The ring burns on my finger.
Not literally—though if it could, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s cold, heavy, forged from something ancient and dark, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that matches the thrum of the bond beneath my ribs. I twist it, trying to make it feel less like a shackle, more like a weapon. But it doesn’t help. Every time I move, the stone catches the light, flashing gold for a split second—like fire. Like the Claim.
Like *him*.
I’m in the chamber they’ve prepared for the Trial of Bonding—a room deep within the northern wing of the Shadow Palace, warded against magic, sound, and escape. The walls are black stone, etched with runes that glow faintly blue when I step too close. The floor is polished obsidian, reflecting the dim candlelight in fractured shards. There’s a single bed—large, draped in black silk, pillows piled high, sheets turned down like an invitation. A mockery. A trap.
And across from it, Cassian stands.
He hasn’t touched me since the study. Not since I put on the ring. But he doesn’t have to. The bond hums between us, a live wire stretched taut, vibrating with every breath, every heartbeat. I can feel him—his presence, his hunger, the way his gaze lingers on the pulse at my throat. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how it affects me. How my skin tightens when he’s near. How my breath hitches when he speaks. How my body *aches* for something I refuse to name.
“The Trial begins now,” he says, voice low, controlled. “Seven days. We share this room. No physical contact. No blood exchange. No magic used to disrupt the bond.”
“And if we break the rules?”
“The wards will trigger. We’ll be separated. The bond will fester. And the Council will declare the Claim invalid—which means exile for you. Death, if you’re caught outside the Accord.”
I don’t flinch. “So it’s prison either way.”
“It’s survival.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “Deny the bond, and it will punish you. Fever. Hallucinations. Magic loss. You’ll be weak. Vulnerable. And in this world, weakness is a death sentence.”
“I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”
“Then you’ll die.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But not before you suffer.”
I swallow. The air between us is thick, charged—like before a storm. I can smell him: cold stone, winter pine, the faint metallic tang of blood beneath his skin. My mouth waters. Not from hunger. From something deeper. Something primal.
And worse—I *hate* that I notice.
“There’s a bathroom,” he says, gesturing to a door on the left. “Clothes have been provided. Meals will be delivered. You’ll have privacy when I’m asleep.”
“When are you asleep?”
“Vampires don’t sleep like humans.”
“No. You just stand in the shadows and brood.”
A flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Among other things.”
I turn away before I can react. Before I can wonder what *other things* means. Before I can imagine his hands on me, his mouth at my neck, the slow drag of fangs against skin—
No.
I won’t think about that.
I won’t *want* that.
“I need to change,” I say, voice clipped. “Get out.”
He doesn’t move. “The rules don’t require us to be out of sight of each other.”
“They require no physical contact. They don’t say I have to strip in front of you.”
“Then don’t strip.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stalling.” He crosses his arms. “The bond is already reacting. I can smell it—your pulse is elevated. Your magic is stirring. Every second you resist, it gets worse.”
I glance at my arm. The faint sigils from the Claim have returned—thin, golden lines tracing along my forearm, pulsing softly. I press my fingers against them. They burn. Not painfully. But insistently. Like a reminder.
Like a *claim*.
“Fine,” I snap. “Stay. But don’t expect me to perform.”
I unbutton my dress—black, elegant, borrowed for the gala—and let it slide to the floor. I’m wearing a slip beneath, thin silk, barely covering anything. I don’t care. Let him look. Let him see what he’ll never have.
But when I reach for the new gown laid out on the bed—a deep crimson thing with long sleeves and a high collar—I freeze.
Because the moment I step toward the bed, the sigils on my arm flare—bright, hot, *alive*. A wave of heat rolls through me, low in my belly, sharp between my thighs. My breath catches. My knees weaken.
“Vivienne.”
Cassian’s voice is rough. Not mocking. Not commanding. *Concerned*.
I don’t answer. I can’t. The heat is spreading, crawling under my skin, pooling in my core. My nipples tighten. My breath comes faster. My magic—buried, suppressed—surges, wild and uncontrolled.
And then—
I see him.
Not here. Not now.
In my *mind*.
Cassian, kneeling over me. His hands on my hips. His mouth at my neck. His fangs grazing my skin—*not to bite. To taste.* To worship. To claim in pleasure, not pain.
I gasp.
The vision vanishes.
But the heat remains.
“You’re not supposed to feel that,” I whisper, horrified.
“The bond amplifies desire,” he says, stepping closer. “Deny it, and it twists. It turns pleasure into pain. Need into sickness.”
“I don’t *desire* you.”
“Your body disagrees.”
“It’s the magic. The Claim. It’s *forcing* this.”
“Maybe.” He’s close now—too close. I can feel the heat of him, the pull of the bond, the way my body leans toward him despite myself. “Or maybe you’re just lying to yourself.”
“I hate you.”
“Then why does your heart race when I touch you?”
“Why does your breath catch when I look at you?”
“Why,” he murmurs, leaning in, his lips almost brushing my ear, “do you dream of my fangs at your throat?”
I jerk back. “I don’t—”
But I do.
Every night since the gala, I’ve dreamed of it. Of him. Of the slow, sensual drag of his mouth down my neck. Of the way my body arches into him, begging for more. Of the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.
And now—
It’s happening again.
The sigils burn hotter. The heat between my legs intensifies. My magic flares—golden light flickering across my skin, dying before it can fully form. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady myself.
“You need to rest,” Cassian says, voice low. “The bond is testing you. The first night is always the worst.”
“I don’t need *you* to tell me what I need.”
“No. But you’ll listen anyway.” He moves to the bed, pulls back the covers on one side. “Sleep. Or don’t. But don’t expect me to let you suffer just to prove a point.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The exhaustion is setting in—bone-deep, sudden. The feverish heat, the magic surge, the emotional toll—it’s all catching up to me. I stumble to the other side of the bed, crawl under the covers, and turn my back to him.
The mattress dips as he lies down.
So close.
Too close.
I can feel the heat of him. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath. The *pull* of the bond, relentless, insistent.
And then—silence.
Darkness.
Sleep.
Dreams come.
I’m on the bed. Naked. The room is dark, but for the flicker of candlelight. Cassian looms over me, dressed in black, his eyes crimson, his fangs bared. But he doesn’t look like a predator.
He looks like *mine*.
His hands slide up my thighs, slow, reverent. His mouth traces the line of my collarbone, then lower, to the peak of my breast. He doesn’t bite. He *licks*. Teases. Worships.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough with need. “So *mine*.”
I arch into him. Moan. Beg.
“Yes. Please. *Cassian*.”
His name on my lips—soft, desperate, *true*.
He kisses me then—deep, consuming, his tongue sliding against mine. One hand tangles in my hair. The other grips my hip, pulling me against him. I can feel his cock—hard, thick—pressing against my thigh. I grind against him, needing more, needing everything.
“I want you,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”
He growls. “Say it again.”
“I want you. I need you. *Please*.”
He lifts my leg, hooks it over his hip—
And then—
I wake.
Gasping.
Sweat-slicked.
Soaked between my thighs.
The dream was too real. Too vivid. Too *right*. My body thrums with unsatisfied need, my magic pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I press a hand between my legs, shame and arousal warring inside me.
And then—I feel it.
His gaze.
I turn.
Cassian is awake. Propped up on one elbow. Watching me.
His eyes are black. But the edges flicker crimson.
His fangs—just visible.
And his hand—resting low on his stomach, fingers curled like he’s holding back.
“You were dreaming,” he says, voice rough. “About me.”
“It was the bond,” I whisper. “It’s twisting my thoughts.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t look away. “Or maybe it’s showing you what you really want.”
“I want you dead.”
“You also want me inside you.”
I flush. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I can *smell* it.” He inhales slowly. “You’re drenched. Your magic is burning. Your pulse is racing. You’re *aching* for me.”
“It’s not real.”
“It’s *yours*.” He leans closer. “And if you don’t stop fighting it, you’re going to break.”
“I’d rather break than surrender.”
“Then break.” He lies back down, turning onto his side, facing me. “But know this—when you do, I’ll be here. And I won’t let you fall alone.”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Because in that moment, I believe him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
The next day passes in a haze of tension and denial.
We don’t speak much. We move around each other like ghosts, careful not to touch, not to linger. But the bond doesn’t care about space. It hums, constant, a low thrum beneath my skin. Every time I look at him, the sigils flare. Every time he speaks, my pulse jumps. Every time he breathes, my body responds.
Meals are delivered—bloodwine for him, enchanted tea for me to suppress magic. I drink it, but it doesn’t help. My power is rising, unbidden, drawn to the bond, to *him*. By evening, the sigils cover my arms, my collarbone, the dip of my spine. They glow faintly, pulsing with each beat of my heart.
And Cassian notices.
“They’re getting stronger,” he says, watching me as I pace the room. “Your magic. It’s responding to the Claim.”
“It’s not the Claim. It’s *me*.”
“You think you’re in control?” He stands, slow, deliberate. “You think this is your power?”
“It *is* my power.”
“Then why does it only appear when I touch you?”
Before I can react, he steps forward and grabs my wrist.
The moment his skin meets mine—
Fire.
Golden light erupts across my body, sigils blazing, magic surging. I cry out—half pain, half pleasure. My knees buckle. He catches me, pulling me against him, his arm around my waist.
“See?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “It’s *us*.”
I shove him back. “Don’t touch me!”
He doesn’t fight me. Lets me go. But his eyes—dark, hungry—never leave mine.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he says. “The bond will break you if you don’t surrender.”
“I’ll never surrender to you.”
“Then you’ll die.”
“Better than belonging to you.”
He smiles—cold, dangerous. “You already do.”
I turn away, heart pounding, body aching, magic burning beneath my skin.
And that night, I dream of him again.
This time, he bites me.
Not to kill.
Not to drain.
But to *claim*.
His fangs sink into my neck—sharp, deep—and instead of pain, I feel pleasure—white-hot, all-consuming. My body arches. My magic explodes—golden light filling the room, the bond blazing between us, *complete*.
And in the dream, I whisper—
“Yes. *Yes. Claim me.*”
I wake with a sob.
Tears on my cheeks.
The sigils on my skin glowing like embers.
And Cassian—watching me, silent, his eyes full of something I can’t name.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he says softly.
“I’ll never give in.”
“You already have.”
I don’t answer.
Because deep down—
I know he’s right.
The bond is winning.
And worse—
Part of me *wants* it to.