I don’t know how long I kneel there, forehead pressed against the cold altar, breath shuddering in my throat. The vault is silent now, the crimson light dimmed, the chains gone—but the bond remains. A low, insistent hum beneath my skin, like the tide pulling at the shore. My rune still burns, a brand between my shoulder blades. I press my palm to it, willing the heat down, but it pulses in time with my heartbeat. With *his*.
Kael.
The name tastes like ash.
I came here to burn the contract. To sever the chain. To avenge my mother.
Instead, I’ve become part of it.
The heir.
The anchor.
Bound to him.
I push myself up, legs unsteady. My fingers brush the contract again—just a whisper of contact—and the ink writhes, forming new words:
She who touches shall be claimed. She who resists shall burn.
I snatch my hand back.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not yours.”
But my body disagrees. My pulse still races. My skin still tingles where his fangs grazed my throat. My hips still ache from the grip of his hand. I press my thighs together, hating the heat pooling low in my stomach. This isn’t desire. It’s magic. A trick. A trap.
I straighten my jacket, smooth my hair, force my breathing under control. I’m Tide. I don’t break. I don’t fall. I don’t *feel*.
Not for him.
The door groans open before I reach it. Two guards stand outside—vampires, clad in black armor, faces impassive. One nods.
“The Sovereign awaits.”
I don’t argue. I follow.
The corridors of the Midnight Court are a maze of obsidian and shadow. Torches burn with cold blue flames, casting long, flickering shapes against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of blood wine and incense—cloying, intoxicating. I keep my gaze forward, my steps even. My mind races. I need a story. A cover. I’m supposed to be a Fae envoy, here to negotiate a truce. But Kael already knows I’m not. He smelled it on me—witch blood, human blood, *Seablood*. He knows who I am.
But maybe he doesn’t know *why* I’m here.
Maybe I can still play this.
The guards lead me to a set of towering double doors carved with serpents and thorns. They open at my approach. Inside, the chamber is vast—ceiling lost in shadow, walls lined with ancient tomes and weapons. A fire burns in the hearth, though the flames are black, licking at the air like living smoke.
Kael stands by the window, back to me, silhouette sharp against the moonlit city. He’s removed his coat, leaving him in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His arms are crossed, shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn as I enter.
“Close the door,” he says.
The guards obey. The lock clicks.
Alone.
Again.
“You have ten seconds to explain why you were in the vault,” he says, still not looking at me. “Then I decide whether you live.”
I lift my chin. “I’m Ambassador Tide, envoy of the Gilded Thicket. I was given a tour of the archives by your chamberlain. I must have taken a wrong turn.”
He turns.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His eyes are red now, not frozen fire—alive, dangerous, *knowing*.
“A wrong turn,” he repeats. “Into the most secure chamber in the Court. Past wards that would kill a lesser being. Past locks that require moon-silver and blood to open. And you just… *wandered* in?”
My pulse stutters. I don’t flinch. “I’m Fae. Glamour is second nature. I must have slipped through.”
He steps forward. One hand lifts, fingers brushing the edge of my jaw. I freeze. His touch is colder than before, sharper. He tilts my face up, studying me.
“You’re not Fae,” he says softly. “Your scent is wrong. No honey. No illusion. Just salt. Storm. And fear.”
“I’m nervous,” I say. “You’re intimidating.”
He smiles. Just a flicker. “You’re lying. Your pulse is too fast. Your breath too shallow. And your *arousal*—”
My stomach drops.
“—is unmistakable,” he finishes, voice dropping to a whisper. “Even now. Even when you’re terrified. You want me.”
“That’s absurd,” I snap, pulling back. “I don’t even *like* you.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He steps closer. “The bond doesn’t care about liking. It cares about *wanting*. And you, little tide, are drenched in it.”
I shove him.
Stupid. Reckless. But I can’t stand it—the closeness, the heat, the way my body *leans* into him even as my mind screams to run.
He catches my wrist, twists it behind my back, and pins me against the wall in one fluid motion. My breath hitches. His chest presses against mine. I can feel the absence of his heartbeat, the unnatural stillness. His other hand grips my hip, holding me in place.
“You don’t touch me,” I hiss.
“You’re *mine*,” he growls. “You touched the contract. You activated the bond. You belong to me now.”
“I belong to no one.”
“Prove it.”
He leans in, fangs glinting. Not at my throat this time—my lips. So close I can feel the heat of his breath, the faint tremor in his body. He’s affected too. I can *feel* it—the bond humming between us, the pull, the fire.
And then—
A knock at the door.
We freeze.
“Sovereign,” a voice calls. “The Council has called an emergency session. The Fae delegation demands answers about their missing envoy.”
Kael doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on mine. His grip tightens.
“Tell them,” he says, voice rough, “the envoy is safe. And under my protection.”
“And the lockdown, sir?”
“Enforce it. No one enters or leaves until further notice.”
“Yes, Sovereign.”
Footsteps fade.
Kael exhales—long, slow—and finally pulls back. He releases me, but his hand lingers on my hip for a heartbeat too long. I step away, rubbing my wrist, my hip, trying to erase the imprint of his touch.
“You’re lucky they interrupted,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.
“No,” he says. “You are.”
I glare at him. “What now? You going to lock me in a cell?”
“Worse.” He smirks. “You’re staying with me. The Council has ordered us to co-host the unity ritual. And with the lockdown in place, we’re sharing quarters.”
My blood runs cold. “You’re joking.”
“One bed,” he says, walking past me toward the door. “Try not to scream in your sleep.”
—
His chambers are a fortress of shadow and silence.
High ceilings. Black stone walls. A massive bed draped in dark velvet, carved with runes that pulse faintly. A hearth burns with the same black flames as before. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with ancient tomes in languages I don’t recognize. A desk sits in the corner, scattered with scrolls and a silver dagger.
Kael tosses me a set of clothes—black silk, clearly meant for a woman. “Change. You’ll draw less attention in Court attire.”
“I’m not wearing your hand-me-downs.”
“They’re not mine,” he says dryly. “They belonged to the last woman who stayed here. She didn’t leave them behind willingly.”
I stare at him. “You killed her?”
“She tried to poison me.” He shrugs. “I don’t keep traitors alive.”
I swallow. “What if I try to kill you?”
He smiles. “Then I’ll enjoy watching you fail.”
I snatch the clothes and retreat to the bathing chamber. The door locks behind me. I lean against it, heart pounding. My rune still burns. The bond still hums. And Kael—cold, lethal, *maddening*—is just on the other side of the wall.
I strip off my jacket, my shirt, my boots. My skin is flushed, sensitive. Every brush of fabric makes me shiver. I turn on the water—steam rises, scented with sandalwood and something darker, more primal. I step in, letting the heat wash over me.
But it doesn’t help.
The bond is still there. A low, insistent pull. I close my eyes, press my forehead to the tile. I came here to destroy him. To break the contract. To free my bloodline.
And now?
I’m trapped. Bound. *Wanting*.
I don’t cry. I don’t break.
I *plan*.
The unity ritual. The Council. The lockdown. All of it can be used. If I can get close to him—if I can make him *trust* me—I can find a way to destroy the contract without being consumed by it. Without becoming his.
I wash quickly, dry off, pull on the silk. It’s too tight across the chest, too short at the thighs, but it’s better than my ruined outfit. I smooth my hair, meet my reflection.
Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Lips still tingling from where he almost kissed me.
I look like a woman who’s already lost.
I look like a woman who’s already his.
I open the door.
Kael is waiting, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. He’s pouring two glasses of blood wine—thick, dark, swirling with crimson light. He hands me one.
“Drink.”
“No.”
“It’s not poisoned.”
“I don’t care. I don’t drink blood.”
He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Then you’ll weaken. The bond requires sustenance. Without it, you’ll burn.”
I hesitate. “What happens if I don’t?”
“Pain,” he says simply. “Hallucinations. Fever. And eventually… death.”
I take the glass.
It’s warm. Metallic. But not repulsive. I swallow it in one gulp, fighting the urge to gag. The moment it hits my stomach, the bond flares—heat surging through my veins, my rune glowing beneath the silk. I gasp, gripping the edge of the table.
“Better?” he asks.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He laughs. “Good. Hate me. Just don’t leave me.”
—
Night falls.
We don’t speak. He reads at his desk. I sit by the fire, pretending to study a book I can’t focus on. The bond hums between us, a constant, maddening presence. Every time he moves, I feel it—a flicker of heat, a pulse of awareness. When he stretches, rolling his shoulders, my breath catches. When he runs a hand through his hair, my fingers twitch.
I hate this.
I hate *him*.
And yet.
When he finally stands, blowing out the candles, I know what’s coming.
“Sleep,” he says.
“Where?”
He gestures to the bed.
“One bed,” I remind him. “You said.”
“I did.”
“I’m not sharing it with you.”
“Then sleep on the floor.”
I glare. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re bound to me.” He strips off his shirt, revealing a chest carved from marble—scars crisscrossing his ribs, old wounds, old battles. My breath hitches. I look away.
He climbs into bed, back to me. “Turn off the fire.”
I do. The room plunges into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the runes on the walls. I stand there, frozen.
“Tide,” he says, voice low. “Get in the bed.”
“No.”
“The bond will punish you for resisting. You’ll dream of me. You’ll wake screaming. Is that what you want?”
I don’t answer.
But I move.
I crawl onto the far edge of the bed, back to him, heart hammering. The sheets are cold. The mattress firm. I lie stiff, hands clenched at my sides.
Minutes pass.
Then—
Heat.
From behind me. His body, close but not touching. I can feel the absence of his breath, the stillness. But the bond—oh, the bond—is alive. It flares, a slow, insistent pulse. My skin burns. My blood sings.
I close my eyes.
And dream.
Of his fangs at my throat. Of his hands on my hips. Of his voice, whispering, *You’re mine.*
I wake gasping.
Sweat-soaked. Thighs clenched. Heart racing.
And Kael?
He’s watching me.
“Told you,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer.
I just lie there, trembling, as the bond hums between us—unbroken, unyielding, *unwanted*.
And yet.
When he reaches out in the dark, his fingers brushing my wrist—just a whisper of contact—I don’t pull away.
Neither does he.