The corridor to Kaelen’s private wing feels like a descent into a tomb.
Black stone walls rise on either side, carved with runes that pulse faintly, like veins beneath skin. Torches burn with cold blue flame, casting long shadows that twist and writhe as we walk. The air is thick with silence—no whispers, no footsteps, no breath. Just the steady, maddening hum of the bond between us, a low thrum beneath my skin, like a second pulse.
I keep ten paces behind him. Not because I want to. Because the bond demands it. Any farther, and it pulls at my chest like a hook in my ribs. Any closer, and I feel him—too clearly. His presence. His heat. The way his magic curls around mine, testing, probing, *claiming*.
He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. Just walks, his boots silent on the stone, his coat sweeping behind him like a shroud. He’s not hurrying. He’s not even acknowledging me. It’s worse than if he were dragging me by the hair. This indifference—this *control*—is deliberate. A reminder: I am his. And he does not need to chase what already belongs to him.
My fingers brush the dagger at my thigh. Still there. Still hidden. Still useless. I can’t draw it. Not with the bond flaring every time I get near him. Not with the Oathweavers watching from the shadows, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight. One wrong move, and the bond will punish me before I even strike.
But I will find a way.
I always do.
We turn a corner, and the corridor narrows. The walls press in, the runes glowing brighter. My breath hitches. The air is colder here, sharper, like inhaling glass. I glance up—the ceiling is lined with black crystals, jagged and sharp, dripping with condensation that falls like slow, silver tears.
And then—
A flicker. A shift in the shadows.
I freeze.
Something moved. Not a guard. Not a servant. A ripple in the dark, like ink spilled in water. My magic flares instinctively, a low burn in my palms, but before I can react—
Kaelen stops.
He turns, slow, deliberate. His eyes meet mine. Red. Cold. Unreadable.
“Don’t scream,” he says.
And then the world dissolves.
Darkness swallows me. Not the absence of light—the *presence* of something else. A thick, liquid shadow, pouring from the walls, the floor, the air itself, wrapping around me like a living thing. I gasp, but there’s no air. No sound. No ground beneath my feet. I’m falling, drowning, being pulled apart and reassembled all at once.
And then—
I’m in his arms.
My body is pressed against his, my chest to his, my legs straddling his waist. His arms are locked around me, one hand splayed across my lower back, the other cradling my skull. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my lips. His eyes are no longer red. They’re black. Not just the pupils—his entire irises, like voids, like the space between stars.
“Shadow-walking,” he murmurs, his voice deeper, distorted, as if coming from everywhere at once. “Hold on.”
I try to push away, but my hands slide against his coat like it’s made of smoke. His grip tightens.
“I said—don’t. Scream.”
The shadows surge, and we’re moving. Not walking. Not flying. *Flowing*. The corridor blurs around us, the walls melting into streaks of black and blue. I can’t tell up from down. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I know is him—his body against mine, his heat, the hard line of his cock pressing into my thigh.
My breath catches.
No. No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t—
But it is.
My body *reacts*.
Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading, pooling between my thighs. My nipples tighten, aching against the fabric of my dress. My pulse hammers, not with fear—though there’s that, too—but with something darker. Something primal.
The bond flares, a surge of heat that races through me, and for one terrible second, I feel *him*—not just his body, but his mind. His control. His restraint. The way he’s holding himself back, the way he wants to bite me, to mark me, to *claim* me right here, in the dark.
And beneath it all—
Interest.
Not just lust. *Fascination*. As if I’m the first thing in centuries that’s made him pause. The first thing that’s made him *curious*.
I tear my gaze away, pressing my face into his chest. His coat is cold, but his body is hot—too hot. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow, like a war drum. I can smell him now—cold stone, old wine, and something else. Something dark and sweet, like blood left in the sun.
“You’re trembling,” he says, his voice a rumble in his chest.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I lie.
He laughs—low, quiet, dangerous. “You should be.”
The shadows shift, and suddenly, we’re *there*.
His private wing.
The room is vast, domed, lit by a single chandelier of black crystal that hangs from the ceiling like a frozen storm. The walls are lined with bookshelves carved from bone, the spines of the tomes etched in blood-red script. A fireplace burns with blue flame, casting long, flickering shadows. The floor is polished obsidian, reflecting the room like a dark mirror.
And in the center—a bed.
Massive. Canopied in black silk. The posts are carved with wolves, their mouths open in silent howls.
Kaelen sets me down slowly, his hands lingering on my waist. I step back, my legs unsteady. The bond hums, weaker here, but still present. A constant reminder: I am not free.
He steps out of the shadows, his form solidifying, his eyes returning to their unnatural red. He looks at me—really looks—and I see it again. That flicker. Not hatred. Not cruelty. Assessment.
Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“This is your room,” he says, gesturing to a door on the left.
I glance at it. Small. Plain. Nothing like the opulence of the rest of the wing.
“I’ll sleep here,” I say, nodding toward the bed. “You can take the dungeon.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react. Just steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
“You’ll sleep in your room,” he says, voice low. “With the door open.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re not serious.”
“I don’t joke.”
“This is a violation.”
“You’re in my home. My rules.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“Aren’t you?”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing my wrist, tracing the sigil of the bond. Heat flares where he touches, spreading up my arm, coiling low in my belly. I jerk away, but he catches my hand, pulling me close.
“The bond is weak,” he says. “It needs blood. Proximity. *Touch*.”
“Then break it.”
“I could,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “But I don’t want to.”
My heart stutters.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” His free hand slides to my hip, fingers pressing through the fabric of my dress. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your body responds to me? The way your breath changes when I touch you?”
“It’s the bond,” I snap. “It’s magic. It’s not real.”
“Then why does it only happen with you?”
I freeze.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Every other woman I’ve touched—witch, fae, vampire—nothing. Ice. Emptiness. But you—”
His teeth graze my earlobe. I gasp.
“—you *burn*.”
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 tightens on my hip, 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.
“You want to deny it,” he whispers. “But your body knows the truth. You’re mine. And you’re going to learn to like it.”
I slap him.
Not with magic. Not with venom. Just my bare hand, cracking across his face with a sound like thunder.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then, slowly, he turns his head back to me, his cheek already healing, the red mark fading.
And he *smiles*.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A real smile. Cold. Beautiful. Terrifying.
“Good,” he says. “Fight me. I like it when you fight.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
He steps back, releasing me. “Go. Rest. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
“The trial,” he says, turning toward the door. “Seven nights. Seven days. Blood. Truth. *Us*.”
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me.
“And Lavender?”
I don’t answer.
“Don’t try to run. The bond will find you. And when it does—”
His eyes flash red.
“—I won’t be gentle.”
The door closes behind him.
Silence.
I stand there, trembling, my skin still burning where he touched me. My body still aching. My mind racing.
I can’t stay here. I can’t let this bond take hold. I can’t let him—
But the truth is—
I’m already falling.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want to stop.
I force myself to move, stumbling toward the small room. The door is open, just as he said. I don’t close it. I don’t even look at the bed. I go straight to the window—narrow, barred, looking out over the gardens below.
Freedom. So close. And yet—
I press my palm to the glass. Cold. Solid. Like everything in this place.
My other hand drifts to my ear, where his teeth grazed me. The skin is still warm. Still tingling.
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since I walked into this cursed court—
I let myself wonder.
What if I don’t destroy him?
What if he destroys me first?
And what if—
—I don’t mind?
No.
I won’t think like that.
I am Lavender. Daughter of Elara. Witch of the North.
I came here to break the Blood Vow.
To free my mother.
To make Kaelen suffer.
And I will.
No matter what this bond tries to make me feel.
No matter how much my body betrays me.
No matter how much I—
I stop.
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.
I open my eyes.
The window reflects the room behind me.
And in the glass—
For just a second—
I see him.
Standing in the shadows.
Watching me.
Smiling.
And I know—
He’s not just in my head.
He’s in my blood.
And he’s never letting go.