It is.
It’s designed to be, and the irony is I made it this way. I’ve ruled over our worlds for centuries and made it harsh and unforgiving, ensuring it left little hope and fewer options for the witches underneath me. Now, the consequences of my choices weigh down on me, just as the weight of what I’veproposed presses down on both of us. Marrying Zara—forcing her to marry me—or have her submit in every conceivable way just to survive and endure more humiliation is monstrous.
I’ve spent centuries making others make horrific choices, bending the rules of our world to suit my needs. But now I’m the one trapped by the web I’ve woven and this feels different. This is visceral. This is personal and I don’t know if I have the stomach for it.
But it is the truth of her situation.
A lie would be kinder, but it wouldn’t be honest. It wouldn’t be fair on her. It wouldn’t be what I would choose and maybe this is even crueler than the choice she’s facing.
“Zara, listen to me. Carefully.” I force myself to meet her gaze despite the anger and betrayal burning in her eyes. “I can protect you. I can give you anything you want. Money, luxury, comfort. Even freedom, within the bounds of the blood weave and the constraints of my world. Your world too, Zara. The witches will see you as a threat too, and everyone will come for you unless you conform, and you may as well have some happiness. I can offer you that at least.”
Her jaw ticks, and she steps back before clutching at her chest.
“We can even try to change things.”
I roll my eyes, no longer sure what the fuck I’m saying, as I find myself doing the unthinkable. I’m pleading, begging, groveling, and demeaning myself, offering anything I can to a witch, simply so she’ll accept me.
“I cannot promise that it will be rapid and it may not end where you would like, but I can try.”
She steps back and I hate it.
I move forward to close the distance and Zara steps away again.
“Please…”
“I bet you expect me to be grateful,” she spits, more vicious than I’ve ever known her to be.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t expect your gratitude. I want you to survive.”
“Why do you care if I survive, Kade?” she demands, her voice cracking. “Is it because you won’t if I die?”
Days ago, I wanted her dead, and now I don’t want her to be anything but mine.
The thought flickers again, insidious and cruel, and I shove it away. I can’t tell her the truth, certainly not all of it. I can’t tell her about the sleepless nights or the endless, suffocating tangle of the blood weave that’s dragged me into her orbit. I can’t tell her that I’ve begun to care, not just because the weave binds us, but because I see her for what she is—strong, relentless, defiant.
I can’t stop thinking about her and how she’s the most dazzling, remarkable thing I’ve known in all of my existence.
“It doesn’t matter why,” I lie, certain it makes all the difference in the world. “What matters is you have a choice, and we’re running out of time.”
I’m done with waiting and I move quickly, kissing her as dominantly as I can. Zara moans into my mouth and her back arches, lifting her tits into me as my hands slip into her hair and my tongue demands everything I want from her. She’s alive, maybe even more alive than me, and she tastes of honey and sin, darker than chocolate and more devilish than peace.
Her body presses into me, soft and urgent and everything I want in spite of myself, my heart racing as the reality of our situation stops me from descending into oblivion. This kiss is a stolen reprieve, a distraction and infatuation, but the taste of Zara is a dangerous sweetness I’ll crave until my dying day.
I draw back and pant against her swollen lips, noticing their pale pink hue. They’re soft, like cotton candy, and they’ve got me spun into a ball of desire and confusion, tangled into another web I can’t escape. I lean my forehead against hers, breathing her in, as if I can pull her into me and make her mine.
For just long enough to make her see what I see.
But I can’t.
Magic thrums between us, and reality crashes down around us. I need to believe there’s more to this than some magical binding, and I want to believe she feels this too. Zara’s got to feel the desperate need that’s consuming both of us and it isn’t because we’re bound by force.
It can’t be.
I won’t allow it to be just the blood weave.
“No.”
The word is a cold slap to my face.
