I gasped.
The sound ripped out of me like it didn't belong to my own lungs — raw and dry, but alive.
My eyes shot open.
Too bright. Too white. Everything was wrong.
The sterile ceiling lights above me blurred and burned, and for a second I thought maybe I'd died after all — maybe this was some clinical version of heaven with beeping machines and scratchy sheets.
But then—
Her.
Seraphine.
She was right there.
Not touching me. Not speaking.
But I felt her.
Not just in the room — inme.
Her scent hit first: jasmine, smoke, blood. A warmth I couldn't describe. My pulse stuttered.
She was sitting in the chair beside my bed, rigid, eyes fixed on me like she hadn't blinked in hours. Her gloves were off. Her wrist looked raw. Pinked from healing.
My gaze dropped to her fingers.
Then to her face.
And suddenly I could feeleverything.
The tight coil of tension under her skin. The ancient sadness clinging to her like armor. The terror she tried to bury. Her hands clenched in her lap, her shoulders set like she was bracing for me to break all over again.
And there was something else.
Deeper. Thicker. A pull in my chest that wasn't mine — like something invisible had latched itself to my ribs and hooked straight into her.
I tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
Pain flared through my side, sharp and immediate. I hissed, wincing, collapsing back against the pillows.
"Cassian—" Her voice cracked like she'd swallowed broken glass. She surged forward but didn't touch me. Her fingers hovered inches from my arm.
I looked at her.
Really looked.
Every inch of me was screaming for her.
Not just with want — though, God, there was that too — but somethingbigger.Something clawing at the base of my spine, demanding to be closer. To reach her. To hold her. To sink into her until the world stopped spinning.
My throat was like sandpaper. "Sera... what... what did you do?"
Her face folded in guilt.
That told me enough.
I glanced down at the IV taped to my hand, the machines around me, the way my body wastoohealed.
"I should be dead," I whispered.
"You were close," she said quietly. "Too close."
"What did you do?" I asked again, softer now.
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
I could taste it.
My tongue flicked against my teeth. Metallic. Warm. Not mine.
"You gave me your blood."
It wasn't a question.
Tiffany, sitting on the window ledge behind her, arms folded, didn't look surprised. Just nervous. Like she wasn't sure if I'd scream, pass out, or turn into a bat.
"Don't freak out," she said gently. "You were bleeding out. The surgery was risky. The bond thing—yeah, it's kinda freaky, but... it worked."
My breath stuttered. The machines behind me beeped faster.
Bond.
That word meant something else now. Itfeltlike something else. I wasn't just alive — I was changed. Shifted. I could feel her mood rolling under her skin like weather. Her magic brushing against my pulse.
And the scent of her — it was intoxicating. Like my body had suddenly realized I'd been starving my entire life and she was the thing I'd never tasted.
I looked at her again. Seraphine.
Not human.
Not fragile.
But somehow... connected to me.
Tied.
I swallowed hard. "So what does this mean?"
"It means you're alive," she said softly. "That's all I cared about."
"But the bond—"
"You won't turn," she said. "You won't crave blood. Not unless... not unless you drink from me again. And I won't let that happen."
Tiffany snorted from the window. "Unless you guys get horny and weird again, in which case I'm removing myself from the entire house."
"Tiff," I groaned.
"What?" she shrugged. "I'm just saying! You're already bonded, and if I have to listen to your sex noises again, I want hazard pay."
Seraphine didn't laugh.
She just looked at me like she was waiting for me to freak out. Waiting for me to yell or pull away or demand answers she couldn't give.
But I didn't.
Because even with the pain, even with the weird soul-link vibrating in my bones, all I could think was:
She saved me.
Sheburned for me.
"I'm not mad," I said, voice low. "Just... overwhelmed."
A flicker of something passed across her face. Not quite relief. Not quite hope. Just... soft.
I reached for her hand.
She let me.
And even that—that—sent a jolt down my spine so fierce I nearly gasped again.
"Jesus," I muttered. "You're loud in here now."
Seraphine smiled faintly. "It'll get easier."
"You promise?"
"No," she said honestly. "But I'll stay until it does."
I looked over at Tiffany.
She just gave me a look. "Told you she was scary-hot. Now shut up and rest. You've had alotof drama today."
I chuckled weakly.
But I didn't let go of Seraphine's hand.
And she didn't let go of mine.
The world stirred around me like a dream I wasn't ready to wake from, the moment the doctors and nurses burst through the door.
Voices. Cold. Blinding light. Machines chirping.
But none of it meant a damn thing.
Because I felther.
She was sitting at the edge of the hospital chair, still as a statue carved from dark velvet and firelight. Her skin shimmered faintly in the sterile glow, and her eyes—God, her eyes—held a storm only I seemed to understand.
And I could feel her.
Her thoughts. Her worry. Her heartbeat skipping each time my breath hitched. The bond humming, alive and anchored between us.
The doctors were saying something. About healing. Miracles. Impossible recovery.
But their words were muffled. Like background noise in a dream I didn't care to listen to.
Because the only thing I wanted to hear was her.
Sera.
And as I looked at her, her scent hit me again. That impossible mix of warmth and danger. Jasmine and dark wine and spice. I breathed it in like it could bring me back to life all over again.
And then—I remembered.
Not the blood. Not the pain. No. What came to me, full and all-consuming, washer.
The last time I was inside her.
I remembered the way her body wrapped around me, tight and unrelenting. How she gasped when I sank deep, her legs around my waist, her lips on my throat, the way her hands clutched my back like she needed me buried inside her to stay grounded in the world.
I remembered the heat. The pressure. The overwhelmingrightnessof it. Like nothing else had ever fit me, not really—until I was inside her, and every time I moved, I felt her grip me tighter, like she didn't want to let go and neither did I.
I was drowning in her and didn't want air.
Even now, I couldfeelit. Not just the memory, but the emotion that laced it. The need. The surrender. The quiet ache between us that never really left.
I can't wait to go home...Fuck
I barely noticed I was staring until she raised an eyebrow at me.
Just one. Sharp. Elegant. Knowing.
Seriously?her voice rang clear in my head, dry as bone.
I blinked. Then laughed. Low, rough, still hoarse from whatever hell I'd crawled out of—but real.
And God, it felt good, I had her in my head.
And the memory of what it felt like to be inside her was proof enough I'd made it back.