I don’t pull away.
Not when his fangs graze my throat. Not when his body presses mine against the cold stone. Not when his hands cage me in like a predator claiming its prize. The bond flares—white-hot, unstoppable—tearing through my veins, pooling low in my stomach, tightening between my thighs. My rune burns beneath my collar, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with *his*. The air shivers. The silver vines tremble. The black roses release their scent—dark, intoxicating, like blood and storm.
And I *lean* into him.
Just an inch. Just a breath.
But it’s enough.
He feels it. Smiles. A slow, dangerous curve of his lips against my skin.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice rough, low. “And you know it.”
I shake my head, but it’s weak. Half-hearted. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to touch him, to pull him closer, to *feel*.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
“Then why do you tremble?” He tilts my head to the side, exposing my throat. His fangs trace the pulse beneath my skin—sharp, precise, *agonizing*. “Why does your blood sing? Why does your body arch toward me?”
“It’s magic,” I gasp. “Not desire.”
“Magic *is* desire.” He presses closer, his chest to mine, his hips to mine. I feel him—hard, ready, *hungry*. My breath hitches. My thighs press together. “And you want me. Even now. Even after what Lira said.”
My stomach drops.
Lira.
Her smirk. Her hands on him. That *mark*.
Jealousy claws through me—sharp, possessive, *violent*. I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back, eyes flashing red, fangs bared. But he doesn’t fall. Just straightens, slow, deliberate, like a storm gathering.
“You believed her,” he says, voice cold.
“I didn’t—”
“You *did*.” He steps forward. “You felt it. The bond screamed. Your skin burned. Your heart cracked. You *cared*.”
“I don’t care who you f*ck!” I snap, backing up. “I don’t care what you do with your *whores*!”
“Then why are you shaking?” He closes the distance in one stride, gripping my wrists, pinning them above my head against the wall. “Why does your pulse jump? Why does your breath come so fast?”
“Because you’re *insufferable*!” I kick, but he catches my leg, hooks it over his hip. My back arches. Our bodies press together—chest to chest, hip to hip, heat to heat. I can feel him everywhere. In my blood. In my bones. In the *core* of me.
“You’re jealous,” he growls.
“I’m not!”
“Liar.” His lips brush my ear. “You hate that she touched me. That she *claimed* me. That she might have had me first.”
“She didn’t!” I spit. “You said so yourself!”
“And you still doubt me.” He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. “You still *fear*.”
“I don’t fear you!”
“You fear *this*.” He shifts, grinding his hips against mine. A moan claws its way up my throat. My head falls back. My eyes close. “You fear how much you want me. How much you *need* me. How much you’d *break* if I ever let you go.”
“I wouldn’t break,” I whisper.
“You already are.”
And then—
I snap.
I yank my wrist free, spin, and *punch* him.
Hard.
Right in the jaw.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, eyes dark, unreadable.
So I do it again.
And again.
Fists flying, nails raking, voice rising in fury.
“You think you can just *claim* me? That I’ll just *fall* at your feet? That I’ll forget everything—my mother, my mission, my *hate*—just because you touch me? Because you *look* at me? Because you make my body *burn*?”
He doesn’t block. Doesn’t defend. Just takes it—each strike, each scream, each tear.
“You’re *not* mine!” I shout, slamming my palm against his chest. “I came here to *destroy* you! To break the contract! To *end* you!”
“Then do it,” he says, voice low. “Kill me. Rip out my heart. Burn the contract to ash. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to *me*.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Yes, you are.” He catches my wrist again, pulls me close. “You could have fought harder in the vault. You could have used your magic. You could have called for help. But you didn’t. You *let* me catch you. You *wanted* to be caught.”
“I didn’t—”
“And in the ritual chamber,” he continues, “you *leaned* into me. You *wanted* to kiss me. You *ached* for it. And now? Now you’re screaming at me because you’re *jealous* of a woman I’ve never touched.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re not mad at me,” he says. “You’re mad at *yourself*. Because you *want* me. Because you *care*. Because you’re *falling*.”
“I’m not falling!”
“Yes, you are.” He steps closer, his body pressing mine, his hands caging me in. “And I’m not letting you go.”
“*Make* me!” I scream, shoving him. “Make me stay! Make me want you! Make me *love* you!”
He doesn’t answer.
He just *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—
I bite him.
Hard.
My teeth sink into his lower lip, breaking skin, drawing *his* blood. It’s warm. Metallic. *alive*. The bond *screams*, a surge of magic ripping through us, crimson light flaring around us, the silver vines writhing, the black roses blooming in an instant, their petals falling like ash.
He doesn’t pull away.
Just growls—low, dark, *possessive*—and kisses me harder, deeper, *fiercer*. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting his own blood, tasting *me*. His hands tighten—my hair, my hip, my waist—pulling me so close there’s no space, no breath, no *thought*. Just heat. Just fire. Just *us*.
The bond isn’t a chain anymore.
It’s a *storm*.
And we’re at the center of it.
I don’t know how long it lasts.
Seconds? Minutes? Hours?
Time doesn’t exist. Not here. Not now. Just his mouth on mine, his body against mine, his blood on my tongue, his hands on my skin—because at some point, my tunic is gone, his shirt is gone, and his palms are burning against my bare back, my waist, my hips.
And then—
A noise.
Distant. Faint.
A knock?
A voice?
I don’t know.
But it breaks the spell.
He pulls back—just enough to breathe, to look at me. His lips are swollen. Bloody. His eyes are black, fangs bared, chest rising and falling fast. My breath hitches. My hands tremble on his shoulders. My skin is on fire.
“You want me,” he says, voice rough, raw. “Say it.”
I shake my head. “I hate you.”
“Liar.” He presses closer, his hips grinding against mine. “You’re drenched. You’re trembling. You *bit* me. Say it.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “You want me.”
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 stumble, catching myself against the wall. My tunic is half-off, my hair a mess, my lips swollen, my body *aching*. The bond hums, quieter now, but still present. Still *alive*. Still *his*.
Did that just happen?
Did I just—
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.