Chapter 22
I want more
KADE
She sleeps.
Zara is finally content, purring like a kitten now that she’s taken my cock like the good girl she so desperately pretends she isn’t.
The witch lies curled against my chest as I cradle her against me.
She’s warm and soft, and smells of perfume and lotion, of pink in all its hues and everything girlish.
We’ve spent the morning fucking and even my cock didn’t object to the rest. Admittedly, I’m half-tempted to fuck her in her sleep, but I doubt she’d approve and I find myself unwilling to risk upsetting her.
Worse, I’m reluctant to undo the progress we’ve made, and that is a complete and utter disaster.
I don’t understand what’s gotten into me.
I spent the entire journey here trying to reconcile my feelings with my reason, and I failed. Miserably. My need for control battles with the madness of what I feel when I’m near her, and the larger part of me whispers that I don’t want to destroy the weave.
I want it to stay.
I want her to stay.
We shouldn’t make sense. I’m a warlock. A creature of control.
I live by order, by structure, by knowing exactly what’s coming next, and I fucking kill to maintain that.
But Zara is a wild storm, a beautiful wreckage of a woman who fucks with my mind like no one else ever has.
I should hate her for that. I killed her coven, for Gods’ sake.
I put them in the ground, erased them from the world, and now she’s here, in my arms. Breathing, alive.
And yet, my heart beats a little faster every time she stirs.
So here I am, as content as the girl sleeping in my arms. I’m passing the time easily, knowing every second that slips by only strengthens the connection between us and makes it harder to break.
Not only do I know this, but I want it. I want her.
For all her flaws and imperfections, maybe because of them and not in spite of them.
Every fiber of my being should be urging me to find Malric as fast as I damn well can and do whatever it takes to sever the blood weave between us. But I don’t want it to break, and even though her chaos terrifies me, her darkness calls to mine, and I find comfort in her depravity.
Zara might be blacker than I am.
She might be the one soul I’ve ever encountered who’s not only more wicked than me but also more powerful.
Maybe. I’m not quite sure and it’s been a very long time since I was uncertain about anything.
It’s exhilarating. It’s unique. It’s a gift and she’s a puzzle I want to solve and can’t bear to finish in equal measure.
Zara is anything but innocent. She’s a witch.
A fucking chaos-bringer wrapped in silk and blood, with a mind as unpredictable as the storms she could summon if she wanted.
Her coven was using her and was aware of how potent her power was, and they must have known she was dangerous.
They wanted rid of her, and I should, too.
But I want her.
It’s twisted. It’s fucked. But it’s the truth. I need her.
And now I have to lie to her. I’ve earned her trust and now I need to use it to my advantage. For my benefit. Hers too, in the end, once she’s come around to reason and realized she’s better off with me.
I have to lie to her. There’s a comfort in knowing that, no matter how fucked up this whole situation is, she’s right here, and I won’t let that go.
I have to pretend that I’m working on undoing the blood weave between us, and instead I’ll use the time to make her see that I’m not some power-hungry bastard who killed her coven for the sake of control.
I’ll make her see I’m doing what’s best for both of us—that I’m offering her stability, power, and safety.
I can give her a life of luxury and make sure she passes her days in a comfort she’s never even dared to dream of.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I can give her all of that. I just need her to realize it.
It’ll be harder to convince Malric, but I was always the old bastard’s favorite pupil and he’s probably grown weaker over time.
Most warlocks decline once they reach a certain age, unless they hold the seats of power.
I doubt that even he knows how to break an ebon chain, but if he does, I’ll convince him it’s better if we don’t.
I’ll tell him it lets me use Zara’s powers for my benefit and if he won’t see reason or believe the lie, then I’ll just kill the asshole.
Sure, he’ll see Zara as a threat, the same way I did.
The girl threatens centuries of order and the only way to convince him, and every other warlock, otherwise is for her to accept I’ve claimed her.
He won’t care if it’s as my wife or slave, but he won’t accept Zara as anything else.
He won’t see her for the rare and dazzling exception to the rule that she is, and he won’t like the fire beneath her anger.
I smirk, remembering the way Zara’s laughter sometimes sounds like shattered glass—sharp and broken, but still beautiful. He won’t understand that Zara isn’t just a witch. She’s a paradox, a contradiction, an impossibility.
And she’s mine.
Mine.
All mine.
Only mine.
My fingertips draw patterns on her back and I contemplate marking her now. Branding her with my insignia. My mark. It would suit her, but more importantly, it would protect her and give me the security I seem to desperately need.
A sharp crash jolts through the room, a sudden, bone-deep noise that cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
My pulse spikes. I freeze, every muscle locking as my eyes flick to the shadows in the corners of the room.
No enemy steps through the door—no man, no weapon—and I wait, glancing around through narrowed eyes as a chill seeps into my chest.
The shadows in the corners of the room darken, stretching like ink blotting over the walls.
A cold weight settles in my stomach as I feel the touch of magic that I know but cannot place.
I’m still trying to place it as I watch nothing come through the door.
No enemy. No warning footsteps. But something is here.
Something darker than any foe I’ve faced before.
There’s no form, no shape, and little reason to this darkness.
But it is ordered and logical and certainly cast by a warlock.
Phantoms are an unpleasant, dangerous darkness and the cold fog of their invisible touch is a magic I’d prefer I wasn’t experiencing.
It brushes against my skin like icicles, a touch that sinks into my bones rather than my flesh.
The air thickens, a subtle pressure settling in the room that squeezes my ribcage tighter with every breath.
There’s a whisper of movement, then a flicker of cold breath against my neck. My eyes dart to an empty corner, but there’s nothing there—just an absence of light, an unsettling void where something should be. Where something is, and it simply doesn’t want me to see it.
And then it shows itself.
Its faint glowing blue eyes emit a spectral light that flickers into my mind’s eye—a brief, agonizing glimpse of something that isn’t real but feels just real enough to terrify most warlocks.
The magic is intangible, unformed, shifting.
It moves like liquid thought, a swirling, ungraspable force that defies most strategies I know.
But most isn’t the same as all, and I am not most warlocks.
Zara stirs slightly in my arms, a soft murmur escaping her lips. I tighten my grip on her instinctively, a surge of protectiveness making my jaw clench. She shouldn’t have to see this or endure another horror. I need to end this before whatever is here finds a way to touch her.
I raise my hand and summon my magic, hoping it will obey.
My knuckles whiten as I strain and my power coils inside me, but it isn’t the same as it was before.
It’s never been the same since Zara bound me to her and the nexus I draw from feels changed.
It’s closer than it was before, more present and more visceral.
My breath trembles as I push some power outward, feeling it form a protective barrier around the girl sleeping in my arms. The air around Zara warps slightly as its energy shimmers and tries to hold back the invisible menace.
But it’s not enough.
The ethereal, formless phantoms surge forward.
The chill of their presence draws closer, and an otherworldly pressure threatens to unravel my concentration. A cold breath brushes against my ear, a near-silent hiss that sends a shiver down my spine.
I grit my teeth and push back harder, demanding more from my magic.
My barriers strengthen, a wall of swirling energy that resists the unseen force pressing against it.
The room trembles slightly, the walls bending under the pressure of our fight.
Every ounce of energy, every bit of magic, every corner of my warlock control is forced into action.
But still, they come.
And the phantoms won’t stop until they’ve sung their songs of death and claimed our souls.
This is how this spell works; it’s how the specters derive their power.
I should know, I’ve used it more times than I care to remember and I see the invisible claws scrape through the air, raking across my arm, leaving cold, stinging marks.
My vision blurs from the pain, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
My eyes widen as a storm surges through me, its chaos as wild as the magic Zara wields.
It’s unfiltered and beautiful chaos, twisting and turning in unexpected ways, as pure as it is violent.
This magic doesn’t belong to me, but it is mine and I stare into the emptiness as phantoms flood its air, certain that this is what we are.
It’s what happens when chaos and carnage clash with order and reason. This is balance, this is power. It’s everything and nothing, all we shouldn’t be, and yet we are.
It’s what Zara’s magic does to mine and what I do to hers.
Gods, it’s potent.
More intoxicating than any magic I’ve ever drained from any coven or any witch before—and it isn’t because Zara holds more power, or because hers is stronger, or somehow unique, although all those things are true. It’s because it’s as much mine as it is hers now, and it’s a gift given freely.
Relatively speaking.
Zara can’t have understood this when she started the ebon chain, but I didn’t know blood weaves worked like this either. I can draw from her and she from me, and somehow that amplifies both our powers, magnifying them until the sum is far greater than the whole.
No wonder the witch lost control in the woods.
Our combined magic pulses out in an irregular burst of energy, an explosion of chaotic light that sends a shockwave through the room as order demands the world obey its rules. My rules.
The phantoms hesitate, recoiling from the force of my counterattack.
I catch a flicker of an ethereal shape, a flash of translucent hands reaching out before disappearing back into the void.
In the infinite time of one single heartbeat, I watch its eyes burn like starlight, its gaze almost human, yet more predatory than any monster I’ve ever faced.
My breath is ragged, my limbs trembling with effort. I glance at Zara’s pale face, her brow furrowed even in sleep, the vulnerability in her expression a stark contrast to the surrounding chaos. I won’t let these creatures get to her. Not now. Not ever.
I growl and stare into the void, daring it to defy me.
“This ends,” I hiss. “Here and now.”
Chaos and control weave together inside me, pulling into a single razor-sharp point of purpose. My hands glow with dark light, a chaotic fusion of power that feels almost too vast to control. Too stupendous to comprehend even.
The energy explodes, expanding as a solid wall that pushes the phantoms back.
They screech in silence as they retreat, vanishing into the void entirely, slipping away as if they were never there.
The room begins to settle, the oppressive weight of their presence diminishing until all that remains is the faint smell of sulfur and black magic.
I pant, breath heaving, as sweat drips into my eyes. The air remains fraught, a lingering reminder of the fight and of what I’ve just unleashed, but the threat has passed. For now, at least.
My hands shake as the last remnants of magic ebb away, leaving only Zara and I alone in this room.
I glance at her, still peaceful in her sleep, her breathing soft and steady.
My lips press into a thin line. I don’t know who sent those creatures, but they weren’t random.
A warlock conjured them, someone powerful enough to pierce the wards around this place and brazen enough to challenge me.
And they’ll come back.
I have to figure out who’s behind this, and it doesn’t take a scholar to guess it’s the same bastard who set those warlocks on us in the woods. Whoever they are, they want Zara—or maybe what’s inside her—and I can’t let that happen.
I could pretend I want to protect her out of some noble sense of justice or a newfound heroic ideal, but that would be a lie. Zara is mine. My magic is sharper, stronger, more complete with her bound to me. Hers too, and together we could be unstoppable. I could be unsurmountable.
There’s no way in hell I’m letting her go.
Not for anyone or anything. I won’t let the blood weave break.
Not if I have to manipulate her, lie to her, or bend her will into submission.
I’ll make her trust me until she doesn’t care about the weave or the price we’ve paid to create it.
Zara will stay by my side, willingly or not, and I’ll protect her from anyone who tries to take her.
Not because I’m selfless. Not because I’m good.
But because she makes me more powerful than I’ve ever been.
And I want more.