The penthouse hummed with silence.
Dorian stood at the edge of the massive glass wall, eyes scanning the city like a wolf surveying his territory. From this height, the world looked manageable. Tame.
But something beneath his skin disagreed.
His reflection hovered in the glass—sharp cheekbones, eyes too pale, too knowing. The faintest glint of gold shimmered in his irises. A warning sign. A crack in the mask.
He had let her touch him.
Worse—he had wanted it.
Her fingers had been soft but deliberate, like she'd reached for him before. Like she knew the consequences.
He hadn't meant to bleed.
And yet, he had.
She'd taken the drop of blood like a thief, like a spellcaster gathering a sample for a ritual she hadn't earned.
And now she was marked.
He could feel it—the tug. Subtle. Invasive. Erotic in the most violent sense.
The bond wasn't complete. But it was alive.
And hungry.
He turned, walking back toward the oak desk dominating the center of his office. He moved like a man used to being obeyed—not questioned, not denied. But even so, he felt the pressure coiling low in his spine.
The wolf was awake.
Not out of control. Not yet.
But curious.
Too curious.
He pressed his thumb against the hidden lock in the desk. With a faint hiss, a drawer slid open, revealing a black notebook etched with sigils only a handful of witches could read.
The Registry.
He flipped it open. Pages fluttered like nervous wings until one stopped on its own, ink appearing across the parchment in lazy script.
Subject: Isadora Vale
Classification: Witchblood – Active
Lineage: Unknown
Allegiance: None
Contact: Physical – Initiated
Reaction: Unstable.
Bond: Latent. Breached. Unsealed.
He stared at the last line.
Unsealed.
Impossible. Bonds like this didn't just break open. They were forged through ritual, blood, consent—or war.
She had not consented.
Had she?
No. He would've felt that.
Which meant someone else had set this in motion.
And he would find out who.
But first… he had to decide what to do with her.
Kill her?
Tempting.
Mark her fully?
Tempting in another way entirely.
The way she'd looked at him. Cold, calculating—and yet flinching when their skin touched. Her magic had flared through her palm like a pulse. She'd fought it. But it was there.
She'd felt him, too.
He remembered how her breath had stuttered. The faint dilation of her pupils. Her nipples tightening beneath that silk blouse—not fear. Instinct.
Recognition.
A knock.
Low. Intentional.
He didn't move.
A moment later, the door creaked open and Tobias entered, eyes sharp beneath his thick-rimmed glasses.
"She made it home. No wards triggered," Tobias said. "But you knew that."
"I did," Dorian murmured. "She's dreaming about me."
Tobias froze. "How do you know?"
Dorian glanced toward the city again. "Because I'm dreaming about her."
---
Isadora bolted upright.
Sweat drenched her body, sheets tangled around her legs like a net. Her skin burned, her core pulsing as if someone had touched her in her sleep—inside a dream that felt far too real.
She gasped for air.
The scent still lingered.
Woodsmoke. Pine. Musk.
Him.
The memory was fragmented. Teeth. Warm hands. A growl that had rumbled through her bones.
She pushed herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, flicking on the light.
Her reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, bite marks blooming in the hollow of her neck.
She reached for one.
Not a dream.
She hadn't been bitten.
But she felt it.
Her body ached as if she had been taken and owned and claimed.
Magic had consequences. She knew that better than most. Every enchantment left residue. Every link could be traced. Reversed. Weaponized.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She was the one manipulating things. She had the plan.
But now?
Now she was tied to a man who wasn't just dangerous. He was ancient.
A predator who ruled the most powerful werewolf syndicate in the country—and maybe beyond.
She whispered a containment charm under her breath, drawing a sigil on the mirror's surface with the tip of her finger.
It glowed.
Then fizzled.
Whatever was happening between them… it was stronger than the veil of magic.
She leaned forward, pressing her palm against the glass.
"You don't get to win," she whispered. "I don't care what's between us."
But her reflection didn't agree.
Her reflection looked like a woman already claimed.
Already branded.
She stormed out of the bathroom and into the living room, pacing barefoot on cold wood floors, thinking. Calculating.
She couldn't afford this. She had spent years preparing to get close to Dorian Blackwood. Every disguise, every spell, every false identity had been precise. Perfect.
But now, he could feel her.
And worse—she could feel him.
A pull in her belly. A buzz in her teeth. A hunger that didn't belong to her, but also… did.
Was this what bonding felt like?
No.
This was something deeper. Older.
Prey recognizing the predator. And wanting it anyway.
She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.
This wasn't desire.
This was invasion.
Violation.
Or… maybe it was prophecy.
She laughed bitterly, collapsing onto the couch.
Of course the man she needed to destroy would be the one her body reacted to like this. Of course fate would mock her with heat and magic and aching fucking need.
She looked toward the window.
The city didn't know what was coming.
And neither, apparently, did she.