did I let him?
Did I *want* him to?
I press my fingers to the mark again. It pulses. Responds. *Alive*.
And then—
Sleep takes me.
Not gentle. Not kind.
A black wave, pulling me under.
—
I wake to warmth.
Soft. Heavy. *Alive*.
I’m not alone.
I’m in his bed—still in my boots, my tunic half-off, my skin bare in places. And draped over me?
A black velvet coverlet.
And beside me?
He’s watching me.
Kael.
Lying on his side, head propped on one hand, eyes like frozen fire, hair a mess, shirt gone, chest bare. His gaze is dark. Intense. *Possessive*.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low.
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
My throat is dry. My body is heavy. My mind is fog.
And the mark—
It *pulses*.
Like a second heartbeat.
“You don’t remember,” he says.
I shake my head. “Remember what?”
“The kiss.” His fingers brush my lip—still swollen, still tender. “The bite.” His hand slides down, tracing the mark on my neck. “The way you screamed my name.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t remember,” he murmurs, “how you tore at my clothes. How you begged me to *take* you. How you *came* in my arms.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “And I let you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. “Then why are you half-naked? Why is my shirt on the floor? Why is my blood on your lips?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I *want* it to be true.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice rough. “And you always will be.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“You want me.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Soft. Slow. *Claiming*.
And I don’t pull away.
I *lean* in.
Because the truth is—
I don’t know if I came here to destroy him.
But I know I’m not leaving.
Not now.
Not ever.