The Council chambers are still echoing with the weight of Thorne’s decree when Cassian grabs my arm.
“We’re leaving,” he says, voice low, final.
I yank back, but his grip tightens—just enough to remind me who’s stronger. Who’s immortal. Who doesn’t bleed when cut.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, my voice raw from screaming, from the bond still pulsing inside me like a second heartbeat.
He leans in, so close his breath ghosts over my ear. “You’re trembling. The bond is spiking. If you don’t come with me, you’ll collapse before you reach the door.”
I want to argue. Want to spit in his face and walk out on my own. But he’s right.
My legs are already shaking. My skin burns where the sigils flare beneath my dress, white-hot lines spreading across my collarbones, my ribs. The air feels thick, suffocating, like I’m breathing syrup. And the *pull*—the relentless, magnetic pull toward him—is growing stronger with every second.
It’s not desire. It’s not even attraction. It’s something deeper, more primal. A biological imperative. Like my body knows it belongs to him, even if my mind refuses to accept it.
“I hate you,” I whisper as he leads me through the arched exit, past the watching eyes of the Council.
“Good,” he says, not looking at me. “Hate’s easier than the alternative.”
We move through the Obsidian Court—long, vaulted halls of black stone veined with silver, lit by floating orbs of violet flame. Statues of ancient vampires line the corridors, their hollow eyes seeming to follow us. The air is cold, sterile, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood and something else—something dark and ancient, like old magic buried deep in the walls.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice unsteady.
“Our chambers.”
“*Our* chambers?” I stop short. “There’s no ‘our.’ I’m not sleeping in the same room as you.”
He turns, slow, deliberate. Gold eyes cutting through the dim light. “The bond requires proximity. Twelve hours apart, and it triggers withdrawal. Fever. Hallucinations. Organ failure.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps closer. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off him, unnatural for a vampire. “Then walk away. See how far you get before your lungs seize.”
I glare at him, but I don’t move.
Because I believe him.
The bond hums between us, a live wire under my skin. And deep down, beneath the rage and the betrayal, I *feel* it—the truth of what he’s saying. My body knows the rules, even if I don’t.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if you touch me again without permission, I’ll burn you.”
He smirks. “Promises, promises.”
We reach the chambers—massive, opulent, and suffocating. Black marble floors, walls of carved obsidian, a ceiling lost in shadow. A four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in dark velvet, silver chains woven into the canopy like some kind of twisted bridal decoration. There’s a hearth, cold and empty, and a balcony beyond, where the moon hangs low and heavy in the sky.
“Charming,” I say, stepping inside. “Did you decorate it yourself? Or did you have a theme in mind? *Doom and gloom*?”
“It’s been empty for two centuries,” he says, closing the door behind us. The lock clicks with finality. “No one’s been allowed in since the last prince took a mate.”
“And what happened to her?”
“She died.”
My breath catches. “You killed her?”
He turns, eyes flashing. “I *loved* her. And she was murdered to start a war. So no, witch. I don’t take mates lightly.”
I look away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Then why not break the bond? If it’s so dangerous, so political—why not find a way to sever it?”
“Because it’s not just magic,” he says, stepping toward me. “It’s *soul-flame*. Ancient. Unbreakable without mutual death. And even then, the curse in your blood would kill you.”
“The curse,” I repeat, pressing a hand to my stomach, where the sigils burn hottest. “You said it’s awakening.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because of *you*?”
“Because of *us*.” He reaches out, not touching me, but his fingers hover near my wrist, where the bond mark pulses. “The curse was designed to activate when the fated one is near. It’s a failsafe. A way to ensure the bloodline ends before the bond can form.”
“So I’m supposed to just… die?”
“No.” His voice drops. “I’m supposed to save you.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You don’t get to play the hero. You don’t get to waltz in and say you’ll save me after everything—”
But the words cut off as a wave of heat slams into me.
I stagger, clutching my stomach. The sigils flare, white fire racing across my skin, and a moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“Harmony.” Cassian is in front of me in an instant, hands hovering, not touching. “Breathe.”
“I’m fine,” I gasp, but I’m not. My vision blurs. My skin feels like it’s peeling off. And between my thighs—oh *God*—there’s a heat, a *throb*, deep and insistent, like my body is begging for something it shouldn’t want.
“It’s the heat cycle,” he says, voice tight. “The bond’s triggering it early. Stress, proximity, emotional volatility—all of it feeds the connection.”
“I’m not some animal in heat,” I snap, but my voice wavers. My knees buckle.
He catches me before I fall, arms sliding under mine, pulling me against him.
And *God*, he feels good.
Hard chest. Warm skin. The scent of cedar and frost and something darker, something *male*, filling my senses. My breath hitches. My pulse races. The heat between my legs intensifies, pooling low, aching.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but it’s weak. Pathetic.
“You’re burning up,” he says, one hand pressing to my forehead. “Your temperature’s spiking.”
“Get off me.”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts me, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. I struggle, but my limbs are weak, my magic sluggish, drained by the bond.
“Put me down!”
“You’ll only hurt yourself,” he says, carrying me toward the bed. “The heat will pass. But you need to stay calm. Grounded.”
He lays me down gently, the velvet cool against my overheated skin. The sigils glow brighter, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I curl onto my side, arms wrapped around my stomach, trying to contain the fire.
And then I feel it.
His hand.
On my stomach.
Not under my clothes. Not invasive. Just there, palm flat against the fabric, heat seeping through.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“The sigils respond to touch,” he says, his voice rough. “Especially his. It calms the magic. Slows the spread.”
“You don’t get to touch me like this.”
“You don’t get to suffer when I can stop it.”
I want to argue. Want to shove him away. But the moment his hand settles, the heat in my skin begins to ease. The sigils dim, the fire receding like a tide. And the ache between my legs—still there, still throbbing—shifts, transforms into something else. Something deeper. Something that makes my breath catch.
His thumb moves, just slightly, brushing over the curve of my hip.
A shiver runs through me.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“You’re responding,” he murmurs. “Your body knows the truth, even if your mind refuses to.”
“This isn’t attraction. It’s magic. It’s the bond.”
“Does it matter?” His voice is low, dark. “Your pulse is racing. Your skin is flushed. Your breath hitches every time I move.”
“I hate you,” I say again, but it lacks conviction.
“Good,” he says, and his hand slides higher, just an inch, fingers brushing the edge of my ribs. “Hate’s better than need.”
But it’s too late.
I *need*.
Not just for the heat to stop. Not just for the pain to fade.
I need *him*.
The realization hits me like a blade, sharp and undeniable. My body arches slightly into his touch, betraying me. A soft sound escapes my lips—half gasp, half moan.
And then I feel it.
His fangs.
Extended. Sharp. Just visible behind his lips as he watches me, eyes dark with something I can’t name.
“You can smell it, can’t you?” he asks, voice a whisper. “My blood. Your magic. The way they call to each other.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because he’s right.
I *can* smell it. Rich. Dark. Tempting. Like wine laced with fire. And my mouth waters. My gums throb, as if my body is preparing to bite.
Witches don’t feed on blood. We draw magic from our own. But something about him—about *this*—rewrites the rules.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I breathe.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m prey.”
His hand stills. His eyes lock onto mine. “You’re not prey, Harmony. You’re my *mate*.”
The word vibrates between us, heavy with meaning. With promise. With danger.
And then—
—the door opens.
I freeze. Cassian’s hand drops, but he doesn’t move away.
Kael, the werewolf Beta, steps inside. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back, his amber eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. He pauses when he sees us—me on the bed, Cassian leaning over me, hand still near my waist.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks, voice neutral.
“Yes,” I snap.
“No,” Cassian says at the same time.
Kael raises a brow but doesn’t comment. “The Council wants a statement. About the bond. About the betrothal.”
“Tell them it’s none of their business,” Cassian says.
“They’re concerned about stability. About war.”
“Let them be concerned.” Cassian straightens, stepping back from the bed. “The bond is real. The betrothal stands. That’s all they need to know.”
Kael nods. “And her?” He glances at me.
“She’s under my protection.”
“Is she?” Kael’s gaze meets mine. “Or is she a prisoner?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because I don’t know.
Kael holds my stare for a long moment, then turns. “I’ll tell them you’ll address the Council tomorrow.”
He leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence falls.
And then Cassian is back at the bed, kneeling beside me.
“You should rest,” he says. “The heat will come in waves. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“I don’t want your care,” I whisper.
“Too bad.” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle. Too gentle. “You’re stuck with me, witch. Whether you like it or not.”
I close my eyes, refusing to look at him. Refusing to acknowledge the way my body still hums from his touch.
But I can’t block out his presence. Can’t ignore the heat of him, the pull of the bond, the way my breath still hitches when he’s near.
I came here to kill him.
Now, I’m trapped in his bed, burning alive from the inside out.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want the fire to stop.
I wake to darkness.
The room is quiet. The moon has shifted, casting silver light across the floor. The fire in my veins has dulled, but it’s still there—low, simmering, like embers waiting to reignite.
And then I feel it.
His breath.
On my neck.
I turn my head slowly.
Cassian is beside me, lying on his side, fully dressed, eyes open, watching me. His fangs are still bared, just slightly, and his hand rests on the mattress between us, close enough that I could reach out and touch him.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice a whisper.
“Why are you in my bed?”
“It’s *our* bed,” he corrects. “And I’m here because the bond spikes when you sleep. Your magic flares. Your temperature rises. I had to stabilize you.”
“By breathing on me?”
“By keeping you grounded.” His gaze drops to my lips. “You were moaning my name.”
My breath catches. “I was not.”
“You were.” He leans in, just slightly. “Shall I show you?”
And then—
—the door slams open.
We both turn.
Lady Nyx stands in the doorway, half-naked, Cassian’s black shirt draped over one shoulder, her dark hair tumbling around her face.
Her lips curl into a smile.
“Well,” she purrs. “Isn’t this cozy?”