The morning air in the training chamber was thick with the scent of ozone and old magic, the black glass walls reflecting every flicker of movement like a hall of mirrors. I stood on the silver dais, barefoot, my breath steady despite the storm inside me. Four days until the Blood Moon Ritual. Four days until the bond would either claim me—or destroy me.
Cassian hadn’t spoken to me since last night. Since he’d stood shirtless before the black flames, his back carved with the same spiral scars that now branded my chest. Since he’d touched the Mark and made me gasp like a fool.
I wouldn’t do that again.
I wouldn’t let my body betray me. Not here. Not in front of him. Not ever.
The door groaned open, and he entered—silent, deliberate, dressed in dark training leathers that clung to his body like a second skin. No armor. No weapons. Just him. Just power.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice low, smooth, like smoke curling through stone.
“I don’t like wasting time.”
He stepped onto the dais, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. “Good. Then let’s begin.”
“I thought we were working on the bond.”
“We are.” He circled me, slow, predatory. “But control isn’t just mental. It’s physical. Emotional. If you can’t master your body, you can’t master the magic.”
“So this is combat training?”
“This is survival.” He stopped in front of me. “The ritual won’t be gentle. The bond will pull at you—harder than ever. If you’re not strong enough to resist when you need to, and yield when you must, it will break you.”
“And you care about that?”
“I care about the contract,” he said, cold. “And the contract needs you alive.”
I smirked. “So I’m just a vessel to you. A tool.”
“Aren’t we all?” He stepped closer. “Now—attack me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Fight me. Use magic if you want. But I want to see what you’re made of.”
My pulse spiked. This was a test. A trap. He wanted to see how I moved, how I fought, where my weaknesses were. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hesitation.
I lunged.
Not with magic. Not yet. With my body. My fist snapped toward his jaw—fast, precise, trained in the underground rings of Ashen Hollow, where witches fought with teeth and claws when spells failed.
He caught my wrist mid-strike, twisted, and spun me around, slamming my back against the dais. Pain flared through my spine, but I rolled with it, kicking out—my heel catching his thigh. He grunted, but didn’t release me.
Then I felt it.
The Mark on my chest—*burning*.
Not from pain. From *proximity*. From the heat of his body pressed against mine, his breath steady against my neck, his grip like iron on my wrist. My breath hitched. My skin flushed. Between my thighs—*wetness*—a slow, shameful pulse of arousal that made my stomach twist.
“You’re tense,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “Relax. Or you’ll lose.”
“I’m not losing to you.”
With a surge of strength, I twisted, driving my elbow into his ribs. He exhaled sharply, his grip loosening—just enough. I broke free, flipped backward, and landed in a crouch, magic already gathering in my palms—blue witchlight, crackling with intent.
He didn’t rush me. Just watched. Calm. Confident. Like he already knew how this would end.
I threw the spell.
A bolt of energy—fast, precise—aimed at his chest. He sidestepped, the magic grazing his shoulder. The fabric singed, but he didn’t flinch.
Another spell. Then another. I moved fast, weaving illusions, creating afterimages, trying to disorient him. But he anticipated every move, dodging, countering, closing the distance with terrifying grace.
Then he was on me.
One moment he was across the dais. The next, he was behind me, his arm locking around my waist, yanking me back against his chest. My magic sputtered, disrupted by the sudden contact. The Mark flared—*white-hot*—and a wave of heat crashed through me, so intense I gasped.
“You rely too much on magic,” he said, voice a low growl in my ear. “But magic is emotion. And right now, you’re *full* of it.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.” He tightened his hold. “You’re angry. You’re afraid. You’re *aroused*. And the bond feeds on all of it.”
My breath came faster. “I’m not—”
“Liar.” He shifted, and I felt it—his thigh pressing between mine, firm, unyielding. “Your pulse is racing. Your skin is warm. And you’re *wet*.”
I froze.
No. No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. Not for *him*.
But my body knew the truth. The heat between my thighs, the ache in my core, the way my hips instinctively pressed back against him—it was undeniable.
“Don’t move,” he growled, his voice rough, deeper than before. “Or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
My heart hammered. My breath stuttered. Every nerve in my body screamed—*run, fight, yield, take him*—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
His free hand slid up my side, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing the edge of the Mark. Fire exploded beneath my skin, spreading through my chest, my stomach, my *pussy*. I arched, a soft moan escaping my lips before I could stop it.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. His breath hitched. His grip tightened.
“You feel it,” he whispered. “The pull. The need. The *want*.”
“It’s the bond,” I gasped. “It’s not real.”
“It’s not just the bond.” He turned me, forcing me to face him. His eyes were darker now—crimson edged with gold, pupils dilated. He was affected too. I could see it. Smell it. The sharp, metallic scent of his arousal cutting through the cold air. “You want this. You want *me*.”
“I hate you.”
“Then why does your body lie?” He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Why does your magic reach for mine? Why does the Mark *glow* when I touch you?”
I tried to pull away, but he held me in place. “Let me go.”
“No.” His voice dropped, low, intimate. “Because if I do, you’ll run. And you can’t run from this. Not anymore.”
He leaned in, his lips hovering over mine. I could feel his breath, cold and steady. Could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his arms, the way his cock pressed against my thigh—hard, thick, *ready*.
My stomach twisted. My thighs clenched. I should have fought. Should have spat in his face, kneed him in the groin, *anything*.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there, trembling, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my body betraying me with every second.
And then—
A chime echoed through the chamber.
The training bell. Signaling the end of the session.
Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me, his thumb still on my lip, his body still caging mine.
“This isn’t over,” he murmured.
Then he released me.
I stumbled back, my legs weak, my chest heaving. The Mark still burned, but the heat between my thighs was worse. A deep, aching throb that made me want to grind against something—*anything*—just to relieve the pressure.
He stepped back, adjusting his leathers, his expression unreadable. “You did well. For a beginner.”
“I’m not a beginner.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re not. But you’re not in control either. And if you don’t learn to master this—*us*—the ritual will consume you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do.” He turned, walking toward the door. “Tomorrow. Same time. And Helena?”
I didn’t answer.
He glanced back, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. “Next time, I won’t stop.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there, trembling, my body still humming with residual heat, my mind racing. That hadn’t been training. That had been *torture*. A test of will, of desire, of everything I was trying to deny.
And I’d failed.
—
I avoided him the rest of the day.
After the training session, I’d locked myself in my room, stripped off the sweat-drenched tunic, and stood under a freezing shower until my skin turned red. But even the cold couldn’t wash away the memory of his touch. Of the way his thigh had pressed between my legs. Of the way his voice had dropped when he said *next time, I won’t stop*.
I’d tried to work. To plan. To find a way out of the ritual, out of the bond, out of *him*. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Felt his hands. Heard his voice.
And worse—I *wanted* it.
Not just the touch. Not just the heat. *Him*.
And that terrified me more than anything.
By evening, I couldn’t stay still. I needed air. Needed space. Needed to *think*.
I slipped out of Cassian’s wing, moving through the servant’s corridors, the lower archives, the forgotten passages of the fortress. The air was cooler here, the torchlight dimmer. I passed a few vampires—servants, guards—but none stopped me. To them, I was Helena Vale, the prince’s ward. Untouchable.
I found a balcony overlooking the Carpathians, high in the west tower. The wind was sharp, biting, but I welcomed it. The sky was clear, the moon a thin silver sliver. Four more nights. Four more days.
I leaned against the stone railing, closing my eyes, letting the cold air wash over me.
“You’re avoiding him.”
I spun.
Kaelen Dain stood in the shadows, arms crossed, storm-gray eyes watching me. The werewolf Beta. Cassian’s lieutenant. The only one who hadn’t bowed when Cassian declared me his ward.
“I’m not avoiding anyone,” I said.
He stepped forward, his presence heavy, grounded. “You are. And I get it. He’s… intense.”
“He’s a monster.”
“He’s a vampire prince.” Kaelen leaned against the railing beside me. “Cold. Controlled. Used to getting what he wants.”
“And you serve him?”
“I serve the court. And right now, the court needs stability.” He glanced at me. “So does he.”
“He doesn’t need me. He needs the bond.”
“Maybe.” Kaelen studied me. “But I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
My breath caught. “What are you talking about?”
“The way he watches you. The way his control slips when you’re near. The way the bond *reacts* to you.” He paused. “It’s not just magic. It’s something deeper.”
“It’s manipulation.”
“Is it?” He pushed off the railing. “Or is it the first time he’s felt something real in centuries?”
I didn’t answer.
He turned to leave, then paused. “Be careful, Helena. The ritual isn’t just about power. It’s about *truth*. And the bond… it knows what you deny.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there, the wind biting my skin, Kaelen’s words echoing in my mind.
The bond knows what you deny.
And I was denying *everything*.
—
I didn’t sleep that night.
Instead, I went back to the hidden chamber. Back to my mother’s journal. I read it again, page after page, searching for answers, for strength, for a way out.
But there was none.
She’d known. She’d *known* what would happen. That the contract would awaken for me. That the bond would pull at me. That I’d have to choose.
And now, so did I.
Three more days.
One ritual.
And a truth I couldn’t outrun.
I wasn’t just fighting Cassian.
I wasn’t just fighting the bond.
I was fighting the part of me that *wanted* him.
And I wasn’t sure I could win.