I don’t sleep.
Not really.
Even when I close my eyes, the bond hums beneath my skin like a live wire, pulsing in time with Kael’s silent breaths from the other side of the bed. The mattress is still cold where I lie, untouched by his body, but the heat between us is unbearable. It coils in my stomach, low and insistent, a constant reminder that I’m not alone. That I’m not free. That I’m *bound*.
He didn’t touch me last night. Not after the Council meeting. He simply stripped down to his trousers, climbed into bed, and turned his back to me—like I was nothing. Like the fire between us had been extinguished. But I felt it. The pull. The awareness. The way his presence pressed against my mind, whispering in the silence.
You’re still here.
You didn’t run.
You didn’t fight.
And worst of all—you didn’t want to.
I roll onto my side, facing the dark window. The city sprawls below, a labyrinth of shadow and flame. Somewhere out there, the vault waits. The contract pulses. My mother’s blood calls to me. I came here to destroy it. To sever the chain. To reclaim my life.
And instead?
I’ve become part of it.
His hand on mine. The ritual. The vow. The way my body *arched* when he touched my wrist. The way my breath hitched when he whispered in my ear. The way I *leaned* into him.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want *him*.
But my body disagrees. My blood sings. My rune burns.
I came here to destroy Kael.
And I’m starting to think I’ll destroy myself first.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake him. The moonlight spills across the floor, silver and cold. I slip out of bed, bare feet silent on the stone. My stolen gown from last night is draped over a chair—too tight, too revealing. I pull on my original clothes instead: dark trousers, a fitted tunic, boots. Practical. Ready.
My fingers brush the hidden pocket in my sleeve. The knife is still there—witch-forged, silver-edged, capable of cutting through magical bindings. It won’t kill him. But it might slow him down.
I glance at Kael.
He’s still. Pale. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. His black hair spills across the pillow. His lips are slightly parted. No breath. No heartbeat. Just stillness. Just *power*.
I hate him.
I *need* him.
I turn away.
The door is locked. Of course it is. But I’m not just a diplomat. I’m a witch. I press my palm to the handle, whispering the unlocking charm Elric taught me—three syllables, a flick of energy. The lock clicks. The door opens.
I step into the corridor.
It’s quiet. The Midnight Court sleeps—or pretends to. Torches burn with cold blue flames, casting long shadows. I move fast, silent, sticking to the edges. My Tide Rune flares faintly with every step, reacting to the magic in the air, to the blood in the walls. I can feel the bond stretching behind me, thinning, protesting. The farther I get from Kael, the more it aches—a dull throb in my chest, a whisper of pain in my skull.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
If I stay, I’ll break. If I stay, I’ll *want*.
And if I want him, I’ll lose everything.
The vault is deep beneath the throne room, past wards and traps. But I know the way. I’ve studied the schematics. I’ve memorized every turn. My fingers tighten around the knife as I descend the spiral staircase, the air growing colder, heavier. The scent of iron and old blood thickens. My rune burns hotter.
I reach the final corridor.
The door is sealed—black stone, veins of crimson crystal. The lock is complex: moon-silver, blood-oath, rune-based. I press my palm to it, whispering the counter-charm. The key in my pocket hums. The runes shift. The door groans open.
And there it is.
The Blood Contract.
Stretched on the altar. Pulsing. Alive.
I step inside, heart hammering. The air shivers. The orb of crimson light floats above, casting long shadows. I don’t hesitate. I pull the knife, slice my palm, and press my blood to the parchment.
“*By blood unbound, by tide undone,*” I whisper, tracing the severing sigil. “*Let the chain be broken. Let the debt be paid.*”
Nothing happens.
I try again.
“*By blood unbound—*”
A shockwave rips through the chamber.
The door slams shut. Chains of crimson light erupt from the walls, wrapping around my wrists, yanking me forward. I cry out—but no sound comes. The contract *knows* me. It *rejects* me.
“No,” I gasp, struggling. “I’m not renewing it. I’m breaking it!”
The parchment shifts, ink rearranging:
She who touches shall be claimed. She who flees shall be caught.
“I’m not yours!” I scream.
But the magic doesn’t care.
And then—
He appears.
From the shadows. Silent. Lethal.
Kael.
His eyes are red. His fangs are bared. His coat is gone, his shirt open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the pale skin stretched over muscle. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush. Just walks toward me, slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” he says, voice low, rough. “I told you—no in-between.”
“I’m not your prisoner,” I spit, straining against the chains. “I’m not your *mate*.”
“You’re both.” He steps closer. “And you’re *mine*.”
“The contract doesn’t own me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But the bond does. And you just tried to break it. Again.”
“Because I *hate* it!”
“Liar.” He reaches out, fingers brushing my jaw. I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. “You don’t hate the bond. You hate that you *want* it. That you want *me*.”
“I don’t!”
“Your body says otherwise.” His hand slides down, gripping my hip. Heat floods me. My breath hitches. “Your pulse jumps. Your skin flushes. Your thighs press together. You’re drenched in want, Tide. And you’re *trembling*.”
I am.
I can’t stop it.
The chains dissolve. I stumble forward—into his arms.
He doesn’t let me go.
One hand grips my waist. The other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. His fangs graze my throat—sharp, precise—not breaking skin. Not feeding. *Claiming*.
A jolt of heat tears through me. My back arches. A moan escapes. My rune blazes. The bond *screams*.
“You feel it,” he murmurs, breath hot against my neck. “The fire. The truth. The *need*.”
“It’s magic,” I gasp. “Not desire.”
“Magic *is* desire.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, hungry. “And you want me. Even now. Even when you’re trying to run.”
“I’m not running,” I lie.
“You were.” He smirks. “And I caught you.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“*Make* me.”
He laughs—low, dark. “You want me to?”
Before I can answer, he moves.
One arm around my waist. He lifts me, spins, and in one fluid motion, *throws* me over his shoulder.
“What the hell—!” I kick, punch, claw at his back. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t. He strides toward the door, my fists pounding his ribs, my voice rising in fury.
“You can’t do this! I’m not your *pet*! I’m not your *prize*!”
“No,” he agrees, stepping into the corridor. “You’re my *equal*. But you’re also my *responsibility*. And you’re *dangerous*.”
“I’m trying to free my bloodline!”
“And you’ll get yourself killed.” He turns a corner. “The elders are watching. Malrik knows you’re Seablood. If they catch you alone, they’ll take you. Use you. *Break* you.”
“Then lock me in a cell!”
“I’d rather keep you close.”
“Why?” I demand. “Because you *want* me? Because you’re *possessive*?”
He stops.
Turns.
And in one swift motion, he flips me—pressing me against the wall, his body pinning mine, his hands caging me in.
Our chests press together. His eyes lock onto mine. His breath is hot. His fangs are bared.
“Yes,” he says, voice rough. “I want you. I’m possessive. I’m *obsessed*. And I’m not letting you go. Not to the elders. Not to Malrik. Not to *anyone*.”
My breath hitches.
“And you?” he asks, lowering his voice. “Why do you keep running? If you hate me so much, why do you *stay*?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “You could have fought harder. You could have screamed. You could have used your magic. But you didn’t. You let me catch you.”
My heart stutters.
He’s right.
I could have fought. I could have called for help. I could have used the knife.
But I didn’t.
Because part of me *wanted* this.
Wanted *him*.
“You’re afraid,” he says, reading me like a book. “Afraid of what you feel. Afraid of what I make you feel. But fear won’t save you, Tide. Only the truth will.”
“And what’s the truth?” I whisper.
He leans in, fangs grazing my lip—just a whisper of contact.
“That you’re mine.”
And then he releases me.
Steps back.
“Now walk,” he says. “Or I’ll carry you again.”
I glare.
But I walk.
Back to his chambers. Back to the gilded cage. Back to the bed where I don’t sleep, where I don’t dream, where I don’t *break*.
But when he closes the door behind us, when the lock clicks, when the silence falls—he doesn’t go to the desk. Doesn’t pour blood wine. Doesn’t turn his back.
He walks to the window.
“You don’t have to run,” he says, voice low. “You don’t have to fight. You could *trust* me.”
“After everything?” I laugh, bitter. “You captured me. You bound me. You *claimed* me.”
“And you came back,” he says, turning. “You touched the contract again. You *wanted* to be caught.”
“I wanted to destroy it.”
“And you will.” He steps closer. “But not like this. Not alone. Not in secret. The contract is ancient. It’s alive. It *feeds* on resistance. But it can be broken. Rewritten. *Changed*.”
I freeze. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he murmurs, “that I don’t want to rule alone. I don’t want a puppet. I don’t want a pet. I want an *equal*. A partner. A *queen*.”
My breath catches.
“And you,” he says, lifting my hand, pressing his palm to mine, “are the only one who can stand beside me.”
The bond flares.
But this time—it doesn’t hurt.
It *fills* me.
Warm. Steady. *Right*.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What if I stop running?
What if I stop fighting?
What if I stop pretending?
What if I let myself *trust* him?
The thought terrifies me.
And yet.
When he finally lets go, and the pain doesn’t come—when the bond hums, but doesn’t scream—I realize something.
I’m not free.
But I’m not broken.
And maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to be.
Later, when the moon is high and the city sleeps, I slip out again.
This time, I don’t go to the vault.
I go to the garden.
The Midnight Garden—a hidden courtyard of black roses and silver vines, bathed in moonlight. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The air smells of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. I sit on a stone bench, my rune glowing faintly, my mind racing.
I don’t hear him come.
But I feel him.
The bond flares. Heat floods my veins. My skin tightens. I turn—and there he is.
Kael.
Standing beneath the archway, shirt unbuttoned, eyes like frozen fire.
“You’re predictable,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply.
He walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his lips.
“You came to think,” he says.
“You came to stop me.”
“No.” He stops in front of me. “I came to *watch* you.”
My breath hitches.
He reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek. Just a touch. Just a spark.
And then—
He pulls me up, spins me, and pins me against the stone wall, his body pressing mine, his hands caging me in.
“You’re mine,” he growls, fangs grazing my throat. “And you’re *never* leaving.”
I don’t fight.
I don’t run.
I *lean* into him.
And the bond?
It *burns*.