The Blood-Sharing Ritual is not what I expected.
I imagined something cold. Clinical. A sterile chamber with runes etched into stone, Oathweavers standing like sentinels, their masks hiding judgment. I thought it would be a test of endurance, of will, of loyalty. A transaction. A performance.
But the room is warm.
Not with fire, not with sunlight—those things burn vampire flesh—but with magic. The air hums, thick and golden, like honey poured over stone. The walls are carved from white marble veined with crimson, pulsing faintly, as if alive. At the center, a shallow basin of black obsidian holds a pool of liquid that isn’t water. It’s blood. Thick, dark, swirling with runes that glow like embers.
And Kaelen stands beside it, dressed in ceremonial black, his coat open at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his throat. His red eyes lock onto mine as I enter, escorted by two Oathweavers whose presence feels less like protection and more like prison.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I was thinking,” I reply, stepping forward.
“About?”
“How much I’d like to kill you.”
He smirks. Cold. Beautiful. “You’ve said that before. And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still bound to me.”
“The bond keeps me alive,” I say. “Not you.”
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “It’s not the bond.”
My pulse hammers.
The Oathweavers retreat, sealing the door behind them. The air shifts. The magic thickens. It’s just us now. No audience. No witnesses. Just the pulse of the blood in the basin, the slow, steady beat of my heart, and the heat of his gaze on my skin.
“This is not just a ritual,” he says. “It’s a test. Of trust. Of connection. Of the bond’s strength.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then the Council will declare the bond false. You’ll be executed for deception.”
“And you?”
“I’ll survive.” His voice drops. “But I won’t forgive you.”
My breath catches.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the torn edge of my dress—the one he ripped open during the public marking. The fabric still clings to me, the bodice gaping, the fresh bite above my heart exposed. He traces the mark with his thumb, and heat flares where he touches, spreading down my chest, coiling low in my belly.
“You wear my claim proudly,” he says.
“I wear it because I had no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not with you.”
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Then choose me now.”
Wetness blooms between my thighs. I hate it. I hate him.
But my body—
My body arches toward him, betraying me.
He feels it. Of course he does. His hand slides down, fingers pressing between my thighs. I gasp. He smirks.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “For me.”
“It’s the magic.”
“Then why doesn’t it happen with anyone else?”
I don’t answer.
He steps back, his voice turning formal. “Remove your dress.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
“The ritual requires skin-to-skin contact. Blood to blood. Heart to heart.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
I hesitate. My fingers tremble at the edge of the fabric. This isn’t just about the bond. It’s about power. About control. About him seeing me—naked, vulnerable, his.
But then I remember Maeve’s letter.
Your blood is not just witch. It is Fae. And it is his.
And I realize—
This isn’t a test of the bond.
It’s a test of me.
Can I let go? Can I surrender? Can I become what I came here to destroy?
Slowly, I lift my hands.
I unbutton the sleeves. Slide the fabric from my shoulders. Let it pool at my feet.
I stand before him in nothing but the marks he’s left on my skin—the bite above my heart, the sigil on my wrist, the twin punctures on my hip. My body is bare, exposed, trembling. But I don’t look away.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his red eyes burning, his chest rising and falling with something that isn’t breath—something deeper. Hunger. Need. Want.
Then, without a word, he begins to undress.
His coat falls first. Then his shirt. His boots. His trousers. Until he stands before me, naked, his body a sculpture of shadow and muscle, his cock thick and hard, already pulsing with need.
My breath hitches.
He sees it. Smirks.
“You’re not afraid,” he says. “You’re curious.”
“I’m not curious about you.”
“No?” He steps closer, his hand lifting to trace the sigil on my wrist. “Then why is your pulse racing? Why are your nipples tight? Why is your core clenching?”
I don’t answer.
He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “This ritual will bind us deeper than ever. It will flood you with my blood, my magic, my soul. And if you’re not ready—if your heart isn’t open—it will destroy you.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because the bond demands it. Because the Council demands it. Because I demand it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the bond will punish you. And I won’t stop it.”
My stomach tightens.
He steps into the basin, the blood rising to his ankles. Then he reaches for me.
“Come.”
I hesitate.
“Now,” he growls.
I step in.
The blood is warm. Thick. It clings to my skin like a second layer, seeping into every pore, every wound, every mark he’s left on me. It pulses with magic, a slow, steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The bond flares, a wave of heat that crashes through me, making my knees weak.
He pulls me against him, our bodies pressing together—skin to skin, heat to heat, blood to blood. His cock presses against my stomach, hard and insistent. His hands move over me—down my back, over my hips, gripping my ass and pulling me flush against him.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I do.
His red eyes burn into mine, not with possession, not with hunger—but with something deeper. Something real.
“This is not just a ritual,” he says. “This is a vow. A promise. A beginning.”
“I came here to destroy you,” I whisper.
“And I came here to destroy myself,” he says. “But then I saw you. And I realized—”
His lips brush mine. “—I don’t want to die. I want to live. With you.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
He bites me.
Not on the neck. Not on the wrist.
On the breast.
His fangs sink into the soft flesh just above my heart, deep and sharp, a claiming, a transfer. Pain rips through me, but it’s followed by something worse—something better. His blood floods into me, thick, dark, powerful. It burns, but it heals. It destroys, but it creates. It’s not just magic. It’s life.
I cry out, but he swallows the sound, his mouth moving over mine, his tongue sliding against my own, demanding surrender. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching with need.
And then—
I feel it.
Not just the blood.
Not just the magic.
But him.
His memories flood into me—centuries of silence, of control, of cold, empty nights. The weight of his father’s legacy. The fear of becoming the monster he swore he’d never be. The loneliness. The hunger. The way he’s waited—watched—for someone who could break through the ice.
And then—
Me.
My face in the Blood Garden. My defiance in the council. The way I fought him. The way I kissed him. The way I trembled in his arms when he carried me through the shadows.
And beneath it all—
Want.
Not just desire.
Need.
For me.
I gasp, jerking back, but he holds me tighter. “You feel it now,” he whispers. “You see me.”
“I don’t want to,” I breathe. “I don’t want to know you.”
“Too late.” His hand slides down, fingers pressing between my thighs. “You’re in my blood. You’re in my mind. And you’re never getting out.”
“I came here to destroy you,” I whisper.
“And I came here to destroy myself,” he says. “But then I saw you. And I realized—”
His lips brush mine. “—I don’t want to die. I want to live. With you.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because I can’t not.
My hands fist in his coat, pulling him closer, my mouth crashing against his, hard and deep and desperate. He groans, low in his chest, and takes control, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands moving over me—down my back, over my hips, gripping my ass and pulling me flush against him. I can feel every hard line of his body, the heat of him, the thick length of his cock pressing against my stomach.
And then—
He lifts me.
One arm under my thighs, the other around my back, he carries me to the edge of the basin, pressing me against the cold stone. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my core aching, needing. He grinds against me, the friction maddening, and I moan into his mouth, my fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my lips. “Say it.”
“Never,” I gasp, even as my hips roll against his.
He bites my lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. I cry out, but he swallows the sound, his tongue laving over the wound, his fangs grazing my skin. “You’re lying,” he murmurs. “Your body knows the truth.”
“It’s the magic,” I whisper. “It’s the ritual.”
“Then why does it only happen with you?”
I don’t answer.
He kisses me again, deeper, harder, until I’m breathless, until my knees weaken, until the world narrows to his mouth, his hands, his body against mine. His free hand slides under my dress, his fingers tracing the edge of my thigh, then higher—
And then—
A voice cuts through the haze.
“Enough.”
We freeze.
Kaelen pulls back slowly, his body still shielding mine, his arm still around my waist. I press my face into his chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body still trembling with need.
Malrik stands in the threshold, his silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, his eyes cold. Behind him, Oathweavers flank the entrance, their masks glinting.
“The ritual is complete,” he says. “The bond is proven.”
Kaelen looks at me, his red eyes burning. “You’re mine,” he says. “No matter what happens. No matter who comes. You’re mine.”
I don’t answer.
Because in the silence, beneath the hum of the bond, I hear it.
A whisper.
Not in my ears.
In my mind.
You’re already mine.
And for the first time—
I don’t hate it.
I don’t fight it.
I just… let it in.