Chapter 4

The days stretch long and quiet after he leaves, the tower settling into its old rhythms—wind moaning through the spires, runes humming faintly in the walls. But it's different now. The silence doesn't claw at me the way it once did; it's softer, threaded with the echo of him. Kaelen. His scent lingers in the sanctum—cedar and sweat—and the memory of his hands on me, rough and reverent, haunts my skin. The bond we forged pulses in my chest, a shimmering thread that tugs faintly across the miles, a lifeline I can't ignore.

I try to busy myself—scribing spells, tending the scrying pool—but my mind drifts to him. To the way he filled me, his groans mingling with mine as the tower trembled. My fingers wander too often, brushing my lips, my throat, and I feel that ache flare again, hot and insistent. One evening, restless under the crimson moon, I test the thread's reach. I sit by the pool, robe slipping off one shoulder, and let my voice drift through it—low, sultry. *"Kaelen… do you feel me?"*

The water ripples, showing him—crouched by a fire in some shadowed camp, his face sharpening as my whisper hits. His hand flexes, eyes closing, and I push further, magic weaving a phantom touch—my fingers trailing his jaw, dipping to his chest. He shudders, a low curse escaping, and I smile, heat pooling low as I imagine more. My hand slides down my own body, teasing the edge of my thigh, and the thread carries it to him—a shared sensation, my pleasure bleeding into his. The pool shows him gripping his dagger's hilt, knuckles white, and I know he's fighting the urge to give in right there in the wilds.

"Witch," he mutters through the bond, rough and strained, and I laugh, letting the spell fade. But it's not enough—not for me, not for this hunger he's woken. I need him here, flesh and blood, not just echoes.

Days later, the wards flare, sharp and urgent, jolting me from a restless dream of his mouth on mine. I bolt upright, heart pounding, and rush to the balcony. Below, the mist parts, and there he is—not alone. Kaelen strides toward the tower, battered and grim, a figure slumped against his shoulder—a woman, unconscious, her auburn hair tangled with blood. My stomach twists, jealousy flaring before reason catches up. He's not smiling, not tender; this isn't betrayal. It's trouble.

"Lysara!" he calls, voice raw, and I'm at the gates in an instant, magic flaring to haul them inside. He drops to one knee in the hall, easing the woman down—her breathing shallow, a gash across her side. His eyes meet mine, stormy and fierce. "I didn't plan this," he says, hands bloody from her wound. "She's a debt—one I couldn't leave to die."

"Who is she?" I demand, kneeling beside him, my fingers brushing his arm. The thread hums, sparking at the contact, and I feel his exhaustion, his resolve—and something else, a flicker of longing that mirrors mine.

"Rhea. Old friend, older promise," he says, terse. "Her clan crossed the wrong sorcerer—the one who sent me here. I found her like this, half-dead in the ashes."

I should focus on her, heal her, but his nearness drowns me. He's here, real, and the air crackles with it. "You came back," I whisper, and his gaze softens, just for a heartbeat.

"Couldn't stay away," he murmurs, and then we're moving—my hands on his face, his on my waist, pulling me into a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. The woman groans softly, forgotten for a moment as we crash together. His hands slide under my robe, gripping my hips, and I press against him, feeling him harden through his breeches.

"Not here," I gasp, dragging him toward the sanctum stairs, leaving Rhea safe on a conjured pallet. We barely make it halfway up before he pins me to the wall, my robe tearing as he lifts me, my legs wrapping around him. "Now," I plead, and he doesn't hesitate—breeches shoved down, he thrusts into me, deep and rough, the stone biting into my back. I moan, loud and shameless, nails digging into his shoulders as he takes me, each snap of his hips a claim, a promise. The thread blazes, our pleasure twining, and I clench around him, shattering with a cry that echoes through the tower. He follows, growling my name, spilling hot inside me as we tremble together.

We sink to the steps, panting, his forehead against mine. "I meant to come alone," he says, voice hoarse. "To stay. But fate's a bastard."

Downstairs, Rhea stirs, and reality creeps back. I cup his face, searching those gray eyes. "We'll fix this," I say, steady despite the tangle of trust and need. "Together."

He nods, kissing me softly, and I know this is just the beginning—our bond tested, our passion a fire that won't fade. The tower isn't just mine anymore; it's ours, and whatever comes next, we'll face it together.