The ritual chamber is a tomb of glass and silence.
Not obsidian like the rest of the Spire—this room is built of clear, black-veined crystal, so dark it drinks the light. No sconces. No torches. Just the cold glow of moonlight filtering through the high, arched ceiling, painting silver streaks across the floor like veins in stone. The air is still. Thick. Heavy with the scent of old magic and something metallic—blood, maybe, or iron from the ancient runes carved into the walls.
And in the center, two chairs.
Simple. Stone. Facing each other. Connected by a single silver chain, coiled like a serpent between them.
I stand just inside the doorway, my breath shallow, my fingers curled into fists. The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent pulse in time with Kaelen’s heartbeat—steady, controlled, infuriating. He’s behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the pine and smoke of his skin. But he doesn’t touch me. Not yet.
“What is this?” I ask, voice low.
“The Binding Chamber,” he says. “Forced intimacy. Twelve hours of skin contact. Mandatory.”
My stomach drops. “You’re joking.”
“The council ordered it.” He steps past me, his boots echoing on the glass floor. “Said the bond needs stabilization. That we’re too volatile. Too unpredictable.”
“And they think chaining us together like animals will fix that?”
“They think it’ll force us to confront the bond. To accept it.”
I laugh—sharp, bitter. “I’d rather be flayed alive.”
He turns, his silver eyes catching the moonlight. “Then you’ll die in here.”
“Dramatic.”
“Accurate.” He gestures to the chairs. “Sit. Or I’ll make you.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to order me around.”
“I’m not ordering. I’m stating facts.” He moves to the nearest chair, sits, and rolls up the sleeves of his black tunic. “We’re here for twelve hours. No food. No water. No magic. No escape. And if either of us breaks contact for more than ten seconds—” he taps the chain between the chairs, “—this room floods with bond-disruptor gas. It’ll burn your lungs. Blind you. And if the bond fractures under the strain—” he meets my gaze, “—you’ll die screaming.”
My breath catches.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But the weight of it—the inevitability—settles over me like a shroud.
This isn’t just punishment.
It’s a test.
And Malrik knows exactly what he’s doing.
I don’t sit. Not yet. Instead, I walk the perimeter of the room, my fingers trailing over the runes carved into the walls. Old magic. Werewolf and vampire, woven together—protection, containment, amplification. This chamber wasn’t built for peace. It was built for control. To force fated pairs into submission, to break their will until the bond consumed them.
And now it’s our turn.
“You’re stalling,” Kaelen says.
“I’m assessing.”
“There’s nothing to assess. We sit. We hold hands. We survive.”
“And if I don’t want to survive with you?”
He stands, slow, deliberate. “Then you die. And I’ll be the one to bury you.”
Something in his voice—cold, final—makes me turn.
He’s not threatening.
He’s promising.
And worse—he means it.
I walk to the second chair and sit, my spine straight, my hands in my lap. The stone is cold beneath me, leaching the warmth from my body. Kaelen doesn’t move. Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
“Take off your gloves,” he says.
I frown. “What?”
“The ritual requires skin-to-skin contact. No barriers.”
My fingers curl around the soft leather of my gloves—thin, witch-forged, laced with sigils to dampen magic. I don’t want to take them off. Don’t want him to feel my pulse, my heat, the way my skin betrays me.
But I do.
Slowly, I peel them off, one finger at a time, letting them fall to the floor. My hands are bare now. Pale. Vulnerable. The truth-seeker’s sigil behind my ear still pulses faintly—proof of Malrik’s lies, proof of my defiance. But here? Now? It feels like a brand.
Kaelen reaches for the chain.
It uncoils, slithering across the floor like a living thing, until it wraps around his wrist. A click. A lock. Then it extends toward me, the other end open, waiting.
I don’t move.
“Sage.” His voice is low. Warned.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
“Then hate it with your eyes open.”
I exhale—sharp, ragged—and extend my hand.
The chain wraps around my wrist. Cold. Heavy. Final.
And then—
He reaches for me.
His hand—broad, calloused, warm—closes over mine.
Fire.
Not the searing pain of the bond’s first ignition, not the feverish agony of resistance. This is something else. Deeper. Duller. A slow, spreading heat that starts in my palm and floods up my arm, pooling in my chest, my stomach, the space between my thighs.
My breath hitches.
His thumb brushes my pulse point—once, twice—and the bond flares, a live wire under my skin. I try to pull away, but the chain holds me. The rules hold me. The magic holds me.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “You’re afraid of this.” He squeezes my hand, just slightly. “The bond. The truth. That no matter how much you hate me, your body knows what it wants.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
I glare at him, but I don’t let go. Can’t. The chain hums, alive, feeding on our connection. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, responding to the magic between us. And the longer we sit, the heavier the air becomes—charged, thick, suffocating.
Minutes pass.
No words. No movement. Just the rise and fall of our breath, the steady beat of our hearts, the slow, relentless press of heat building between us.
And then—
“Why did you save me?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t look at me. “What?”
“In the suite. When the bond-fever took me. You didn’t have to stabilize it. You could’ve let me suffer. Let me die.”
He finally turns, his silver eyes locking onto mine. “And let Malrik win? Let him claim the Alpha’s mate died under his watch? No.”
“That’s not why.”
“Then what do you want me to say, Sage? That I care? That I couldn’t stand seeing you in pain?” He leans in, his voice rough. “Fine. I care. Happy?”
My pulse stutters.
“Don’t play games with me,” I whisper. “You don’t get to say things like that and expect me to believe you.”
“I don’t expect you to believe me. I expect you to survive.”
“And what happens after that? After the ritual? After the claiming?”
“Then we see who’s left standing.”
I want to hate him.
Want to claw at his face, bite his throat, rip the bond from between us like a cursed thing. But his hand is warm in mine. His thumb still strokes my pulse. And the longer we sit, the harder it is to remember why I ever wanted to destroy him.
Another hour passes.
The moon shifts. The light moves. The heat between us grows—subtle, insidious, impossible to ignore. My skin feels too tight. My breath comes too fast. My thighs press together, trying to smother the ache building low in my belly.
And then—
“You’re not the only one who’s trapped,” he says suddenly.
I frown. “What?”
“This bond. It’s not just binding you. It’s binding me.” He looks down at our joined hands. “I haven’t touched a woman in seven years. Haven’t wanted to. And now—” his voice drops, “—I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to have you beneath me. To hear you scream my name.”
My breath catches.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Why not? It’s true.” He leans in, his voice a velvet threat. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your pulse jumps when I touch you? The way your body arches toward mine, even when you’re fighting it?”
“I hate you,” I say, but the words lack fire.
“Liar.”
And then—
His thumb strokes my palm.
Slow.
Sensual.
And the bond—God, the bond—flares like a star igniting in my chest.
I gasp.
My back arches.
Heat floods me, liquid and sweet, pooling between my legs. My fingers tighten around his, desperate, searching. His eyes flare silver. His breath hitches.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s not magic. That’s you.”
“Stop,” I pant.
“Make me.”
He does it again—slow, deliberate circles over my pulse point—and I whimper, a soft, broken sound that I can’t take back.
“You want me,” he growls. “Admit it.”
“No—”
“You’re wet for me. I can smell it.”
Shame floods me—hot, humiliating. I try to pull away, but he holds me tighter.
“Don’t,” I beg.
“Look at me.”
I do.
And in his eyes—no mockery. No cruelty. Just hunger. Raw. Unfiltered. And something else.
Need.
“I can’t stop this,” he says, voice rough. “And neither can you. So stop fighting it.”
“I won’t.”
“Then suffer.”
He doesn’t touch me again.
Doesn’t speak.
Just sits, his hand locked in mine, his thumb still brushing my skin, slow and relentless, stoking the fire between us until I’m trembling, until my breath comes in ragged gasps, until I’m so close to breaking I can taste it.
Hours pass.
The moon climbs. The light shifts. The bond hums, alive, insatiable.
And then—
“Riven was right,” I whisper.
Kaelen frowns. “What?”
“He said I smell like jealousy and want. That I’m torn between hating you and mounting you.”
A flicker in his eyes. Jealousy? “And what did you say?”
“I told him he was wrong.”
“And now?”
I look down at our hands—his large, scarred, mine small, pale, trembling. “Now I’m not so sure.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just squeezes my hand—once, gentle—and the gesture undoes me more than any threat, any touch, any word ever could.
Because it’s not dominance.
It’s comfort.
And I don’t know which terrifies me more.
The hours blur.
Time loses meaning. The world narrows to the press of his hand, the heat between us, the slow, relentless pull of the bond. I drift in and out of awareness—exhaustion, fever, desire all tangled together. At one point, I think I fall asleep, my head lolling forward, my body slumping. But he catches me—his free hand sliding to my back, holding me upright, his voice low in my ear.
“Stay with me.”
I don’t know if I’m awake or dreaming.
But I nod.
And when I open my eyes, his gaze is on me—dark, intense, unreadable.
“You’re not just a weapon,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not just a pawn. You’re—” he hesitates, “—you’re mine. And I’m starting to think that terrifies me more than it does you.”
My breath catches.
Before I can respond, the chain between us hums.
A soft chime echoes through the chamber.
The runes on the walls fade.
The moonlight shifts.
Twelve hours.
It’s over.
The chain retracts, releasing our wrists with a soft click. I pull my hand away like it’s been burned, cradling it against my chest. My palm still burns where he touched me. My skin still hums. My body still aches.
Kaelen stands, rolling down his sleeves, his expression unreadable. “Come on,” he says. “We’re done.”
I don’t move. “That’s it? No grand declaration? No claiming?”
“Not here. Not like this.” He offers his hand. “But soon.”
I ignore it, pushing myself up. My legs are weak. My head spins. But I walk past him, my spine straight, my jaw tight.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just follows.
And when we reach the door, he says, low, “I can feel your heart racing.”
I don’t turn. “It’s not fear.”
“No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”
I step into the corridor, the guards closing in behind us.
But I don’t feel free.
Because the truth is worse than chains.
Worse than lies.
Worse than war.
The truth is—
I wanted him to kiss me.
And that terrifies me most of all.