Violet had made it exactly three hours without acknowledging she was sharing a cursed, one-bedroom apartment with the most sexually repressed werewolf in North America.
Which, frankly, was impressive.
She'd hidden in her office nook, warded herself behind a privacy spell, and buried her face in backlogged curse requests. She rejected a love hex that required goat teeth. Approved a self-confidence charm involving glitter and Beyoncé lyrics. Ignored a text from Rhys that just said "you looked hot last night 👀".
She was fine.
Totally.
And then she smelled cinnamon.
She poked her head out of her spell circle like a gremlin in pajamas.
From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of... whisking.
She crept out, careful not to wake the bed (which snored gently when ignored), and paused at the doorway.
Lucien was shirtless.
Not in a sexy, intentional way—more in a "I got hot mixing batter and now I'm a danger to society" kind of way.
His hair was a little messy. There was flour on his forearm. And frosting on his finger.
Which he licked off, slow and absentminded.
Violet made a strangled noise like someone being hexed mid-sneeze.
Lucien turned.
She looked up, eyes wide, caught between shame and thirst.
He blinked. "Hungry?"
"I—no—I mean, yes, but not—" She inhaled. Regrouped. "Why are you baking at midnight like a tragic French housewife?"
He shrugged. "I stress-bake. Helps when I'm... frustrated."
She stared at him.
"Frustrated," she echoed, voice cracking slightly.
"I meant emotionally," he said quickly. "Not—moon stuff."
"Oh great," she said, turning around and walking into a wall. "Now you're emotionally baking with abs."
"Want a croissant?"
"Not if it's made of sexual repression and supernatural pheromones."
He passed her a plate anyway.
She took it.
"I didn't say no."
---
They sat across from each other at the kitchen island, tension thick enough to chew.
Lucien took a bite of croissant. "So. Ground rules?"
Violet chewed. "No eye contact before 10am. No nudity unless cursed. No emotionally vulnerable compliments unless death is imminent."
"Seems fair."
"Also, no mutual orgasms, or the moon explodes."
Lucien choked slightly. "Explodes?"
"I mean, probably just quakes and wildfires, but still. Let's not test it."
A soft hum interrupted them.
Her magical alert orb—pale blue, floating near the window—flickered.
Then: a polite voice.
"Warning: Unstable arousal spike detected in District 7. Localized tremors likely. Please refrain from heavy breathing, flirtatious eye contact, or emotionally loaded glances. Thank you."
Lucien slowly looked at Violet.
"I don't think I breathed."
"I glared at your abs."
"Fair."
Outside, something rumbled faintly.
Violet put her croissant down.
"Okay," she said. "New rule."
Lucien raised a brow.
She pointed a threatening finger. "No more shirtless carbs."
They barely had time to clean the croissant crumbs when the walls shimmered.
A ripple of energy spread across the apartment like a judgmental sigh.
Violet looked up. "Oh no."
Lucien appeared from the bathroom, now mercifully wearing a shirt.
"What now?"
Before she could answer, the entire airspace above their coffee table folded inward like someone was zipping open reality.
Out of the glowing rift stepped a magical bureaucrat in a pantsuit so sharp it could slice fruit.
She was tall, silver-haired, and floated six inches off the floor—either because of power, arrogance, or bunion avoidance.
"Violet Amari. Lucien Drake. I'm Inquisitor Danelle from the Office of Magical Integrity."
Violet groaned. "Oh gods, a Council auditor?"
"Due to the Class 3 Moonbind event, a compliance inspection has been issued. Please do not attempt to flirt, resist, or bribe me. The moon is watching."
Lucien raised a hand, slow and polite. "Is the moon... always watching?"
Danelle stared at him with deadpan gravity.
"The moon is the binding witness. It is always watching. Sometimes judging. Occasionally narrating."
Violet muttered, "So that's what that whisper was last night."
Danelle floated past them, unfolding a glowing tablet that sparkled with council runes.
"Your bond status is currently marked 'volatile.' Side effects noted: shared emotional resonance, psychic tethering, and geo-erotic backlash. Before we proceed to diagnostics, I'll need to ask a few questions."
Violet sighed. "Can't we just sign a waiver saying it was a mistake and we hate each other?"
"No," Danelle said sweetly. "This isn't a parking ticket. This is an ancient soul-binding ritual. Which you performed under a celestial blood moon. While drunk. In a cemetery."
Lucien winced. "It sounds worse when you say it like that."
Danelle turned to him, unimpressed. "Do you currently feel... romantically or erotically drawn to your bondmate?"
Violet choked on air.
Lucien opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I... I mean, I'm aware of her. Physically."
"Oh my gods," Violet muttered.
"She's... intense."
"You're not helping."
"Also very competent," he added. "Emotionally terrifying, but magnetic."
Danelle tapped her tablet. "So. Yes."
Lucien cleared his throat. "It's a complex yes."
Violet stood up, pointing an accusatory croissant. "You're answering too honestly. That's suspicious."
Danelle turned to her. "And you, Ms. Amari. Are you experiencing signs of emotional resonance? Sudden empathy? Physical attraction? Nighttime dreams involving intimate scenarios or metaphorical fruit?"
Violet froze. "...What kind of fruit?"
"Symbolic fruit."
"I plead the fifth."
"This isn't mortal court."
"Then I plead the sexy peach emoji."
Lucien buried his face in his hands.
Danelle sighed like someone used to dealing with deeply repressed idiots in love. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a silver orb, placed it between them, and chanted a diagnostic spell.
The orb pulsed... then glowed bright pink.
Lucien blinked. "What's that mean?"
"Magical tension: Elevated. Compatibility: 97%. Denial Level: Dangerous."
Violet snapped. "That's biased! I have plenty of denial!"
The orb beeped.
Lucien squinted. "Did it just snort?"
"Possibly," Danelle said, sliding the orb back into her bag. "Your Moonbind is real. Active. And edging toward catastrophic intimacy. You'll be visited weekly for progress reports. Until then, remember: no sexual contact. No lies about your feelings. And under no circumstances... should you cuddle."
With that, she vanished in a shimmer of council bureaucracy.
---
Lucien leaned against the wall, looking mildly traumatized.
Violet crossed her arms, glaring at the space Danelle had occupied.
"Great. We've been audited by a magical sex cop."
Lucien tilted his head. "97% compatibility?"
"Shut up."
Violet sat on the kitchen counter eating cereal like a feral witch whose emotional stability hinged entirely on sugar and denial.
Lucien stood across from her, arms crossed, watching her chew like she was the final boss of his self-control.
Outside, the sky grumbled.
Violet paused mid-bite. "Did the weather just judge me?"
Lucien raised his hands. "I didn't do anything."
"You were looking at me."
"I was looking near you."
"You were staring at my mouth like it insulted your ancestors."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again when thunder rolled overhead.
"Okay," he admitted. "Maybe a little bit at your mouth."
"Control your pupils, Drake."
"I've been celibate for three centuries," he muttered. "Forgive me for reacting to a hot, chaotic witch in lace shorts eating cereal like a temptation demon."
She blinked. "You think I'm hot?"
He blinked. "That was... meant to be internal."
CRACK.
A bolt of lightning flashed outside. The lights flickered. The cereal spoon floated an inch into the air, then flopped back into the bowl like it gave up on their nonsense.
Lucien took a step back, hands raised.
"I think we need... some magical distance."
"There is no distance," Violet said through gritted teeth. "We're Moonbound. You're lucky I'm not currently sitting on your astral projection."
"Please don't say 'sitting on' and 'astral' in the same sentence."
"Too late. It's canon now."
Drip.
They both turned.
A single droplet of water hit the kitchen floor.
Followed by another.
Violet tilted her head. "Did you leave the window open?"
Lucien pointed upward. "The rain's... coming from the ceiling."
They stared.
Tiny raindrops trickled from above like a slow, smug leak in reality itself. Then came the thunder. The moody, theatrical kind. The kind that sounded like someone sighing dramatically in a Gothic novel.
Lucien looked down. "It's... following us."
Violet swore under her breath. "The bond's causing weather bleed. The apartment is mirroring our libido."
Lucien turned pink.
"I didn't even touch you."
"You don't have to touch me," she snapped. "Your emotional repression alone is causing atmospheric disturbance."
The couch let out a soft, encouraging purr. Then shifted an inch closer to the kitchen island.
Lucien narrowed his eyes at it. "Did your couch just... scoot us together?"
Violet pointed at it. "Trevor, I swear to every celestial body in this dimension, if you become a shipper I will dismantle your stuffing."
The couch purred again.
The rain intensified.
Lucien took a step toward the window to open it—not toward her, definitely not—just as Violet moved the same way. Their hands grazed.
BOOM.
A roll of thunder cracked so loud, every lightbulb in the apartment flashed blue and the floating scarf passed out dramatically on the floor.
They froze, inches apart.
The ceiling rain stopped. Just... stopped. Hanging in midair like suspended tears. The lights flickered.
The air itself trembled, full of tension.
Then—
The doorbell rang.
Lucien exhaled.
Violet closed her eyes. "If that's another magical government official, I'm casting a silence hex on my entire life."
Lucien walked to the door, opened it—
And was hit in the face with a bouquet of black roses and a glitter bomb.
A scroll unfurled at his feet.
"CONGRATS ON YOUR MOONBOND 💍🔥 CAN'T WAIT TO SEE WHICH OF YOU SNAPS FIRST. XOXO, RHYS."
---