Dion's POV
The sun had long risen, casting golden light across the mossy walls of the glade, but Therrin hadn't stirred.
Dion had kissed her shoulder, her cheek, the soft space beneath her ear. He'd murmured her name until his voice grew hoarse. But she remained asleep, her body warm against him, her brow slightly furrowed.
"Therrin," he whispered again, lips brushing her temple. "Come back to me."
Nothing.
Then, without warning, her body jerked violently. A sharp cry tore from her throat, and she began to tremble, limbs twitching, fingers curling into the vines beneath them.
Dion sat up, heart punching his ribs. "Therrin—? Therrin!"
She gasped—eyes fluttering open—but they were unfocused, glassy. Her lips were parted slightly, a sheen of sweat above her upper lip. And gods, her scent. Thick, sultry. Ripe with desire.
She was awake now.
But she wasn't… present.
He brushed her hair back. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she whispered.
Liar.
Her thighs clenched together, and Dion felt the flare of heat pulse from between her legs. His hand ghosted over her stomach, down, needing to taste her, to soothe her with his mouth.
But when he parted her legs—he stilled.
The mark.
It stared up at him, carved in elegant black ink across her soft flesh, curling over her mound like a brand.
Ciaran.
Not in symbols. Not runes. His name.
Rage spiraled through Dion's chest. "What the hell did he do to you…"
His magic surged instinctively, swirling in his palms, seeking to undo the binding. To erase the possessive claim scorched into her skin.
The moment his power touched the mark—agony lanced through him.
Dion roared, collapsing forward, hands catching the ground before his face hit the vines. His skin blistered, veins blackening, magic draining from him in waves.
"No—no—" He tried again, tried to peel it away, to unmake it.
And the shadows responded.
Not to him.
To her.
They pulsed beneath her skin—inside her. A dark, sinuous movement between her thighs. Her head fell back, mouth parting in a gasp of pleasure.
"Ciaran—please…"
He froze.
She was begging.
But not for him.
Still, he couldn't stop. He needed to touch her. Needed her to feel something other than Ciaran's damn spell. He pressed kisses to her hips, her thighs, worshipful, desperate. His mouth hovered over her center, lips brushing heat.
And the shadows surged up, a barrier of living black tendrils that wrapped around her folds like a velvet cage. He tried to push through with magic again—and was thrown back.
This time it didn't wound him.
It mocked him.
His magic fed the shadows. Every attempt made them stronger, thicker, pulsing visibly inside her. Therrin whimpered, trembling with unbearable pleasure.
"Please… please…"
"I can't," Dion choked, voice raw. "I want to—gods, I need to—but I can't—"
The shadows twisted tighter. Dion's hands gripped her hips, trying to give her anything, even if it was shallow. Even if it was just friction. But the magic made it maddening—like teasing the edge of climax with no escape.
Then—
He felt it.
A pulse of magic. Cold and cruel.
The shadows thickened into a second heartbeat.
And then he arrived.
Ciaran.
Dion's body was thrown back with a single snap of invisible power. His limbs locked in place—bound, hovering in the air, arms pinned wide like a broken angel above the forest floor.
Ciaran stepped from the shadows, clothed in little more than a smirk and smoke. His gaze went straight to Therrin—flushed, panting, desperate.
"I heard her call," he said simply. "And you, trying so hard to give her what's not yours."
Dion snarled, fighting against the binding. "You bastard—"
Ciaran ignored him. He knelt between her thighs, stroking a hand down her trembling body.
Therrin's eyes widened this time. She could see him now. Her breathing hitched.
"You're awake," Ciaran murmured, brushing her bottom lip with his thumb. "Good. I want you to see this."
She didn't speak—but she didn't stop him either. Her thighs parted further.
Ciaran leaned close to her ear. "You'll make him watch. You'll let him see what it means to be mine."
And Dion did watch.
He watched as her body trembled, as the shadows moved with each of Ciaran's touches. He watched her respond, her pleasure intensifying just from being seen, from being claimed where he couldn't reach her.
It was torture.
And it wasn't over yet.
Therrin's voice trembled, her skin glistening, and her breaths came in tiny, shame-laced gasps.
"I'm desperate. But I can't stop feeling it. And you can't help me."
Dion's lungs stopped working.
He wanted to rip the shadows apart, wanted to break every bond that held her down, that forced her to speak those words. But the worst part—the part that gutted him—was that he believed her. Not because she meant to hurt him, but because her body was betraying her. Shaking with need. Straining toward Ciaran.
Ciaran tilted his head slightly, brushing his knuckles along the mark already inked into her skin—his name, curved in elegant black just above her core.
And then—
The mark flared.
Not just with light—but with power. It pulsed, a wicked rhythm, a heartbeat of shadow that burst through the space like a silent scream.
Therrin gasped—and arched off the ground.
Dion's knees buckled under the force of it. The magic struck him like a wave, coating his skin with heat, with need. Sweat pearled at his temples, ran down his neck and chest. His teeth clenched as a groan ripped from him, primal and involuntary.
It wasn't for him. This magic wasn't his—but it recognized his bond to her, twisted it, fed on it.
Therrin cried out beneath Ciaran, eyes wide and unfocused. Her hands grasped the air, nails digging into her own skin.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't—"
Dion tried to move. Tried to break the spell.
The invisible bindings only tightened, digging into his limbs like thorns, drawing blood. But worse—the more he tried, the stronger the shadows grew.
The mark pulsed again.
Therrin screamed this time. Her body convulsed with pleasure that looked like pain, her legs trembling violently as Ciaran merely sat beside her, hand resting lightly on her thigh, unmoving.
"You feel it, don't you?" Ciaran murmured to Dion, not even sparing him a glance. "It's not just hers. You're bonded. Her body calls to yours. Craves yours. But you can't answer, can you?"
Dion growled, fighting the magic with everything in him.
The power surged again.
And Therrin—her back arched so high she nearly left the ground—let out a breathless, broken moan.
Ciaran smiled.
"She's mine where it matters. No matter how gently you touch her, no matter how sweetly you speak—her core answers only to me now."
And Dion—dripping with sweat, shaking with fury and lust he couldn't relieve—could only stand there.
Unable to touch her.
Unable to help her.
Unable to stop it.
Therrin was trembling.
Her moans were nearly soundless now, her throat raw from how violently her body reacted to the spell still winding through her like smoke and chains. She wasn't even touching herself. Ciaran wasn't touching her either.
It was the mark.
That damned mark pulsing on her skin—dark magic seething in every beat—responding only to Ciaran's presence and will. Shadows coiled between her thighs, moving of their own accord, slick and writhing.
Dion's muscles locked.
He could smell her arousal thick in the air, feel the magic pulsing from her like waves of heated wind.
And he was still bound.
Still helpless.
Still watching.
Ciaran knelt beside her now, brushing her hair from her damp face, his voice honeyed and cruel. "There she is," he purred. "Beautiful and ruined… just the way I like her."
He leaned down, lips barely grazing her temple.
"Say it again," he whispered, loud enough for Dion to hear. "Say how I make you feel."
Therrin whimpered.
"Say it. Loud, pet. Let your sweet little mate hear every filthy word you're about to say."
Her lips parted, breath trembling.
"You… you make my body ache. You make it hard to think."
Ciaran clicked his tongue and dragged one finger along the edge of the mark. The shadows surged inside her again.
"Too tame. Again."
She cried out. Her voice pitched higher.
"You make me burn," she choked out. "It's too much—I can't breathe—"
"Closer," Ciaran said darkly. "You're almost there. What does it feel like… here?" His palm hovered over the mark, his magic coaxing the shadows to dance more fiercely inside her.
She sobbed.
"Like lightning. Like I'm being claimed. Like nothing else has ever touched me right before."
Ciaran smirked.
Dion's vision blurred.
The bond between them was crackling like fire, feeding him her need, her helplessness, her betrayal and her shame. And he couldn't look away.
"She's honest when she's like this," Ciaran murmured, flicking his gaze toward Dion without a trace of guilt. "No filters. No lies. Just raw, hungry truth."
He leaned down again, brushing his lips along her ear.
"Tell your mate what you're thinking right now."
Therrin's hands fisted in the sheets, her legs trembling.
"I want more," she breathed, broken and humiliated. "Gods… I want it so bad, I can't think."
Dion's jaw clenched, pain screaming through his chest.
Ciaran looked directly at him, lips curling.
"She aches for me," he said, voice velvet and venom. "Even with you watching."
He bent lower, voice a ghost of heat on her skin.
"You'll never touch her like this, Dion," he whispered. "Not where it counts. She's mine now. And her body knows it."
Therrin moaned again, hips lifting off the bed, her body fully succumbing to the rhythm of shadows.
The mark flared.
And Dion stood there—powerless—burning with jealousy, rage… and something darker he didn't dare name.
The air thickened.
The moment Ciaran finally touched her, everything changed. It wasn't a soft caress, not a gentle teasing. His fingers found the curve of her waist first, then trailed lower with wicked reverence, like he was savoring his own power.
Therrin gasped — a sound Dion had never heard from her before. Not like this. Not from his touch.
A trembling sob wracked her chest.
"Oh gods," she whispered.
Ciaran smiled. "Tell him, pet. Tell your precious mate what I just did to you."
Therrin's eyes fluttered open for a breathless moment, but not toward Dion. Her gaze remained dazed, locked inward, wrung tight between desire and shame.
"He touched me," she murmured.
Ciaran clicked his tongue. "No, no. Try again. Use real words. Vivid ones. He deserves the truth, doesn't he?"
She whimpered, hips shifting as the shadows coiled deeper within her, reacting to his touch like they knew his rhythm.
"His fingers…" she gasped. "They're like fire. They make the shadows worse—deeper. I feel so full, I can't—"
Ciaran leaned in again, teeth grazing her jaw. "Tell him how it feels when I press right here—"
She arched violently.
Dion couldn't breathe.
Every word spilling from her lips was dragging him through hell, his hands clenched so tight in his binds he swore he tasted blood.
"And now…" Ciaran purred, one hand spreading lower, deliberate and slow, "…what are you thinking, knowing your sweet, loyal mate is forced to watch?"
Therrin's breath caught.
Her body trembled again.
And when she spoke, it shattered Dion.
"It makes it worse," she confessed, voice laced with unbearable need. "Knowing he sees me like this. That he can't stop it. That he's watching me fall apart under someone else."
Ciaran groaned with pleasure, as if her words fed him.
He pressed his mouth to her neck, then looked up at Dion with dark, gleaming eyes. "She's honest now. Raw. Open. There's no room for guilt here, is there?"
He cupped her chin, making her look at Dion—really look.
"Let him see you," he whispered. "Let him witness every second you come undone for me."
The shadows pulsed faster.
The mark glowed.
And Therrin's expression — wide-eyed, glassy, drowning — twisted something deep inside Dion. Something primal. Something broken.