The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the searing, suffocating heat of the prison cell, where silver chains had burned into my wrists and the bond screamed with every breath. Not the cold bite of betrayal in the Council chamber, where Malrik’s lies had nearly sealed my fate. But a deep, steady warmth—like sunlight through stained glass, like a hand cradling fire.
And then—pain.
It flared in my wrists, sharp and insistent, where the silver had seared my skin. My lip throbbed where the guard had struck me. My body ached from hours of tension, of fighting, of *waiting* to die.
But I was alive.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was low, carved from rough-hewn timber, its beams blackened with age. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The air smelled of pine, old magic, and something darker—blood. *His* blood.
And then I saw him.
Lysander sat beside the bed, his back to me, his shoulders rigid, his hands clasped in front of him like a man in prayer. He was still in his black coat, though it was torn at the sleeve, stained with blood—some mine, some his. His hair was tousled, his jaw clenched, his crimson eyes fixed on the flames.
He hadn’t noticed I was awake.
I studied him—really studied him. Not the vampire lord. Not the ruler. The man. The one who had stormed a prison, slaughtered enforcers, defied the Council, and carried me through the night—all for *me*. The one who had bitten me to break the chains, licked my wounds closed, whispered *“I can’t live without hating you”* like it was a vow.
And I believed him.
Not because of magic.
Not because of the bond.
Because I could *feel* it—the truth in his aura, the raw, unrelenting need in his voice, the way his body had trembled when he thought I was dead.
“You’re staring,” he said, not turning.
“You’re brooding,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He turned then, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, he just looked at me—searching, assessing, *afraid*. Then he exhaled, a slow, controlled breath, and stood.
“You’re burning,” he said, stepping closer. “The silver left a mark. It’s fighting your magic.”
“Then heal it,” I said. “You licked my lip. Why not my wrists?”
He didn’t answer. Just knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over my bound wrists. The silver chains were gone, but the wounds remained—angry, red, pulsing with dark energy. He reached for a vial on the nightstand, pouring a thick, crimson salve over the burns.
It stung—sharp, biting—but I didn’t flinch. Just watched him, my breath unsteady, my pulse racing. His fingers were cool, precise, gentle. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just worked, his brow furrowed, his fangs grazing his lower lip in concentration.
And then—
His thumb brushed the Duskbane sigil on my wrist.
The mark flared—warm, alive, *his*—and the bond pulsed between us, a surge of heat and awareness that made my breath catch.
“You keep it,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Even now. Even after everything.”
He didn’t look up. “It’s not mine to remove.”
“And if I asked?”
He stilled. Then lifted his gaze to mine. “Would you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
The mark had started as a brand. A claim. A lie. But now—now it felt like something else. A promise. A vow. A bridge between us, built on blood, on pain, on truth.
And I wasn’t ready to burn it down.
---
He finished the salve in silence, wrapping my wrists in clean linen, his touch lingering just a second too long. Then he stood, moving to the hearth, where a pot of water simmered over the flames.
“You need to eat,” he said. “And drink. The bond is weak. You’re pushing it.”
“You sound like a nursemaid,” I said, sitting up slowly. The room spun, my vision blurring at the edges, but I ignored it. “Since when do you care about my health?”
“Since you became the only thing keeping me from burning the world to ash,” he said, pouring tea into a chipped ceramic cup. “Drink.”
I took it, frowning. “What is it?”
“Witchfire elixir. Bloodwine. A little vervain to steady your magic.”
“And you expect me to trust you?” I asked, lifting the cup. “After everything? After Seraphine? After the vial?”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning. “You already did. You drank my blood in front of the Council. You let me carry you out of that prison. You’re *here*, in my care, when you could have run.”
“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment to slit your throat,” I said, sipping the tea. It was bitter, warm, laced with something sweet—honey, maybe. But it soothed the ache in my throat, the burn in my veins.
He smiled—cold, knowing. “Then do it. But not until you’ve healed. I’d hate to die knowing you were still weak.”
I glared at him, but the bond hummed between us, a live wire of tension, of *need*, and I knew—he was right. I *had* trusted him. Not fully. Not completely. But enough to let him save me. Enough to let him touch me. Enough to let him *see* me.
And that terrified me more than any lie.
---
The safe house was small—a single room with a bed, a hearth, a table, and a door that led to a narrow bathroom. No windows. No mirrors. Just rough stone walls etched with old wards, their runes faint but still active. It felt like a tomb. A sanctuary. A prison.
“Where are we?” I asked, setting the cup aside.
“Black Forest,” he said. “Near the old werewolf border. Kaelen knows the location. No one else.”
“And Elara?”
“Safe,” he said. “Hidden. Mira’s network is moving her tonight. She’ll be in Lyon by dawn.”
I exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Good.”
He turned, his eyes searching mine. “You care about her.”
“I care about *you* surviving,” I said. “And if she dies, you’ll burn the world. That includes me.”
“Liar,” he said, stepping closer. “You care about *her*. You saw her in the dream. You felt her fear. You know what she means to me.”
“And what do I mean to you?” I asked, standing. I was still in my undergarments, the torn remnants of my gown discarded on the floor. The firelight flickered across my skin, casting shadows over the bite mark above my collarbone, the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. “Am I just another pawn? Another weapon to use against Malrik? Against Nyx?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped into my space, his body a wall, his presence a storm. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—and I didn’t back down. Didn’t flinch. Just looked up at him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his crimson ones.
“You’re not a pawn,” he said, his voice low, rough. “You’re not a weapon. You’re the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen the man beneath the monster. The only one who’s ever *challenged* me. The only one who’s ever made me feel—”
“Alive?” I whispered.
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Yes.”
And then—
He reached for me.
Not to touch. Not to claim.
To *heal*.
His fingers brushed the bruise on my cheek, his touch feather-light, his breath warm on my skin. The pain faded, replaced by a warmth that spread through my bones, through my blood, through the bond.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I want to,” he said. “Because you’re *mine*. And I will not let anyone hurt you. Not Malrik. Not Nyx. Not even *me*.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I did it.
I reached for him.
Not to fight.
Not to push him away.
To *touch*.
My fingers brushed the tear in his coat, the blood staining his sleeve. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” I said, pushing the coat aside. Beneath, his shirt was torn, his skin slashed just below the ribs. The wound was shallow, but it was still bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric.
“Let me see it,” I said.
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said.
And then I did the one thing I’d sworn I’d never do.
I pulled his shirt up.
His body was a landscape of muscle and scar—old wounds, battle marks, the jagged line across his abdomen from a werewolf’s claw. But this—this was fresh. New. *Mine*.
“You took a blade for me,” I said, my voice breaking. “In the prison. You didn’t have to.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I did.”
I reached for the salve, pouring it over the wound, my fingers trembling. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, his breath unsteady, his fangs grazing his lower lip.
And then—
My hand slipped.
Just a brush. Just a whisper of contact.
But it was enough.
The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t pull back. Just kept going, my fingers tracing the scar across his abdomen, the curve of his hip, the edge of his trousers.
He didn’t stop me.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
He caught my wrist.
Not to stop me.
To *guide* me.
His hand covered mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—he moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until my palm rested over the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing through the fabric.
My breath caught.
“You want this,” he said, his voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s *us*.”
And then—
He let go.
Just stepped back, leaving my hand where it was, his body still hard, his breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” I breathed.
“But you want me to,” he said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
---
Later, as the fire burned low, as the storm raged beyond the windows, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was *winning*.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.