Chapter 46 #2
I follow her as her movements shift from playful to focused.
Zara’s learning to command a room instead of occupying it, her presence demanding attention even when she’s silent.
Her hand hovers over the glass, her fingers splayed as her magic hums in the air, and her nose crinkles in a way that would be adorable if it didn’t mean she was worried.
“They’re unsettled,” she murmurs. “Galen’s death caused as many problems as it fixed.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“Darius has been dealing with the uprising.”
Zara knows warlocks are creatures of brutality and ambition.
She knows we thrive on control and pain, feeding on the misery of others like it’s our birthright.
But knowing is one thing; seeing is another.
Now she’s seen warlocks turn on each other like wolves circling a wounded alpha, each trying to carve out a larger slice of power for themselves.
The most ambitious among them have resorted to unspeakable acts.
They’ve been binding spirits to their will, slaughtering innocents for sacrificial rites, and unleashing curses designed to cripple entire bloodlines.
The balance of our world teeters on the edge, the carnage spreading like rot in the wake of their ambition.
And though I despise them for it, I understand it.
It’s in our nature to destroy, to consume.
I’ve kept most of the recent atrocities from Zara, in case she felt responsible.
The blood rituals, the betrayals, and the raw carnage that has left entire villages razed to the ground and upset the balance of our world were always going to happen, but Galen’s death expedited them.
Zara doesn’t need to carry that weight, and I’m too fucking vicious to give a shit about it.
She knows what I am, what we are, but she hasn’t seen the worst of it. Of me. Not yet.
And a selfish part of me wants to shield her from that reality for as long as I possibly can.
It’s part of why I sent Darius to deal with it.
He’s useful, loyal enough to keep in line, but desperate enough to do any dirty work without asking too many questions.
Darius knows that failure means a swift end, but success might earn him the power he craves for his wife.
It’s a careful balance, giving him enough autonomy to believe he and his wife have a choice, but never enough to think they could rise above me.
Above us. Besides, if he falters, I’ve already calculated the acceptable losses and he’s part of them.
“Are you contemplating murder again?” Zara asks.
For a moment, I’m struck by how fucking terrifying she can be.
It’s truly magnificent and the little witch surprises me with how effortlessly she wields that darkness inside her, how it dances in her veins like it was made for her.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch, and for all her beauty and grace, Zara is a knife edge honed to perfection—sharp, deadly, and unrelenting.
And she’s mine.
Fuck, I’m in love with her.
“It’s not murder if they deserve it.”
“Darius isn’t that much of a problem,” she says calmly. “His wife is a bitch.”
That woman hates me with every fiber of her being, and for good reason.
I took everything from her before I realized the value of what I’d crushed beneath my heel.
Now, we’re navigating the uneasy waters of a new beginning, one where I acknowledge her as an equal, even if the tension lingers.
She’s a complicated figure in my life, someone Zara doesn’t know about yet, and that’s deliberate.
Very deliberate.
Zara knows Calista hates her. She doesn’t know it’s because of what I did to Darius’s wife when I thought she was a worthless whore. Zara has no idea what Calista has endured because of me and the price she’s paid to secure her life. Galen too, but he’s dead and the fucker got off lightly.
It’s best for me if Zara doesn’t know all the gruesome details, and if the need arises, I’ll simply blame Galen for the mess with Calista. After all, dead men tell no tales, and they have no honor to defend.
“We can always kill them later,” she sighs.
“You're planning their murder already?” I ask.
“It doesn't count as murder if it's necessary. It won't be murder if I decide it's what we need to survive.”
Zara’s voice is laced with a certainty that makes my stomach tighten.
“You forget, I’m as dark as you. Maybe darker.” Her eyes flick back to mine. “We’ve endured an afternoon of misery, it’s about time we had some fun, don’t you think?”
“What did you have in mind?”
My tone is calm and my mind is racing. My dick’s throbbing and my thoughts are spinning. I’m tempted to fuck her here and now, against the wall, christening another surface.
“Kade?”
“Zara?”
Her glare sharpens, suspicion flickering in her eyes.
“I’m going to mark you.”
Fuck.
In truth, I’ve wanted this. Craved this.
For weeks. I’ve stared at my mark in the small of her back, dark ink coiling beneath her skin like it was always meant to be there.
My emblem, the sharp lines twisting into a crescent moon that sits ensnared by thorned vines, is carved into her in a way no one else will ever touch.
The runes surrounding it pulse faintly, ancient words of binding and belonging that hum with my magic. A brand. A claim.
I shouldn’t take satisfaction in the sight of it—but I do.
It wasn’t meant to be beautiful. It was meant to own. To remind her with every breath and every heartbeat that she’s mine. There’s something about the way it curves against her skin, something perfect. A cruel kind of art.
I shouldn’t want my own.
But Gods help me, I do. I want it because it’s Zara’s. Because it’s ours. Because there’s no undoing it and it will make me hers.
I nod and rip my shirt off, too damn excited to care about appearances. My muscles tighten and her eyes darken as my girl follows their contours, working out where she wants her mark to go. She steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator who already knows how the hunt will end.
“Stay still,” she commands.
Like I could move.
Her fingers trail down my chest, light as smoke but burning hotter than any fire. Every muscle locks tight under her touch, not from fear but from something far worse. Surrender. And that terrifies me more than any spell ever could.
I feel Zara’s magic before I see it, cold and liquid, wrapping around her fingertips like smoke turned solid.
The scent of her power fills the air, dark earth and the sweetness beneath it, like crushed violets after rain.
Its first touch hits hard, sharp as a blade cutting through skin, muscle, and my soul.
But I don’t flinch. I want this. I need it.
Her magic sears into me, carving itself low over my heart with a heat that cuts deeper than fire.
The shape takes form under her hand, bold and merciless.
It strikes first as a jagged sun, sharp points radiating outward like claws tearing through the dark.
Around it coils a serpent, its body twisting in an endless loop, fangs bared and ready to strike.
It doesn’t whisper like mine. It claims, fierce and unrelenting. A symbol of power that doesn’t just bind but dares anyone to challenge it.
It’s not delicate. It’s dominance, raw and unapologetic.
And it tells the world exactly what I already know.
I’m hers.
And she owns me.
When it’s done, her hand lingers, fingertips brushing over the fresh mark. It pulses under my skin, alive with her magic, binding us in a way that nothing else ever could. In a way that even the blood weave could not manage.
“You’re mine,” she whispers.
I catch her wrist and pull her closer until there’s nothing left between us. My voice comes out low, rough with need and desperation. “I was always yours.”
Her breath catches, and for the first time, I see it all—fear, hope, and the one thing that can’t be denied. This was never just about power.
It’s about us.
I kiss her like a promise sealed in blood and magic, deep and possessive and final. And when she kisses me back, I know the truth.
There’s no undoing this.
And I don’t want there to be.
She’s mine. And now I’m hers.
Forever.