Chapter 3

His kiss consumes me, a tempest of heat and need, and I'm lost to it. Kaelen's mouth is fierce against mine, his tongue claiming every inch as the curse's thread blazes between us, a shimmering lifeline that fuses our pulses. My hands claw at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and the tower quakes, stone groaning as if it feels the fire building in my veins. I should stop this—centuries of control demand it—but all I want is more, his roughness against my softness, his breath in my lungs.

"Up," I pant, tugging him toward the stairs, and he follows without breaking stride, his hands gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll vanish. We stumble into the sanctum, starlight spilling through the high windows, the rune-circle floor pulsing faintly beneath my bare feet. My gown is half-torn from our frenzy on the balcony, and I shed it entirely, letting it fall in a silken heap. His eyes darken, storm-gray turning molten as they trace my naked form—breasts heaving, thighs trembling, skin flushed with want. 

"Lysara," he breathes, my name a growl as he strips off his tunic, revealing that scarred, muscled chest I ached to touch. I close the distance, fingers splaying over his warmth, feeling his heartbeat thud under my palm. He shudders, and I tease him with magic—phantom nails drag down his spine, a whisper of heat coiling around his throat. "Gods," he rasps, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head as he backs me against the sanctum wall. 

The stone is cool against my back, a stark contrast to the fire of him pressing into me. His free hand roams, cupping my breast, thumb flicking over the hardened peak until I whimper, arching into his touch. "More," I demand, and he obliges, mouth lowering to suckle there, wet and insistent, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. The thread hums, amplifying it—his hunger floods into me, a shadow of my own, and I writhe, desperate. 

He releases my wrists, and I yank at his breeches, freeing him—hard, thick, ready—and my breath catches at the sight. "Now," I whisper, guiding him between my thighs, and he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. One thrust, deep and sure, and I cry out, filled to the brim as he groans against my neck. The rhythm builds, fast and primal—his hips snap into mine, my nails rake his shoulders, and the runes flare violet beneath us, mirroring the chaos of our union. 

Magic spills from me unbidden—tendrils of heat stroke him where we join, a phantom tongue teasing his ear—and he curses, driving harder, chasing the edge. It hits me like a wave, pleasure crashing through me, my walls clenching around him as I scream his name. He follows a heartbeat later, spilling into me with a guttural moan, his release pulsing hot and fierce. The sanctum blazes, light bursting outward, and for a moment, we're suspended—bound, trembling, one.

We collapse to the floor, spent and entwined, his weight a comforting anchor as dawn creeps over the horizon, painting the sanctum in soft gold. The glow dims, silence settling, and I feel him still—the thread is there, warm and steady, but he's not gone, not lost to me. His arm curls around my waist, pulling me closer, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the slowing thud of his heart. 

"I came for the grimoire," he says suddenly, voice rough with exhaustion, and I tense, the words a cold splash against our heat. He shifts, propping himself on an elbow to meet my gaze. "Some bastard sorcerer wanted it. Paid me to breach your tower." His fingers trace my jaw, gentle now. "I didn't take it. Couldn't. Not after…" He trails off, eyes searching mine, raw and unguarded. 

The confession stings—lingering doubts swirl, trust a fragile thing—but I feel the truth in him, in the bond that didn't break. The curse should have claimed him, turned him into a puppet of my will, but he's still Kaelen—defiant, whole. My hand finds his, lacing our fingers, and I realize it's not control that binds us now. It's something softer, sharper—love, fragile and fierce, a mark deeper than any spell. 

"You're free," I whisper, awed, and his grin flickers, bittersweet. 

"Free enough to choose this," he says, kissing my knuckles. "I've got debts to settle—old scores, promises I can't break yet. But I'll come back, Lysara. For you." 

I want to believe him, despite the ache of his leaving. The sanctum is quiet, dawn's light warm on our skin, and I nod, a hope I haven't felt in centuries blooming in my chest. "Go, then," I murmur, brushing his lips with mine, tender and lingering. "But don't make me wait too long." 

He rises, dressing slowly, and I watch him go, the thread pulsing faintly as he disappears into the morning mist. The grimoire sits untouched on its pedestal, insignificant now. What matters is the promise he left behind—and the certainty that this isn't the end.