IRIS
I stood on the balcony long after Kaelen retreated into the room, the cold night air a welcome balm on my heated skin. His final words echoed in the sudden quiet, a stark contrast to the fury that had preceded them. *“The rules stand.”* But they didn’t. Not really. He had laid down his law, and I had, in turn, laid down mine. In that silent, tense moment, the power dynamic had shifted, and we both knew it. I was no longer just a prisoner. I was an adversary. A rival. And in a strange, twisted way, that made me feel safer than I had since I’d first been dragged into this nightmare.
I finally turned and went back inside, the heavy oak door a solid barrier between me and the outside world. The room was empty, the air thick with the lingering scents of his fury, my defiance, and the cloying poison Isolde had left behind. My eyes fell on the discarded training shirt near the hearth. My first instinct was to incinerate it, to turn the symbol of his past into a pile of ash. But a colder, more calculating instinct took over. Leaving it there was a sign of my anger. Burning it was a sign of my fear. Picking it up and treating it with the contempt it deserved… that was a sign of my power.
I walked over, my bare feet silent on the wolf-skin rug, and scooped up the shirt. The cotton was soft, well-worn, and still faintly damp. The scent of pine and midnight rain was a punch to the gut, a tangible reminder of the man whose soul was now tethered to mine. I didn’t flinch. I carried the shirt to the door of the adjoining dressing room—a smaller, more intimate space filled with his clothes—and I threw it into the hamper with a force that was purely symbolic. It was where dirty things belonged. Out of sight, out of mind.
Feeling a small, grim sense of victory, I turned my attention to the room itself. His rules. *You will not perform any magic without my supervision.* The command was a brand on my free will, a choke chain on my very essence. He wanted a compliant weapon, a tool he could sheathe and unsheathe at will. Fine. I would show him just how sharp this tool could be. I couldn’t leave the chambers, but I could make this space my own. I could carve out a sanctuary, a place where his power was not absolute.
I closed my eyes, reaching for the well of magic inside me. It was still there, a deep, quiet reservoir beneath the surface chaos of the bond. For the first time, I focused on it not as a weapon, but as a part of me, as natural as my own heartbeat. I drew on a thin thread of it, a whisper of energy, and began to weave a ward. Not a grand, destructive spell, but a small, subtle one. A privacy ward. A simple, elegant sigil that would muffle sound and create a sense of separation. It wouldn’t keep him out—nothing could—but it would make the room feel like mine. It would be a silent, constant declaration of my will.
I envisioned the sigil in my mind, a complex knot of interwoven lines, meant to be etched onto the wooden doorframe of the balcony. I gathered the energy, my fingers tingling with the familiar, pleasant warmth of my own power, completely untainted by his. It felt like coming home. I pushed the magic out, a gentle, directed stream toward the doorframe.
That’s when it went wrong.
The moment my magic left my fingertips, it didn't travel in a clean, controlled line. It exploded. A violent, chaotic burst of silver light shot from my hands, not toward the door, but in a wild, uncontrolled arc across the room. It hit the far wall, the stone shivering as the energy crackled over its surface. Instead of fading, the magic coalesced, spreading like a living thing, a shimmering, translucent shield that covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. It pulsed with a soft, eerie light, the silver shot through with veins of deep indigo—the same colors as the magical flare that had erupted when he bit me.
My breath hitched. I stumbled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. That wasn't my magic. Not entirely. It was my magic, but it was… infected. Corrupted. Infused with the raw, primal energy of the Lycan bond. It was volatile, unpredictable, and infinitely more powerful than anything I had ever wielded on my own.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me. I had lost control. Not just of the spell, but of my own power. It was like trying to hold water in my hands; it seeped through my fingers, taking on a life of its own. The shield on the wall hummed with a low thrumming sound, a discordant note that vibrated in my teeth. I tried to draw the magic back, to retract it, but it was like trying to call back a shouted word into a canyon. It was out there. It had a life of its own.
"Having trouble?"
His voice was a low growl from the doorway to the dressing room. I spun around, my hand flying to my throat. He stood there, leaning against the frame, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had changed out of his leathers into a pair of loose black sleep trousers, his chest and feet bare. The casual state of his undress was more intimidating than any armor. His gaze was fixed on the shimmering shield, his expression unreadable, but I could feel his emotions through the bond—a sharp, cutting edge of amusement, layered over a deep, analytical curiosity.
"It's nothing," I said, my voice too high, too tight. I tried to project an air of nonchalance I was far from feeling. "Just a little decoration."
He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly toward me, his movements fluid and silent. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving the glowing shield. "Decoration. Is that what we're calling uncontrolled, volatile bursts of magic now?" He stopped a few feet from me, his gaze shifting from the shield to my face. "I thought I told you not to perform any magic."
"You don't own my magic," I shot back, my chin lifting in defiance even as my stomach churned with anxiety. "And it was under control."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Was it? It looks to me like your wall is about to have a seizure. What is this supposed to do, anyway? Keep the drafts out?"
He was mocking me. He was enjoying my failure. The humiliation was a hot, bitter tide rising in my chest. "It's a ward," I bit out. "For privacy."
"Privacy," he repeated, the word a slow, deliberate drawl. He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. He reached out a hand, not toward me, but toward the shimmering wall. "A ward that only responds to me, I imagine."
Before I could stop him, he touched the surface of the shield with his fingertips.
The effect was instantaneous. The chaotic, thrumming energy of the shield immediately calmed. The frantic silver and indigo light softened, coalescing into a steady, pulsing glow that was no longer jarring, but almost beautiful. The discordant hum vanished, replaced by a low, harmonious chime that was strangely soothing. The magic, which had felt like a wild, rampaging beast a moment ago, now felt… content. It recognized him. It welcomed him.
I stared, horrified. My magic, my own personal power, had just submitted to him. It had rejected my control and accepted his with a sigh of relief.
He pulled his hand back, a triumphant, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Well, that's not very private, is it?" he murmured, his voice a low, velvety taunt. "Your magic knows its master."
The word "master" was a physical blow. Rage, pure and undiluted, flooded me, washing away my anxiety and humiliation. "He is not my master!" I snarled, and without thinking, I slammed my own hand against the shield.
The magic rejected me. It felt like hitting a wall of solid electricity. A painful, jarring shock shot up my arm, throwing me backward. I cried out, stumbling and falling to the floor, my arm tingling and numb from the force of the rejection.
Kaelen was on me in a flash. He didn't help me up. He loomed over me, his expression no longer amused, but thunderous. "What did you think would happen?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "You cannot fight it, Iris. This bond is not a parasite. It's a fusion. Your magic is part of you, and now, it is part of me. Trying to use it against me, or to exclude me from it, is like trying to use your own lungs to breathe water. It's a fundamental rejection of yourself."
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, glaring up at him, my arm throbbing. "I'd rather drown than be your puppet," I spat.
His jaw tightened, the muscle feathering in his cheek. He crouched down, bringing his face level with mine. The scent of pine and rain was overwhelming, a potent drug that made my head spin. "You are not a puppet," he said, his voice a low, intense growl. "You are a weapon. A phenomenally powerful, dangerously unstable weapon. And right now, you don't know how to even hold yourself, let alone aim. You could have brought this entire wing of the stronghold down on our heads."
He reached out, not to hurt me, but to gently take my injured arm. His touch was surprisingly careful, his fingers tracing the path of the magical backlash. A shiver, entirely unwanted, traced its way up my spine. His touch was both a threat and a balm, a confusing contradiction that made my head ache.
"This magic… it's not just elemental anymore, is it?" he said, his voice softer now, more analytical. He wasn't mocking me anymore; he was genuinely fascinated, like a scientist studying a new, volatile element. "It's something else. Something tied to the moon, to emotions."
I froze. How could he possibly know that? My Moon Witch heritage was a secret Elara had guarded with her life.
As if reading my mind, he continued, his thumb gently stroking the skin of my forearm. The touch was hypnotic, and I had to fight to keep my focus. "I can feel it. Through the bond. When you're angry, it's a wild, chaotic storm. When you're scared… it's a sharp, brittle thing. And when you felt that… *pleasure*… on the balcony… it was a wave of pure, liquid silver." His gaze lifted from my arm to my eyes, and the intensity in his silver depths stole my breath. "What are you, Iris?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. He saw me. Not as a witch, not as a captive, but as a puzzle he was determined to solve. He saw the power that even I didn't fully understand. And in that moment, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't expected. Fear, yes. But also, a terrifying sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could help me understand it. Maybe he wasn't just my captor, but my only key.
The thought was so dangerous, so traitorous, that I immediately shoved it away. "I'm the witch who is going to figure out how to reverse this bond," I said, my voice cold and steady, pulling my arm from his grasp. "And then I'm going to watch this entire kingdom burn."
He slowly stood up, his expression unreadable once more. He looked down at me, a complex mix of frustration, grudging respect, and that ever-present, simmering desire warring in his eyes. "You can try," he said, his voice a low, dangerous challenge. "But everything you do, every spell you cast, every emotion you feel… you'll just be tying the knot tighter. You're mine, Iris. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can learn to control the incredible power you now wield."
He turned and walked back to the bar, leaving me sitting on the floor, my arm aching and my mind in turmoil. He was right. I hated it, but he was right. My magic was out of control. It was a danger to myself and everyone around me. And he, my captor, my tormentor, was the only one who could help me tame it.
I looked at the wall. The shield was still glowing, a steady, rhythmic pulse of silver and indigo light. It was a constant, visual reminder of my failure, of my new, infuriating dependence on him. It was a beautiful, intricate cage of my own making, and he held the key.
Pushing myself to my feet, I walked over to the bed. The silk nightgown felt like a flimsy armor against the reality of my situation. I was trapped. Not just by the bond, not just by the stone walls of this stronghold, but by my own volatile power. I needed a teacher. I needed a guide. And I was bound to the one man in the world I wanted to see destroyed.
I climbed into the huge bed, pulling the heavy furs over me. The mattress still held the faint, lingering scent of him. It was a constant, inescapable reminder of my new reality. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was the glowing shield, a testament to my chaotic magic and his absolute control over it. The final, crushing blow of the day was not the bite, or the wall pin, or Isolde's venomous games. It was the quiet, devastating realization that to survive, I wouldn't just have to accept the cage. I would have to learn to love the lock.