The door slams shut behind us, sealing with a heavy *clunk* that echoes through the stone chamber like a tomb closing. I flinch, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. The room is vast—high vaulted ceilings, walls of black granite veined with silver, torches flickering in wolf-shaped sconces. A fire burns low in a hearth large enough to roast a horse. To the right, a massive bed draped in dark furs. To the left, a sitting area with low tables and plush cushions. A private bath beyond an arched doorway, steam already curling into the air.
Homey. For a prison.
Kaelen doesn’t look at me. He strides to the far end of the room, boots echoing, and yanks open a cabinet. A bottle of amber liquid. Two goblets. He pours without asking, hands one to me.
“Drink,” he says.
I don’t move. “Is it poisoned?”
He snorts. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need poison.”
“Then why offer it?”
“Because the bond is screaming,” he snaps, voice low, strained. “And you’re trembling like a cornered rabbit. Drink. It’ll dull the edge.”
I stare at him. His jaw is clenched. A muscle ticks in his temple. His fingers grip the goblet so tight the silver rim bends. And I feel it—again—that pull, like an invisible thread connecting our chests, tugging, tightening. My skin prickles. My breath comes faster.
He’s not lying.
The bond *is* screaming.
It’s not just in my head. It’s in my blood, in my bones, a low, insistent hum that rises whenever he’s near. Like a second heartbeat. Like a hunger I can’t name.
I take the goblet.
The liquid is thick, smoky, burns all the way down. Not human alcohol. Lupari brew. Moon-whiskey, maybe. Or blood-infused. I don’t care. I need the fire in my veins to drown out the other fire—the one clawing up from my core.
He watches me drink, eyes narrowed. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Disappointed?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend. “I’d be thrilled to disappoint you further.”
“You’re not weak,” he says, ignoring my jab. “You didn’t collapse. Didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. Most would’ve broken by now.”
“Most aren’t trained to survive,” I say. “Most didn’t lose everything before they turned thirteen.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Your mother.”
I freeze. The fire in my throat turns to ice. “Don’t say her name.”
“You saw her,” he says quietly. “In the bond flash. She was protecting me.”
“Liar,” I hiss. “She died because of you.”
“Then why was she casting a shield spell *around* me?”
I open my mouth. Close it. The vision flashes in my mind—my mother, arms raised, light erupting from her palms, her body arched in front of a collapsing Kaelen—
No.
It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she was trying to finish him off. Maybe it was reflex. Maybe—
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, stepping back. “You don’t know *her*.”
“I know she died for me,” he says, voice rough. “And I’ve carried that guilt for eighteen years.”
My breath catches.
Eighteen years.
The Hollow burned eighteen years ago.
He’s saying he’s known about her. About *me*. All this time?
Before I can respond, the bond surges.
It hits like a wave—heat, pressure, a sudden, dizzying need to *move*, to *touch*, to *close the distance*. My knees buckle. I grab the edge of a table to stay upright.
Kaelen staggers too. His goblet clatters to the floor. He braces a hand against the wall, head bowed, breath coming in sharp bursts.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Not now.”
“What—what is this?” I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart is slamming against my ribs. My skin feels too tight. My blood is on fire.
“Bond-sickness,” he growls. “The longer we deny it, the worse it gets. Shared pain. Shared heat. Shared *need*.”
“Need for what?”
He lifts his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. His voice drops, rough, dangerous.
“You know what.”
I do.
Consummation.
The bond demands it. Seven days. Or death.
And right now, my body is screaming for it.
I take another step back. Then another. My back hits the door. Nowhere else to go.
Kaelen pushes off the wall. He doesn’t rush. He walks toward me like a predator who knows the prey can’t escape. Each step makes the pull worse. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my robes. My thighs press together, trying to ease the ache between them.
He stops an arm’s length away. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to smell him—pine, smoke, and something wild, feral. *Lupari.*
“You can fight it,” he says, voice low. “But it’ll only get worse. The bond doesn’t care about your revenge. It doesn’t care about your hate. It only knows *this*.”
He reaches out.
I flinch, but he doesn’t touch me. His hand hovers over my wrist, over the mark—the crescent moon wrapped in thorns. It pulses, black and hot.
“It’s part of you now,” he says. “Just like it’s part of me.”
“I’d rather die than let it win,” I whisper.
“Then die,” he says. “But you’ll die *wanting* me.”
His words hit me like a slap.
And then—
He turns and walks away.
I sag against the door, trembling. The heat recedes slightly, but the ache remains. A dull, throbbing need. Humiliating.
He’s in the bedroom now, pulling off his armor, piece by piece. The clink of metal. The rustle of fabric. I should move. Should claim the other side of the suite. Should put space between us.
But my legs won’t obey.
Instead, I watch.
He’s all hard lines and coiled power. Broad shoulders, thick arms corded with muscle. His back is a map of scars—old wounds, battle marks, the raised flesh of claw and fang. He pulls off his tunic, revealing a chest carved from stone, dusted with dark hair, tapering down—
I look away.
But not fast enough.
He turns. Sees me watching.
A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips.
“Like what you see?”
“I was checking for more lies,” I snap. “Turns out, your body’s as full of them as your mouth.”
He laughs—low, dark, dangerous. “You’ll have to get closer to check properly.”
“I’d rather gouge out my eyes.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping toward me. “You’re breathing faster. Your pulse is racing. And your scent—” He inhales deeply. “—is driving me insane.”
My face burns. “You don’t get to smell me.”
“The bond does,” he says. “And right now, you smell like rain and iron. Like magic. Like *mine*.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Not yet,” he says. “But you will be.”
I turn to leave, but he’s faster.
In one fluid motion, he scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and *carries* me over the threshold of the bedroom.
“Put me down!” I thrash, punching at his chest. “I said don’t touch me!”
He doesn’t react. Just adjusts his grip, holding me tighter. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist to keep from falling. My arms press against his chest—hard, hot, *alive*.
And then I feel it.
Through the layers of fabric—my robes, his pants—his cock, thick and heavy, pressing against my core.
I freeze.
So does he.
Our eyes lock.
His breath hitches.
Mine stops.
The bond surges—hot, electric, *unbearable*. My body arches toward him without my permission. My hips shift, grinding down, just slightly—
And he groans.
Low. Deep. Primal.
It vibrates through his chest, into my hands, down into my core.
“Blair,” he breathes. “*Fuck*.”
I shove at him, scrambling to get free. He sets me down slowly, deliberately, letting my body slide down his until my feet touch the floor. His hand lingers on my hip. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“You felt that,” he says. “You *wanted* it.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, but my voice trembles.
“No,” he says. “You hate that you want me.”
He steps back. Leaves me standing there, shaking, humiliated, my body still humming with the echo of his touch.
“Sleep,” he says. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
He turns, walks to the far side of the room, and lies down on the bed, back to me.
I don’t move. Can’t.
My skin is on fire. My core aches. My fingers tremble.
I look at the bed. At him. At the space between us.
Seven days.
Seven days of this.
Of the bond. Of the heat. Of *him*.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together.
I came here to kill him.
Now I’m trapped with him.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want to kill him more—
Or kiss him.
The fire crackles. The torches flicker. The bond hums, low and constant, like a promise.
Like a threat.
I don’t sleep.
I watch the shadows. Count the breaths. Feel the pull.
And when dawn finally bleeds through the high, narrow windows, I’m still standing there.
Still fighting.
Still losing.
Kaelen stirs. Rolls onto his back. His eyes open. Find mine.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says.
“Neither did you,” I say.
A ghost of a smile. “Couldn’t. You were watching me.”
“I was making sure you didn’t sneak up on me.”
“I don’t need to sneak,” he says. “The bond brings me to you. Every time.”
I turn away. “We need to talk about the Council’s order.”
“Seven days,” he says. “To consummate. Or die.”
“We’re not doing it.”
“Then we die.”
“Fine.”
He sits up. “You’re serious.”
“I came here to kill you,” I say, turning back. “If dying with you is the price, I’ll pay it.”
He studies me. “And your mother’s legacy? The Hybrid Tribunal? You’ll let it die with you?”
My breath catches.
He knows.
He *knows* why I’m here.
“You’ve been watching me,” I say.
“Since the moment you entered Nocturne,” he admits. “I knew who you were. What you wanted.”
“Then why let me get this close?”
“Because I needed you to see the truth,” he says. “Not just in the bond. In *me*.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That I didn’t kill her,” he says, voice raw. “That I would’ve died for her. That I’ve spent eighteen years trying to finish what she started—protecting the hybrids. Quietly. From the shadows.”
I stare at him.
Liar. Manipulator. Monster.
But his eyes—
They’re not lying.
And the bond—
It hums, steady, true.
For the first time, doubt cracks through my certainty.
What if he’s telling the truth?
What if my entire mission—my revenge, my purpose—is built on a lie?
The thought terrifies me more than the bond ever could.
Because if I’m wrong—
Then I don’t know who I am.
Kaelen stands. Walks to me. Stops just short of touching.
“We don’t have to consummate it,” he says. “Not yet. But we can’t ignore the bond. It’ll tear us apart. And if we’re weak, the Council will use it against us.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We play the part,” he says. “Appear together. Share quarters. Let them think we’re giving in. But we wait. We find the truth. Together.”
“Together?” I laugh, sharp, bitter. “You expect me to trust you?”
“No,” he says. “But I expect you to be smart. And right now, the smartest thing you can do is survive.”
I look at him. At the mark on my wrist. At the fire in the hearth.
Seven days.
Seven days to decide.
Revenge.
Or truth.
Or something worse.
Something I can’t name.
Something that feels too much like desire.