The Blood Moon Ritual

RITES OF THE BLOOD MOON

BOOK THREE

MORGAN MERCY

Public Service Announcement

If you got this far in the series, then you are already familiar with what this series is about.

Which means you are my type of person.

Now onto the good stuff.

black heart Morgan

Trigger Warnings

This book contains mature themes and content that may be triggering to some readers. Please be aware that the story includes:

Explicit sexual content, including scenes of dubious consent and consensual non-consent

Themes of power imbalance, domination, and submission

Violence and graphic depictions of battles and injuries

Supernatural themes, including magic, curses, and soul manipulation

Mentions of death and historical witch-hunting

Psychological manipulation

References to trauma, fear, and anxiety

Reader discretion is advised. Please proceed with caution if any of these themes are sensitive for you.

Chapter

One

SAGE HOLLOWAY

The fluorescent lights above the circulation desk hum faintly, casting a clinical glow over the polished wood counter. The New York Public Library's vast reading room stretches before me, its rows of books and golden chandeliers exuding a charm that feels lost on most of the patrons these days. I've always found solace in these walls, where the scent of aged paper and ink blends into something comforting. It's one of the few places in this city where I feel at ease.

"Hey, Sage!"

Beth leans over the front desk, her too-bright smile practically bouncing off the laminated surface. “A group of us are heading out for lunch. You wanna come?”

I glance up from the stack of books I’ve been re-shelving, pausing with one hand still on the spine of a hardcover. Her tone is casual, practiced—friendly but performative—and there's that familiar gleam in her eyes. The one that says this is more invitation-as-formality than genuine offer.

Still, I smile politely. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stay in today. Got a new book I’m dying to get back to.”

Beth’s grin falters, just for a second, before she recovers. “Suit yourself,” she chirps, already turning.

I nod and return to the cart, pretending like that didn’t sting. Like I didn’t just rehearse that exact rejection a hundred times in my head so it wouldn’t come out sounding as awkward as it felt.

The group gathers by the elevator, laughing too loudly, tossing their hair, tapping their phones. I don’t look, but I listen—I always listen.

“She’s so weird,” someone murmurs, low and sharp, like they think I can’t hear. “No wonder she never has any friends,” another adds, half-laughing. “She probably talks to her books.” “She’s sweet, just... you know. Kinda sad.”

I press my lips together, spine rigid, eyes locked on the cart even though the titles blur.

There it is.

Like clockwork.

The words don’t surprise me. Not really.

The teasing started in middle school. It wasn't that I didn't want friends—it's just that I didn't fit into their world. While everyone else huddled in groups before class, giggling and gossiping, I would pull out a book and lose myself in its pages. Stories were safer than people. Predictable. Kind.

That decision—one I thought so small at the time—made me a target. "Weird book girl," they called me. At first, it was just words, little barbs I could ignore. But words have a way of growing teeth. By high school, the whispers had turned into pranks, stolen notebooks, mocking laughter whenever I answered a question in class.

I tried to ignore them, but the laughter followed me, growing louder with every year. By the time I graduated, I'd learned to avoid people altogether.

I thought things would change when I started working at the library. I pictured myself surrounded by people who shared my love for books, for the quiet magic of the written word. But even here, I'm an outsider. I keep to myself, and that seems to be enough to make me different. Different, in their eyes, is just another word for wrong.

It turns out the whispers don't stop. They just change their tone. Now they're quieter, masked by polite smiles and small talk. But I still hear them. I always do.

I duck my head and shuffle toward the break room, clutching the worn paperback I brought from home like a lifeline. The edges of the cover are soft from years of being dog-eared, the spine creased just enough to fall open to my favorite parts. If I can just get through the next thirty minutes, I'll be fine. That's all I need—a little time to myself, away from the whispers, the fake smiles, the endless feeling that I don't belong.

The break room is as uninspired as ever—grey linoleum floors, mismatched chairs around a scuffed table, and the faint hum of the ancient vending machine. But it's quiet, and quiet is enough. I drop into my usual seat, tucked into the farthest corner, and open my book, eager to disappear into a world that makes sense.

The heroine, Lyria, is standing on the edge of a dark forest, her fingers brushing the petals of a flower that will lead her to a hidden portal. The portal will whisk her away to a land filled with magic and danger, where she'll discover her true power and fight to save a kingdom she didn't know existed.

I've read this story a dozen times before, but it never loses its magic. Lyria is everything I'm not—bold, confident, brave. When the villagers mocked her for believing in magic, she didn't shrink away or let the words sink into her bones like I do. She stood tall, and now she's about to step into a world that will change her forever.

I trace the worn edges of the page with my thumb, my heart aching for something I can't quite name. It's not just that I admire Lyria; it's that, deep down, I wish I could be her. I wish I could find my own portal and escape into a world where things make sense, where the rules are clear and the whispers don't follow me wherever I go.

But real life doesn't work that way. There are no magical kingdoms waiting to be saved, no hidden portals tucked behind wildflowers. There's just this break room, this book, and the faint laughter echoing down the hallway outside.

I exhale slowly, brushing my fingers over the page again. Lyria is stepping through the portal now, her face lit with determination. I close my eyes and let myself imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to be swept away like her. To leave behind the whispers and the stares, to find a world where I matter.

The knot in my chest tightens. I don't cry—I haven't cried over things like this in years—but the ache is there all the same. I bury it the only way I know how: by focusing on the book in front of me.

I settle deeper into my chair, trying to lose myself in Lyria's story again. But when I turn the page, my fingers brush against something unexpected—smooth, stiff, and entirely out of place. I pull it free, my brow furrowing as I study the cream-colored envelope nestled between the pages.

It's thick and expensive-looking, sealed with a golden emblem that gleams faintly under the harsh fluorescent light. My name is written in looping, elegant script across the front: Sage Holloway.

I glance around the empty break room, half-expecting someone to burst in and yell, "Gotcha!" But the room stays silent.

Curiosity burns through my hesitation. I break the seal and pull out the contents—a single, embossed card with gilded edges.

You are cordially invited to an exclusive masquerade ball.

Below that, in smaller, flowing script: Tonight, 8 PM. Transportation, attire, and all other necessities will be provided.

I stare at the card, my mind racing. This has to be a joke. Or a mistake. There's no way an ordinary librarian in Brooklyn would get invited to something like this.

"Probably just some marketing stunt," I mumble, slipping the card back into the envelope. Still, the mystery of it lingers in my mind like an unsolved puzzle.

The rest of the day drags. My usual comfort in the library's routines feels off-kilter, the invitation gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. By the time I lock up for the night, I'm exhausted and more than ready to curl up in my tiny studio apartment with a cup of tea and a book.

But when I step through the door and toss my bag onto the couch, a sharp knock startles me.

I hesitate. The only people who knock on my door are the occasional neighbor asking to borrow sugar—or the building superintendent. Warily, I open it to find a sharply dressed courier holding a large white box wrapped with a black satin ribbon.

"This is for Ms. Sage Holloway," he says crisply, handing it to me before I can respond.

I mutter a stunned "thank-you," shutting the door as he strides off. The box is heavier than I expected, and I set it down on the small table in my kitchenette. The ribbon slides off easily, and I lift the lid.

My breath catches. Inside is the most stunning gown I've ever seen. It's an emerald green that shimmers under the dim light of my apartment, the kind of dress that belongs in a fashion magazine. The fabric is soft and flowing, the bodice delicately embroidered with gold threads that catch the light like tiny stars. There's also a matching mask, an intricate creation of gold filigree that looks both regal and otherworldly. At the bottom of the box, a pair of gold heels glint like treasure.

"This... can't be real," I whisper.

I can't stop myself. My fingers brush the fabric, and something stirs inside me—a pull I can't explain. I should call the courier service, figure out who sent this. But instead, I find myself slipping into the dress.

It fits perfectly, the material hugging my curves in all the right places. I catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser and barely recognize myself. The deep green of the gown sets off the reddish undertones in my wavy chestnut hair, which I let loose over my shoulders. My pale skin glows against the fabric, and my blue-grey eyes look brighter, almost luminous beneath the mask. I look... beautiful. For the first time in a long time, I feel it, too.

Another knock startles me. I glance down at the gown, smoothing the fabric nervously. It's ridiculous, but the thought of someone seeing me like this—a version of myself I barely recognize—makes my chest tighten. I hesitate, debating whether to ignore it, but the knock sounds again, more insistent this time. Swallowing hard, I shuffle to the door, heels clicking on the hardwood.

This time, a man in a tailored black suit stands on the other side. His dark hair is slicked back, and his expression is unreadable.

"Miss Holloway," he says with a slight bow. "Your car is waiting."

I blink. "My car?"

"Yes. To take you to the ball."

This is insane. Absolutely insane. None of this feels real—an invitation that appeared out of nowhere, a dress that fits like it was made for me, and now a driver at my door? My life isn't the kind where things like this happen. It feels like I've stepped into one of the novels I love, the kind where the heroine is whisked away to an extraordinary world. Maybe that's it—maybe this is all just a dream. And if it is, what's the harm in seeing where it goes?

Something about the surreal absurdity of the situation makes it impossible to say no. Or maybe, deep down, there's a part of me that wants to believe it's real. A part of me that wants to see where this night will lead.

I grab the small clutch and follow him outside to the waiting black town car. The city blurs past the windows as we drive, lights flickering against the darkened skyline. The streets grow quieter as we pull up to a grand mansion, its façade illuminated by golden lights.

The driver opens the door, and I step out, my heels clicking against the cobblestone driveway. A red carpet leads up the wide marble steps, where other masked figures are disappearing through towering double doors.

My heart pounds as I approach. This isn't just a party—it's something else entirely. I pause at the base of the stairs, taking a deep breath before ascending.

The doors swing open as I step inside, revealing a glittering ballroom bathed in golden light. The hum of conversation and laughter fills the air, mingling with the faint strains of classical music.

For a moment, I'm frozen, standing at the threshold of a world I never imagined myself in.

And then I step inside.

Chapter

Two

SAGE

The ballroom is a masterpiece of excess—polished marble underfoot, gleaming like liquid under the golden glow of countless chandeliers. Their light refracts through crystal, scattering delicate prisms across the high-arched ceiling, flickering over the masked figures who drift through the space with an effortless sort of grace.

Everything here is deliberate. Controlled.

The scent of aged wine and something subtly floral lingers in the air, mingling with the warmth of bodies moving in seamless choreography. Conversations hum in low, measured tones, blending into the muted strains of an unseen orchestra. Nothing about this place is loud—no raucous laughter, no careless gestures. It's all refined, a display of power wrapped in elegance.

I keep my steps measured, gliding through the room rather than walking, careful not to disrupt the carefully curated rhythm. Around me, groups form and dissolve—men in razor-sharp suits, their masks concealing everything but the edge of their smiles, women in gowns that shimmer like liquid gold and deep-cut velvet. No one is ordinary.

Waiters move between them, their crisp white gloves stark against the silver trays they balance with practiced ease. Delicate stemware glints under the light, filled with something dark, something rich. Each exchange is precise, brief, as if too much indulgence would shatter the illusion of control.

I exhale slowly, letting my gaze sweep over the grandeur of it all. The sheer scale of wealth and power here should feel suffocating, but instead, it's... mesmerizing.

Like a world I was never meant to step into—yet somehow, I'm here.

I move toward the edge of the room, finding solace in the quiet shadows where the light doesn't quite reach. Here, away from the press of bodies and the lingering scent of wine, it's easier to breathe. Easier to think.

I press my fingertips against the cool marble of the nearest column, grounding myself in the texture, the solidity of it.

Then, I feel it.

A presence.

Not just the idle awareness of someone nearby, but something heavier. Something watching.

Slowly, I shift my weight, my eyes drawn to the figure approaching. He moves with a kind of effortless authority, as if the very air bends around him, yielding to his presence.

His mask is dark, its edges adorned with filigree that catches the candlelight, glinting like fine silver. Beneath it, his features are sharp, defined—an angular jaw, a mouth that holds the barest ghost of amusement, eyes that seem to strip away whatever careful defenses I might have built.

His suit is a study in precision, the fabric clinging to him in a way that speaks of wealth, of careful tailoring, of someone accustomed to perfection.

He doesn't rush. Doesn't force his way into my space. Instead, he stops just close enough that the heat of him feels tangible, that the air between us shifts in an unspoken pull.

Then, with measured elegance, he extends a gloved hand.

"Welcome, Sage Holloway."

The sound of my name on his lips stills something inside me. The way he speaks it isn’t casual—it’s deliberate. Knowing.

My fingers twitch at my sides. “You know who I am?”

His head tilts slightly, a shadow of amusement behind the sleek black mask.

“There’s nothing I don’t know,” he says. His voice is smooth, but edged with something sharper beneath the surface—like silk drawn over a blade.

I swallow. The certainty in his tone unsettles me. It should send me running in the opposite direction. It almost does.

But beneath the unease, there’s something else.

Something dangerously close to intrigue.

“And you are?” I ask, lifting my chin despite the tremor in my pulse.

He steps closer—not threatening, but purposeful. The scent of him is warm, dark, something like spice and winter air.

“Malachi,” he says, his gaze holding mine through the mask. “Malachi Black.”

The name lands like a strike. Familiar and foreign all at once. I don’t know where I’ve heard it—but it carries weight. Power.

The conversation between us is a delicate dance—words laced with meaning, every reply calculated to draw me in.

I should be wary.

And I am.

But it’s impossible to ignore the pull—the way he speaks like he’s already read the end of my story and is just waiting for me to catch up.

Then the air shifts.

Subtle, but distinct.

I sense it before I see it—a ripple in the carefully curated energy of the ballroom. The conversations around us seem to dull, or maybe it's just my focus narrowing, drawn toward the figure emerging from the shadows.

He moves deliberately, unhurried yet undeniably purposeful. There's no need for flair, no effort to command attention, and yet he does. Effortlessly.

His presence is different from Malachi's. Where Malachi holds a poised refinement, this man is carved from something heavier, something unmovable.

His frame is broader, his suit tailored in a way that does nothing to soften the raw strength beneath. Square shoulders, solid, steady. His mask is simple but sharp-edged, framing a mouth set in a firm, unreadable line.

But it's his eyes that stop me.

Dark. Unwavering.

There's no amusement in them, no teasing glint of satisfaction like Malachi's. Instead, his gaze lands on me with the weight of something unspoken, something I don't quite understand yet.

A slow rush of something unfamiliar coils in my stomach—not fear, but something close. Anticipation edged in uncertainty.

He doesn't speak, not at first. He doesn't need to. His presence alone says enough.

I force myself to hold his gaze. "I don't believe we've met."

The silence lingers, stretching long enough for my pulse to tick just a little faster.

Then, Malachi speaks instead.

A smooth, practiced interruption. "This is Gideon," he says, voice laced with something unreadable. "We work closely together."

Gideon doesn't acknowledge the introduction. He just keeps looking at me, as if he's still deciding something, measuring whatever he sees in me against some invisible standard.

I can't tell if I pass.

I lift my chin slightly, steadying myself under the weight of Gideon's stare. "Sage," I say, voice even despite the inexplicable tension settling between us.

His expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Not a nod, not a murmur. Nothing.

The silence stretches just long enough for my pulse to tick higher. He isn't like Malachi. There's no amusement in him, no elegant wordplay, no carefully crafted air of charm. Gideon is something else entirely. A wall of discipline, restraint, something unreadable simmering just beneath the surface.

I exhale, forcing myself to hold his gaze. If he won't speak, fine.

Before the silence can turn unbearable, Malachi intervenes with practiced ease. "Gideon and I have been associates for quite some time."

I catch the briefest flicker of something in Malachi's voice—an edge so slight I wouldn't have noticed if I weren't already hyperaware of every movement, every shift in energy around me.

Associates.

The phrasing feels deliberate. Too deliberate.

Gideon doesn't confirm or deny it. He simply continues to observe me, his stance unwavering, the steady weight of his presence pressing down on me.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"We should visit out auctions tonight."

His voice is deep, low, but there's something measured about it, like every word is chosen with care.

I blink. "Auctions?"

The word hangs between us, unfamiliar, dissonant. Something about it feels wrong.

I glance toward Malachi, but he only offers a slight tilt of his head, his dark eyes holding something purposeful—like he's gauging how much to say, how much to let me figure out on my own.

"You'll see," Gideon says, as if that explains anything.

It doesn't.

Malachi's gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, something like a question in his eyes—an unspoken perhaps—before he turns away.

Gideon follows without another word.

As they disappear into the crowd, the air between my ribs expands, the weight of their presence lifting just enough for me to feel it.

I hadn't realized how much tension had coiled through me until they were gone.

For the first time since I stepped into this place, I can breathe.

And yet, I'm left with more questions than answers.

Because something about this night—this place, these men, that word—feels like a thread waiting to be pulled.

And I have the sinking suspicion that once I do, I won't be able to stop unraveling it.

Chapter

Three

MALACHI BLACK

Imove through the ballroom with steady, measured steps, Gideon at my side, his silence as familiar as my own. The low hum of conversation, the glint of candlelight on polished marble, the shifting currents of power beneath the surface of civility—all of it is second nature to me.

And yet, something lingers.

I glance toward the corner where I left her.

Sage Holloway.

That name shouldn't mean anything, yet it does. The way she held herself, the way her gaze didn't immediately lower in deference, the way her presence alone had felt...off. Not in the usual way that happens when an outsider stumbles into our world—fearful, naive, ripe for the taking. No, hers was something else. A quiet curiosity, an undercurrent of something I haven't yet defined.

Beside me, Gideon exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh but the closest he'll get to one. He doesn't turn his head when he speaks. "Something different about her?"

I don't answer immediately. Instead, I let my gaze sweep across the ballroom, taking in the masked figures, the delicate charade they all play at. Power disguised as indulgence. Wealth disguised as amusement. The illusion is nearly perfect.

But then there's her.

I flex my fingers, adjusting the black leather of my gloves.

"There are many women here tonight. Some more useful than others. Perhaps you shouldn't fixate on just one," Gideon suggests.

I cut him a sharp look, but he doesn't so much as blink. He's right, in theory. I don't fixate. I don't get distracted.

But the sensation of something unsettled, something unfinished, refuses to quiet.

Before I can respond, another presence disrupts the weight of our conversation—lighter, but no less calculated.

"As I live and breathe."

Asher Kane.

I don't bother suppressing my sigh this time as he steps into our path, grinning like he's already won something. Copper hair tousled just enough to be intentional, hazel eyes dancing with amusement, a glass of whiskey held loosely between his fingers.

"You're making that face again, Malachi," he muses, swirling the glass. "The one where you look like someone just insulted your bloodline."

I fold my arms across my chest. "I insult my own bloodline when I speak with you, Asher."

"Oh, you wound me." Asher's free hand lands dramatically on his chest, fingers splayed. "And here I was, about to offer a friendly wager."

Gideon makes a quiet, knowing sound beside me, but he says nothing.

I narrow my eyes. "A wager."

Asher's grin sharpens. The kind of sharp that cuts. "The girl. The one you were just speaking with. What was her name? Sage?"

Something cold unfurls in my chest, slow and deliberate. "What about her?"

He tilts his head, his mask catching the light in a way that makes him look even more amused. "Oh, nothing. I just thought I might be interested. Perhaps I'll outbid you."

I exhale slowly through my nose, suppressing the irritation curling at the edges of my control. "Stay away from her, Asher."

He clicks his tongue, clearly delighted by my reaction. "So possessive already? And here I thought you weren't the type."

Before I can put an end to this conversation, something shifts in the ballroom.

A new thread of tension pulls at my senses, and I don't need to follow Asher's gaze to know exactly where it leads.

I turn my head just enough to confirm what my instincts already told me.

Sage.

Only now, she's no longer standing alone.

She's speaking with Elias.

Of course.

Of all the people she could have drawn in, it had to be him.

Elias stands with his usual casual elegance, one hand adjusting the cuff of his vintage jacket, the other gesturing lightly as he speaks. His demeanor is easy, almost absentminded, but I know better. There's nothing absent about Elias Bennett. He observes everything, stores away every detail like a scholar collecting pages for a study only he can see.

Sage listens with a slight tilt of her head, her blue-grey eyes sharp with curiosity. Not wary, not guarded, but intrigued.

Something tightens in my chest.

It isn't anger. Not yet.

It's something slower, heavier.

Something I don't like.

Asher lets out a low whistle beside me, clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, now this is interesting. Should I go introduce myself? Maybe Elias and I can start a bidding war."

I don't respond.

Because my eyes are still on her.

And she's still looking at him.

And I don't like it.

Chapter

Four

ELIAS BENNETT

Iwatch Malachi move through the ballroom with his usual calculated grace. He doesn't wander. He doesn't browse. No, Malachi Black always moves with intent.

But tonight, there's a difference.

I see it in the way his gaze lingers, in the brief flicker of something almost contemplative as he pauses before a single woman—a woman I've never seen here before.

That alone is enough to pique my interest.

The others, the men draped in wealth and arrogance, refer to these gatherings with casual cruelty—auctions, merchandise, acquisitions.

I never cared for the terminology. I understand power, I understand ancient rites, but I never understood the need to dress them up in indulgence. A thin veil over something far more barbaric.

And yet, here I stand. Participating.

I tell myself it's different. That I only come to observe, to glean knowledge, to understand what the others refuse to question. I am not a collector of women, nor do I see the appeal in taking power through ritual.

But still—I am here.

And now, so is she.

She isn't like the others. That much is immediately clear. She doesn't move with the same trained ease, doesn't bat her lashes at masked figures in search of a suitor. She watches. Quiet, but keen, her gaze assessing rather than admiring.

Even now, as Malachi stands in front of her, I can tell she is thinking. Calculating. Trying to decipher the shape of the world she's been pulled into.

I watch as Malachi speaks to her, offering his gloved hand. His posture is precise, his voice low enough that I can't quite catch the words, but I know how he speaks to people. Soft enough to pull them in, firm enough to remind them he holds control.

Then Gideon steps forward, as steady and immovable as ever. She doesn't flinch under his scrutiny.

Interesting.

I roll my glass between my fingers, letting the golden liquid catch the candlelight. There is something here—something I want to understand.

When Malachi and Gideon turn to leave, I see the moment he looks back at her.

A flicker of something. Not hesitation, but something close.

That alone is enough to make me move.

I slip through the crowd, steps unhurried but purposeful. Malachi rarely lingers on anyone. If he did tonight, then she is worth a closer look.

And I do love a mystery.

As I step into her line of sight, she turns, sensing my presence before I speak.

Clever girl.

I allow a small, thoughtful smile to touch my lips as I incline my head.

"Elias Bennett," I say, introducing myself.

Her gaze flicks to me, blue-grey eyes sharp beneath the delicate edges of her mask. There's a moment—just the briefest hesitation—before she nods.

"Sage Holloway," she says, her voice steady, measured. I don't extend my hand the way Malachi had. I don't test boundaries. Not yet.

I watch as she assesses me—not just my presence, but my intent. A mind that doesn't just see, but seeks to understand.

"You seem familiar," she muses, as if trying to place me.

I arch a brow. "I should hope so. Columbia University. Medieval Studies."

Something in her expression shifts, a flicker of interest that tells me I've struck upon something worth pursuing.

"A professor?" she asks, lips curving slightly.

"Indeed. Though I have a habit of collecting books more than students these days," I reply. "And you? You don't strike me as someone easily impressed by grand halls and fine clothes."

That earns a quiet huff—not quite laughter, but close.

"You're right about that," she admits. "I prefer places where words are louder than people."

My smile deepens. "A fellow academic, then."

She lifts a shoulder in an understated shrug. "Librarian. New York Public Library. I'm nothing special."

"I wouldn't say that. A librarian is a noble profession. I imagine you spend more time lost in the stacks than speaking to people."

Her lips press together as if suppressing a real smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not at all," I assure her. "The right book is better company than most."

She exhales lightly, as if she hadn't expected the agreement. "Finally, someone who understands."

I take a sip from my glass, watching her over the rim. "Then tell me, Sage Holloway—what's your genre of choice?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she takes a moment, as if weighing her options.

"That depends," she says finally, tilting her head. "Are you asking what I read for comfort, for knowledge, or for escape?"

I blink. That was not the answer I was expecting.

Interesting.

"Let's start with comfort," I say, intrigued by the distinction.

"Old fairy tales," she replies without hesitation. "The originals—the ones before they were softened into bedtime stories."

"Ah, the dark ones," I muse, setting my glass aside. "Bloodied slippers, witches burned alive, monsters hiding behind beautiful faces."

Her gaze flickers with something unreadable. "Monsters aren't always the ones hiding."

I allow that to linger between us, the weight of it settling. She is perceptive. She sees more than she lets on.

"And for knowledge?" I ask, steering the conversation onward.

"History," she says. "Ancient civilizations, lost texts, forbidden knowledge. The things most people forget or never learned to begin with."

Now that makes me smile. "A woman after my own heart."

She gives me a knowing look. "I imagine your books are much older than mine."

"I have a library of texts that aren't meant to exist anymore," I admit, not without pride. "Though I suspect you'd appreciate them more than most. People tend to undervalue history."

Her eyes brighten just a little, though she tries to mask it. "Most people don't understand that history isn't just facts. It's stories—people, decisions, consequences. It's all connected."

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if sharing a secret. "You would love my collection, then. Manuscripts written before language was tamed. Books that whisper when the room is quiet enough."

She tilts her head. "That sounds dangerous."

"Everything worth reading is," I reply, and this time, she really does smile.

It's small, but it's there.

And I find that I want to see it again.

Chapter

Five

ASHER KANE

Iknow that look.

Malachi wears it well—tight-lipped control, jaw locked just enough to hide whatever's gnawing at him. His gaze has barely left Elias and the girl since the moment he saw them speaking.

Interesting.

Elias isn't the type to be pulled in by just anyone. He prefers his books to people, hoards knowledge like a dragon with gold, and most women bore him before they've uttered their third sentence. But not her.

No, this one has his full attention.

And Malachi?

Malachi doesn't like that one bit.

I take a slow sip of my drink, swirling the amber liquid against the glass as I watch the scene unfold. Malachi, brooding. Elias, enthralled.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

The woman on my arm—some senator's daughter, or was it a hedge fund heiress?—tilts her head up at me, pouting slightly. "You've gone quiet," she murmurs, fingers trailing along my sleeve. "That's not like you."

She's not wrong.

I flash her an easy smile, all charm and warmth. "Apologies, darling. It seems I've been thoroughly distracted."

Her brows lift, hopeful. "By me?"

Oh, sweetheart.

I lift her hand, brushing a light kiss against her knuckles before pressing a fresh flute of champagne into her grasp. "By the night itself, of course," I say smoothly. "And what a night it is."

Her smile is soft, but her eyes flash with disappointment. She knows a dismissal when she hears one. To her credit, she doesn't make a scene—just gives me one last wistful look before she melts back into the crowd, already searching for another willing conversation partner.

And just like that, I'm free.

I set my drink down on a passing tray, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket as I make my way toward Elias and his newfound fascination.

As I approach, I catch the tail end of their conversation.

"Books that whisper when the room is quiet enough," Elias is saying, his voice softer than usual, like he's unearthing some great secret just for her.

Sage—Sage Holloway, that's her name, isn't it?—tilts her head, blue-grey eyes glinting. She's interested. Not just entertained, but genuinely intrigued.

Oh, Elias.

Poor, bookish Elias.

You've already lost.

Grinning, I step into their little bubble, sliding in effortlessly at Sage's side. "Books that whisper? Sounds like the kind of literature that would keep a man up at night."

Sage startles slightly, her gaze flicking to me in surprise.

Elias exhales through his nose. "Asher."

I flash him my most winning smile. "That's my name, don't wear it out."

His mouth tightens, but there's no real bite behind it. He knows what I'm doing. Hell, Malachi probably knows what I'm doing.

But does she?

I turn to Sage, letting my gaze sweep over her, slow enough to be intentional. Malachi wasn't wrong—there's something different about her. She carries herself with a quiet kind of strength, an understated elegance that isn't forced.

Interesting indeed.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," I say, reaching for her hand before she can decide whether or not to offer it.

I don't kiss it—too predictable. Instead, I twist her wrist slightly, running my thumb over the delicate veins at the inside of her wrist, just a whisper of touch before releasing her.

She blinks, lips parting just slightly, but she doesn't pull away.

Hah.

Sage Holloway, you just became my new favorite mystery.

"Asher Kane," I tell her, my grin widening. "Charmed, I'm sure."

Sage doesn't pull away.

Interesting.

Most people do—either too flustered by my forwardness or too wary of what lies beneath my charm. She simply watches, blue-grey eyes sharp, calculating.

Smart girl.

I release her wrist, but not before my thumb brushes the delicate skin one last time, a whisper of sensation before I step back into my usual role—the one they all expect me to play.

The charmer. The rogue. The one who doesn't take anything seriously.

"Tell me, Sage Holloway," I say, slipping my hands into my pockets. "Do all librarians look at people like they're just waiting to crack them open like an old book? Or am I getting special treatment?"

Her lips curve slightly—not quite a smile, but close.

"It depends," she says, tilting her head just so. "Are you worth reading?"

Elias exhales heavily beside her, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he can already feel where this is going.

God, it's fun to bother him.

"I like her," I announce, turning to Elias. "Where did you find this one? I thought you preferred to spend your nights seducing musty old manuscripts instead of women."

Elias levels me with a cool, unimpressed look. "You do realize you're interrupting something?"

"Of course I do," I say brightly. "That's half the fun."

Sage watches the exchange like she's trying to map the dynamic between us. Smart and careful. Observant. I wonder how much she's picking up already.

"Should I be honored?" she asks, arching a brow. "That you've taken such an interest?"

"Oh, absolutely," I say without missing a beat. "Malachi doesn't usually get so intrigued by anyone. And if Malachi is interested, well... that means I have to be."

That earns a reaction—a flicker of something behind her eyes, some calculation running behind her expression.

Elias exhales again. "Asher."

I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of Malachi across the room. He's watching. Of course, he is.

And there it is—his tell.

One brow, lifted just enough to be noticeable. Not dramatic, not overt, but enough.

Good.

Malachi likes to pretend he's above things like irritation, but I know better. And pushing him is always entertaining.

I turn back to Sage, grinning. "You know, Elias here rarely takes an interest in anyone outside of parchment and ink, so I have to say—I'm terribly curious. What's so special about you?"

Sage doesn't flinch under my scrutiny. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, gaze steady. "Maybe you should ask yourself that question, Asher Kane."

Elias actually smirks. Oh, he likes this.

Before I can press further, the room shifts.

A hush ripples through the ballroom, the low hum of conversation fading into a near silence as the air thickens with expectation.

And just like that, the game between us is put on hold. For now.

Chapter

Six

SAGE

The air shifts, thickening with a weight I don't fully understand. Conversations fade into murmurs, then silence, as every masked figure in the ballroom turns toward the head of the grand hall.

A man stands beneath the towering arches, bathed in the golden glow of the chandeliers. His presence alone is enough to command attention. His mask is more elaborate than the others, black and gold filigree curling like vines over sharp cheekbones, the edges cut to mimic the spread of a raven's wings. His dark suit is pristine, perfectly tailored, a reminder that nothing about this night is careless.

Everything is deliberate.

The stillness in the room is unnerving. The only sound is the faint rustling of fabric as guests shift to watch, waiting. Expecting.

Then, he speaks.

"Midnight," he announces, his voice deep and unhurried, rolling through the space like a distant storm. "And so, the Ritual begins."

A ripple of anticipation moves through the room. I stand frozen, pulse steady but sharp, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

"Who is he?" I say, to no one specifically.

Elias must overhear my thought, because he leans in and whispers, "the Magister," as if that is supposed to explain everything.

The Magister's gaze sweeps across the gathered women, the weight of his attention predatory, but polished. Like he already knows who will stay and who will flee.

"For those new to our traditions," he continues, "allow me to explain the rules."

His tone is smooth, authoritative, the kind that doesn't need to be raised to be obeyed.

"The men gathered here tonight will bid for their chosen claim," he says, sweeping an arm toward the masked warlocks that fill the ballroom. "Their offers are simple: wealth in exchange for devotion. Whatever price is bid for you, you will keep—a gift, a token, a payment for your willingness."

Something sharp coils in my stomach. A payment.

"But know this," the Magister continues, his tone cooling to something quieter. "Once the bid is accepted, so too is the oath. In taking the offered wealth, you relinquish your body and your soul to the man who claims you."

The words hang in the air, heavy, absolute.

My fingers curl into my gown, the emerald silk suddenly feeling too smooth, too delicate against my skin. The weight of my own breath feels unnatural.

"There will be no turning back," the Magister adds, his gaze landing on a few of the women, though not on me. "You will belong to them for the duration of the Hunt."

A beat of silence follows, then a slow, satisfied smile curves the edges of his mouth. A soft murmur ripples through the guests, and I feel it then—the shift in the air, the change in energy. Excitement. Anticipation. Hunger.

The Magister takes a step forward, his presence filling the room like something tangible. "For those who do not wish to proceed, now is your chance to leave."

The words ring out like a final toll of a bell.

Even as something cold trickles down my spine, even as my mind screams at me to step back, to turn away, to disappear—I don't move.

This can't be real.

It's impossible.

It's insane.

Around me, women stand frozen in place, their expressions shifting between anticipation and unease. A few exchange quick glances, whispering behind their hands. Others straighten their shoulders, smoothing their gowns, their gazes flicking toward the masked men who are undoubtedly already choosing their favorites.

The weight of the moment presses down on me, suffocating in its certainty.

This isn't a joke. This isn't some elaborate performance designed to thrill or entertain. This is happening.

A few women finally break, pushing through the thick tension to step away from the ballroom floor. They walk quickly, their heels clicking against marble, heads bowed as if they can't stand the weight of so many watching eyes.

The Magister doesn't acknowledge them. He doesn't have to. Their choice is irrelevant now.

I should follow them.

Every logical part of me is screaming to follow them. To step back, to turn around, to flee before I get swept up in something I don't understand.

And yet—I stay.

Something holds me in place, something I don't dare examine too closely.

Maybe it's curiosity, the itch in the back of my mind that demands to know why I was invited, why Malachi and Gideon had looked at me like I was different. Why Elias and Asher approached me.

Maybe it's the sheer surrealism of it all, the dreamlike quality that makes this feel like one of my novels come to life.

A fantasy.

That's what it feels like, doesn't it? Like I fell asleep in my tiny apartment, buried under a stack of books, and woke up inside one of them.

Because things like this don't happen in real life.

They happen in stories.

In dark fairytales, where fate and magic twist together, where choices are made not by logic, but by the pull of something far more dangerous.

And the strangest part?

I want to see where this leads.

The thought almost makes me laugh—quiet, bookish Sage Holloway, willingly stepping into danger. The girl who spends her days hidden among library shelves, now standing in a ballroom of masked strangers, contemplating... what? Magic? Ritual? Something that can't possibly exist in my reality.

A sharp sound breaks my thoughts—the tap of a cane against the marble floor.

The Magister.

He moves down the steps with practiced ease, gesturing toward the women who remain. There are fewer of us now.

Not everyone was willing to take the risk.

"Step forward," he commands smoothly. "You have made your choice. Now let them see you."

A choice.

I suppose I have, haven't I?

Before I can think better of it, my feet move, carrying me forward along with the others. The air is thick with expectation, with something darker beneath the surface that I can't quite name.

We ascend the marble stairs, led in a slow, deliberate procession.

The stage is set.

The Ritual has begun.

Chapter

Seven

SAGE

Istand beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, lined up alongside the other women, waiting.

The stage is wider than I expected, the polished marble floor cool beneath my heels. Below us, the ballroom stretches out like something from a fever dream—masked men watching, the weight of their attention pressing down on us like a tangible force. A court of silent kings, each waiting to claim their prize.

I swallow hard.

This isn't real. It can't be.

And yet, one by one, women are brought to the center of the stage. And one by one, they are bid on.

The first woman—tall, stunning, with an effortless grace that makes it clear she's accustomed to being admired—is led forward. A hush falls over the room, the air buzzing with something I don't quite understand.

The bidding starts at fifty thousand.

Fifty. Thousand.

I try to keep my expression neutral as the numbers rise. Sixty. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars, final bid.

A man in a black mask wins her, tipping his glass in quiet triumph as she's escorted off the stage.

I stare after her, my stomach twisting.

One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. For her.

Another woman is called forward. This one is blonde, petite, delicate in a way that reminds me of a doll—porcelain skin, shimmering dress, lips that curve into something demure and practiced.

Seventy thousand. Ninety.

She sells for one hundred and ten.

The third woman walks with the kind of confidence that demands attention. Her gown is ruby red, her dark curls swept up in a way that makes her look regal, untouchable.

She sells for one hundred and forty thousand.

My fingers curl at my sides, pressing into the silk of my emerald dress.

I shouldn't be surprised. Of course, this is how it works. I should have known the moment the Magister called this a ritual. The moment I saw the way these women presented themselves, with the poise of people who already knew their worth.

Because they have worth, don't they?

They're beautiful, elegant, confident.

They know what they're doing here.

And then there's me.

I steal a glance downward, my fingers trailing absently over the smooth fabric of my gown.

The dress is exquisite. Everything about me tonight is borrowed, stolen from some other world where I don't belong.

I don't look like them.

I don't carry myself like them.

I'm not thin enough, not graceful enough, not the kind of woman who makes men pay attention, let alone pay hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I don't know how to pleasure a man. Not really, anyway.

Maybe it won't matter. Maybe no one will even notice me standing here, lined up among women who are so much more than I am.

Maybe no one will bid at all.

A small, bitter voice in the back of my mind whispers that it would be better that way.

I spent most of my life being overlooked, and it was easier that way.

Growing up, I wasn't the girl boys noticed in the hallway. I wasn't the one at the center of the party, the one people whispered about with admiration. I was the girl with her head buried in a book, the one who spent lunches in the library instead of making friends in the cafeteria. The girl who was always on the outside, looking in.

I told myself it didn't bother me. That I preferred it. That books were safer, better company than people ever were.

But standing here now, under the weight of so many unseen stares, I feel that old wound stirring, deeper than I want to admit.

Because what if it happens again?

What if they skip over me entirely?

What if the silence stretches, too long, too awkward, as the auctioneer calls my name and no one speaks?

I don't know which is worse—the idea of being bid on like some prize in a catalog, or the idea of being ignored completely.

I swallow hard, thinking of Malachi's intense stare, Elias's scholarly interest, and Asher's playful scrutiny. Would any of them bid? Or was their attention just a momentary curiosity?

The next woman is led to the center of the stage. She sells for one hundred and thirty thousand.

My breath shudders out, uneven.

And then, the auctioneer calls my name.

Chapter

Eight

MALACHI

The auctions have always bored me.

Other warlocks see the ritual as a chance to indulge, to seize something beautiful—someone desirable—and hold her for the duration of the Hunt, feeding off her essence, her devotion. To them, it's intoxicating, a visceral pleasure wrapped in the veneer of tradition.

To me, it's merely another transaction.

My gaze drifts lazily across the ballroom, watching masked faces twist with greed and anticipation. It's all a dance, carefully choreographed by power, wealth, and ritual. The participants mean little to me beyond the practical exchange—a year's worth of power in return for more money than most of these women will see in their lifetimes.

They think it's generosity.

It's not.

It's business.

Beside me, Gideon shifts subtly, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest as he watches a petite blonde walk center stage.

"One hundred thousand," someone calls from across the room. Another quickly counters with one hundred and ten thousand.

Gideon's mouth twitches. "They grow more extravagant each year."

"Supply and demand," I say dryly.

He gives me a sidelong look. "You seem distracted tonight."

"I'm observing."

"Observing?" Gideon's brow lifts just slightly. "Interesting choice of words."

I glance at him sharply. "Meaning?"

He shrugs, hands clasped behind his back, gaze steady. "You never fixate. And yet—" he gestures subtly toward the stage, eyes narrowed, "—you lingered."

I follow his gaze, irritation flickering beneath my skin, but don't deny it. Gideon sees too much, notices more than most. It's why he's useful—and occasionally infuriating.

"I'm allowed curiosity."

"You're rarely curious about the merchandise."

I let his words sit in the air unanswered.

Rarely? No—never.

But tonight is different. She is different.

My eyes drift across the crowded ballroom, seeking her out instinctively, like my body knows exactly where to find her. And there she is, standing at the edge of the stage, eyes wide with uncertainty, chestnut hair catching the light, delicate curves draped perfectly in emerald silk. She doesn't see herself clearly—doesn't understand her own allure—but I see it.

There's an innocence edged with steel, a vulnerability balanced by strength. Sage Holloway is more than she thinks she is. And tonight, she's unknowingly made herself the most valuable woman in this room.

The thought unsettles me.

It shouldn't matter.

It never has before.

Yet now, I'm counting down the moments until her name is announced.

Gideon shifts again, folding his arms across his chest. "She's attractive enough, but she doesn't seem your usual type."

"Do I have a type?"

He snorts quietly. "Yes. Predictable. Easily controlled. Compliant."

I narrow my eyes, but before I can respond, Sage steps to the center of the stage.

My breath catches slightly, and that's the first warning sign that this is more than simple observation.

She's visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Her posture stiffens slightly, her hands gripping the sides of her emerald gown. Even from here, I sense the anxious flutter of her pulse, see the slight tremor in her fingertips. Her expression holds uncertainty, apprehension, and something deeper—an echo of loneliness she hides carefully behind quiet dignity.

My jaw tightens as the Magister calls out, voice ringing clearly over the silent room: "Sage Holloway."

The silence that follows her name hangs heavily in the air.

No one bids immediately.

It's a hesitation, not a rejection—but she doesn't know that. Her face, already guarded, shifts subtly. Her blue-grey eyes scan the crowd, shoulders drawing inward slightly as doubt flickers across her features. I see it plainly: the familiar retreat inward, the internal questioning. She doubts her value compared to the women before her. I watch the way her fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her gown.

She believes no one sees her worth. But I do.

Beside me, Gideon clears his throat quietly. "Interesting," he murmurs. "You aren't bidding yet."

"Neither are you," I reply coolly.

He nods, thoughtful. "Perhaps I'm curious too. Perhaps it's amusing to watch you hesitate for once."

My gaze sharpens. "Careful."

He shrugs slightly, expression neutral. "If you don't bid soon, Asher will. He's watching her like he's found something new to play with."

I glance toward Asher. He stands near the stage, drink in hand, eyes bright with interest and something dangerously close to amusement. He notices me watching, tipping his glass slightly as if in challenge.

I bite back the irritation rising in my chest. He's baiting me. Of course he is. He enjoys pushing, testing limits, especially mine. But he's right—I can't stall forever.

On the stage, Sage lifts her chin slightly, the trembling in her hands easing as she steadies herself. Her eyes are defiant, daring anyone to dismiss her entirely.

Gideon watches me carefully, voice low and knowing. "If you don't claim her, someone else will."

I already know that.

I don't speak, don't move. I simply hold her gaze, waiting, considering.

Letting the silence stretch just a bit longer.

It's strategic, I tell myself, a tactic to gauge the competition, nothing more.

But deep down, beneath logic and reason, I know the truth is more complicated.

I want her, and I can't afford to let anyone else have her.

The Magister clears his throat, a subtle cue that the bidding window is nearly closed. At this point, Sage's embarrassment feels imminent, like a shadow creeping closer. My gaze briefly meets Asher's again, the faint smirk on his lips raising my ire.

"Five hundred thousand."

My voice cuts through the room, sharp and unequivocal.

The reaction is immediate.

Heads turn, mouths part slightly in shock, and whispers ripple outward like waves from a stone dropped into still water. Even Gideon stiffens beside me. No one ever bids that high—not this early, not for someone unknown. It's reckless, extravagant, deliberately designed to discourage challenge.

But I'm not taking chances.

On stage, Sage's eyes widen, her expression shifting rapidly from confusion to shock. Her lips part slightly, as though she can't quite believe she heard correctly. It's clear no one has ever placed a price like that on her before.

"Five hundred thousand," the Magister echoes clearly, nodding toward me. "The bid stands at half a million."

I let the silence sink in, savoring it. There's no way anyone else would dare challenge that sum. This isn't just a bid—it's a statement, a declaration. She's mine.

The Magister lifts his hand, preparing to close the bidding, but before he can speak, a familiar voice calls out lazily from the back of the ballroom.

"Six hundred thousand."

Asher.

He stands casually, whiskey glass in hand, eyes glittering with mischief, clearly enjoying the sudden ripple of shock spreading through the room.

My jaw tightens.

Gideon clears his throat beside me. "You knew he wouldn't resist."

I narrow my eyes at Asher. "He's playing games."

Gideon hums softly in agreement, but his tone is amused. "He's doing a good job of it."

"Eight hundred thousand," I call out, voice low and measured, masking any hint of irritation. I see Sage's eyes widen further, her cheeks flushing beneath her mask, the color making her seem even more alluring.

"Nine hundred thousand," Asher counters effortlessly, lifting his glass in a mocking salute toward me.

Elias steps forward from his shadowed corner, finally breaking his quiet observation. His expression is cool, thoughtful, though I sense the undercurrent of genuine interest beneath his calm exterior.

"One million."

The ballroom erupts into low, fervent murmurs, excitement buzzing through the gathered crowd. This is unprecedented—three of us openly competing like this, in full view of everyone else.

I study Elias carefully, noting the glint of genuine curiosity in his eyes. It's clear he feels a draw toward her as much as I do, though he's less obvious about it than Asher. He's subtle, always measured, but this is bold, even for him.

"One-point-five million," Asher calls out, sounding more delighted than ever. "Sorry, gentlemen. But this one's too intriguing to let go so easily."

My jaw tightens, and I lift my chin, leveling a steady look at Asher. He knows exactly what he's doing. He's trying to provoke me, to bait me into something reckless.

It's working.

"One point seven," Elias says smoothly, adjusting his cuffs, casual as though he's bidding on a rare first-edition manuscript and not a woman whose worth is rapidly skyrocketing with every heartbeat.

"Two million," I counter, my voice controlled, cold, a warning I know both Elias and Asher can hear clearly.

Asher laughs outright. He leans casually against a column, looking thoroughly entertained. "Two-point-five million. Let's make things interesting."

A tense hush sweeps over the crowd now. Even the Magister seems stunned. Sage's expression moves beyond disbelief and edges into something closer to panic. Her fingers clutch her gown tighter, as though afraid this entire night might dissolve beneath her grasp.

I refuse to look at her, knowing if I do, my composure might slip. I focus on Asher instead, feeling my power simmer beneath my skin, barely contained.

He arches an eyebrow, challenging me openly. He's testing how far I'll go.

Fine.

"Three million," I say, voice quiet but clear, a tone that leaves no doubt about my intentions.

Absolute silence fills the room. Even Asher seems momentarily speechless, his expression caught between shock and admiration. Elias inclines his head slightly, acknowledging defeat gracefully.

The Magister finally steps forward, recovering quickly enough to raise a hand. "Sage Holloway, sold to Malachi Black for three million."

The crowd breaks into soft applause, polite but stunned, like they've witnessed history unfolding before their eyes. But I'm no longer focused on them.

I watch Sage.

She stands rooted to the spot, eyes wide, disbelief etched into every line of her posture. Our gazes lock, and in that instant, she knows exactly what just happened—though she can't yet understand the implications.

She belongs to me now.

And for the first time in my life, I've claimed someone for more than power. More than a mere business transaction.

I don't know exactly what I've done or why I've done it.

But looking at her now, I feel something entirely unfamiliar—something protective, something possessive, something that tightens my chest with startling intensity.

As the Magister announces, "Sage Holloway, claimed by Malachi Black," I realize the night's true intrigue has only just begun.

Chapter

Nine

SAGE

"Sage Holloway, claimed by Malachi Black."

The Magister's words echo through the grand ballroom, slicing straight through my thoughts and scattering them into a thousand pieces. The world feels distant, muffled, as though someone has pressed pause, freezing me in place as reality slips through my fingers.

Three million dollars.

I don't even know how to process it. It's absurd, impossible, the sum alone enough to leave me dizzy. I glance around the room, and every masked face seems fixed on me, expressions hidden but their curiosity unmistakable. Heat rushes into my cheeks, scorching my skin, intensifying the blush that spreads down my neck.

I barely register Malachi approaching until his tall, commanding form fills my vision, blocking out everything else. He extends a gloved hand, his presence somehow even more potent now.

"Come, Sage," he says, voice low and unwavering.

Someone gently nudges me forward, and without thinking, I place my hand in his. Instantly, I'm aware of him—of the heat of his skin beneath the soft leather, the hard, unyielding muscle in his arm as he wraps my fingers around it. The solid strength of him grounds me even as it sets every nerve aflame.

My heart hammers as he leads me away from the stage. I glance up at him, trying to read his expression beneath the dark mask, but I see only shadowed eyes and the sharp line of his jaw. His grip on my arm is firm but not unkind, and even through his gloves, I can feel the heat of his body radiating into mine.

It's disorienting, exhilarating, terrifying.

He guides me to the corner of the ballroom, away from the center of attention, and quietly instructs me, "Sit."

I obey, sinking onto the velvet chaise he gestures toward, the silk fabric of my emerald dress rustling around me. My pulse quickens as I glance around the room, uncertain of what happens next.

A few more auctions, but I'm barely lucid to see who is bidding and for what.

Then, finally, the mood shifts. A rhythmic pulse of music suddenly fills the air, deep and sensual, a drumbeat that echoes straight into my chest. The chandeliers dim, replaced by a vivid wash of crimson neon lights flickering in bursts from hidden sconces along the walls. The room transforms from elegant grandeur to something far more primal.

I watch, breath hitching, as around us the masked figures begin to move—no longer distant observers, but now participants in an entirely different kind of dance.

Bodies press closer, silk and velvet sliding over skin, masks discarded as mouths find each other in heated kisses. My face heats as I watch a woman in sapphire silk arching against the wall, her lips parted in pleasure as a masked man trails kisses down her throat, hands roaming freely beneath her dress. Her soft moans drift toward me, and my body flushes in response.

I can't look away.

Malachi moves closer, his voice a deep rasp beside my ear. "Watch them, Sage. Watch how they surrender."

I tremble as I obey, my breath coming faster now. The room is a blur of sensuality. Couples and groups begin stripping away clothing with abandon, exposing bodies glistening under the red neon lights strobing from unseen corners.

Across from us, a woman drops gracefully to her knees, unbuckling the belt of a man standing above her. He threads his fingers through her hair, guiding her mouth onto his stiff erection. I watch, transfixed, as her lips part, her moan of pleasure lost beneath the throbbing bass.

I shift, thighs pressing together unconsciously as heat coils low in my belly. Malachi moves closer, his chest brushing my shoulder. I shiver at the closeness of him, at the scent of his cologne—dark, rich, addictive.

"Do you see?" he murmurs in my ear, voice deep and sinful. "Do you see how they surrender?"

I can't speak, can only nod as I watch the erotic display in front of me, breath hitching as one woman bends forward over a table, her gown hiked around her waist, a masked man thrusting his cock deep inside of her from behind. His powerful hips move sharply, driving into her with raw, unapologetic need, her cries of pleasure blending with the music.

My body feels flushed, hot, aching. I know Malachi senses it—he must. His gloved fingers trail gently over the curve of my neck, tracing a delicate pattern across my collarbone. His lips brush against my ear, voice pitched low.

"Imagine yourself like that, Sage," he whispers, dark silk in my ear. "Imagine yourself bent forward, your hips pressed against me as I take you, your body trembling beneath mine."

A soft gasp escapes me. The vivid imagery fills my mind, and I squeeze my thighs together tightly, aware of the wet heat gathering there. Malachi's fingertips skim down my throat, his voice darkening.

"I'd take my time with you," he breathes, every word slow, deliberate, torturous. "I'd savor the way your body trembles beneath my touch. I'd taste every inch of you, slowly, until you beg for more."

My breath catches, heart racing. I'm dizzy with need, watching a woman across the room now bent over the polished marble table, her gown pushed high over her hips as a man thrusts into her deeply, powerfully, while another stands close, feeding her his cock, her mouth wrapped around him eagerly, desperately.

"Oh god," I whisper, my voice cracking.

Malachi's hand slips lower, his touch hidden from view by the shadows. He carefully, subtly cups my breast through the silk of my dress, his thumb grazing my hardened nipple, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. I bite back a moan, my hips shifting instinctively toward him.

"You belong to me now," he whispers roughly, his teeth gently nipping my ear. "Mine to touch. Mine to pleasure. And when I finally strip you bare, Sage, you'll beg for me to claim every part of you."

His other hand slides up my leg, beneath the heavy silk folds of my gown, and he strokes me gently through the damp fabric of my underwear. Pleasure spikes through me, my body arching instinctively into his touch, heat building fast and uncontrollably.

"Malachi—" I gasp, barely audible.

"Quiet, darling," he soothes, his thumb circling deliberately against the soaked silk, sending sparks of pleasure racing up my spine. "Watch them. Imagine it's you. Imagine it's me taking you. Hard. Deep. Imagine my cock stretching you, filling you completely as you beg for more."

I tremble, barely holding back a moan as I watch the decadent scene before us reach a fever pitch. Bodies moving in rhythm, pleasure loud, explicit, unapologetic.

"Soon," Malachi promises, his voice low and thick with promise, "soon, I'll fuck you until you can't remember anything but my name. But for now, Sage, just let go and feel."

His fingers press against my clit again, firm, precise, and my whole body clenches. Pleasure surges through me, overwhelming and consuming, and I shudder, reaching for a silent climax, hidden from view but completely exposed before him.

And deep down, I know—I've never wanted anything more than I want this.

Chapter

Ten

ASHER

Malachi guides Sage into the shadowed corner of the ballroom, his hand possessively settled at the small of her back, fingers gripping her waist with an ownership that tightens my jaw. I don't let my irritation show—not outwardly. I'm too practiced for that. But beneath my carefully maintained veneer of casual amusement, anger simmers quietly.

I feel it sharpen every time Malachi leans closer to her, whispering secrets I can't hear but can easily imagine. He touches her like he already owns her, fingers disappearing beneath the silk of her emerald gown, and even from this distance, I can read the shift in her posture, the subtle arch, the way her head tilts ever so slightly backward.

Jealousy coils tight in my gut, sour and foreign.

I should look away. I have my own entertainment to focus on, after all.

The two women I claimed earlier are kneeling at my feet, alternating their attention as their soft lips slide along the length of my cock. Normally, this would be enough. More than enough.

Tonight, though, it's not.

I stare down, watching their mouths moving along me, tongues tracing paths that should ignite fire in my blood. It feels good—of course it does—but somehow, the sensation is muted. Hollow.

My gaze flickers upward again, inevitably drawn back to Sage. Malachi's clearly skilled; the way she clings to him, lost in sensation, tells me he's playing her body expertly. The spike of irritation grows in my chest.

I hate losing.

And three million dollars? For a librarian who blushes at the slightest attention? It's absurd. Excessive. Revealing.

Malachi never loses control. Never shows his hand. Yet tonight, he did both.

Enough of this. Enough watching from afar. I grip one woman's waist and firmly roll her onto her stomach, pulling her hips upward until she's positioned exactly how I want her. She moans in anticipation, arching back toward me, eager for more.

I thrust into her swiftly, her body instantly tightening around me, pulling me deeper. She gasps, gripping the marble floor as her cries blend into the decadent chorus of pleasure surrounding us.

"Come here," I murmur roughly, tugging the other woman up by her arm until she's positioned above me. I lean back, pulling her down onto my mouth, feeling her thighs tense as my tongue immediately moves against her.

She cries out sharply, her fingers twisting into my hair, hips rocking in desperate rhythm. The woman beneath me whimpers, urging me deeper, her body trembling beneath my hands.

Yet, I find myself detached, going through motions I've perfected over countless nights. I pleasure them both skillfully, driving them closer to their peaks, knowing exactly how to bring them there quickly.

But it's mechanical. Empty.

I glance again toward Malachi and Sage, bitterness tightening in my chest as I watch her cling to him, pleasure evident in every line of her body. Through the dim light, I can see her blue-grey eyes half-closed, lips parted, completely lost in whatever he's doing to her.

He won. He took her from me.

And that thought overshadows everything else.

I redouble my efforts, determined to finish this. My grip tightens as I bring both women swiftly to climax, their pleasure washing through me in a rush of energy as their souls briefly intertwine with mine. It's powerful, intoxicating—exactly what I should want.

But as I claim their essence, I realize bitterly that it's meaningless tonight.

Because as long as Malachi has Sage, nothing else matters.

Chapter

Eleven

ELIAS

I'm not accustomed to envy.

Standing near the edge of the ballroom, I watch Malachi with Sage, and I find myself experiencing an unfamiliar tightening in my chest—something I can't quite name, yet recognize instantly.

Frustration.

It's not a feeling I'm familiar with. Usually, my days are calm, controlled, spent buried in old books or deciphering ancient manuscripts. My world is tidy, intellectual, quiet.

But tonight is anything but quiet.

And Sage Holloway is anything but ordinary.

From the moment she opened her mouth, she captured my attention. Her intellect, sharp and insightful. Her subtle humor and quiet curiosity—qualities rare among these gatherings, where surface charm and manufactured elegance are currency. She's genuine, an intriguing puzzle I had wanted desperately to understand, to unravel slowly over long conversations in quiet corners.

But Malachi has claimed her.

Across the room, I watch as he leans close, whispering words meant only for her. His gloved hand disappears beneath the hem of her emerald gown, and I see the slight shudder that moves through her, the way her lips part in response.

I look away sharply, irritation twisting tighter inside my chest. This isn't jealousy—not precisely—but something close. Something unsettling. Something that suggests a depth of feeling I hadn't anticipated.

Gideon stands nearby, his posture rigid and unmoving, his gaze fixed stoically ahead. He, too, has chosen no one tonight, though his reasons are different from mine. Gideon rarely indulges openly. He's controlled, disciplined, treating the Ritual more as duty than pleasure.

"Gideon," I greet quietly, joining him near the edge of the room.

He gives a subtle nod, eyes still fixed forward. "Elias."

I follow his gaze, knowing exactly who he's watching. "Interesting night," I remark casually, though my tone is anything but.

His gaze remains steady. "Indeed."

"Malachi seems unusually invested," I observe, testing carefully.

Gideon makes a low noise of acknowledgment, not looking away from Malachi and Sage. "He is."

"Three million," I muse, still processing the unprecedented sum. "For a librarian."

Gideon's brow lifts slightly. "Not just any librarian."

"And you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "No temptation tonight?"

He finally turns toward me, his gaze sharp, considering. "Some temptations are better avoided."

I exhale softly, nodding. "Indeed."

My eyes drift back to Sage. Her expression has shifted, caught somewhere between disbelief and ecstasy, her cheeks flushed, blue-grey eyes wide and uncertain.

I clench my jaw.

It shouldn't matter. There are always other Rituals, other nights, other women.

But Sage is different.

The way she spoke earlier, thoughtful and precise. Her quiet curiosity, her willingness to meet my gaze directly, to challenge me intellectually—it captivated me in a way that beauty alone never could.

I don't want to watch Malachi claim her. To see her taken from me in every possible way.

"I think I've had enough of this," I say quietly, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket, forcing neutrality back into my voice.

Gideon nods slightly, understanding passing between us. "Goodnight, Elias."

I turn away, feeling the tension ease slightly as I step out of the ballroom, leaving the Ritual behind. But even as I depart, I know the frustration will linger—quiet, insistent, unanswered.

Because Sage Holloway is still in there.

And she's with Malachi.

Chapter

Twelve

SAGE

My body shudders violently, pleasure surging through me, sharp and electric. Malachi's fingers continue their relentless rhythm, pushing me higher until everything else fades away—the room, the masked crowd, the Ritual itself. All that matters now is his touch, the velvet rasp of his voice in my ear, promising things I've never dared imagine.

In this heightened state, something strange begins to stir inside me—a presence deeper than pleasure, more intoxicating than desire. It's as if I'm connected to Malachi, tethered by some invisible thread, drawn to him with an intensity that frightens me even as it exhilarates me.

I gasp his name softly, head falling back, eyes fluttering closed as I lose myself completely.

As the pleasure finally ebbs, my breathing slows, leaving me trembling in the aftermath. But the connection—whatever strange, magnetic pull I felt—begins to fade, slipping from my grasp like sand through fingers. I blink, returning to reality, and look up at him. Malachi watches me intently, eyes narrowed, as if sensing the same strange tether between us.

The ballroom slowly returns to focus around me, and as my senses sharpen, I notice what's happening. My heart lurches, adrenaline flooding my veins as I watch the scene before me.

Across the room, the other women lie in states of blissful surrender, eyes glassy with contentment. Their partners, however, glow subtly, standing taller, eyes sharper, their posture exuding unmistakable power. I squint, trying to make sense of it.

As I look closer, something shifts. My vision sharpens even further, and suddenly I see it clearly—the silvery threads of energy that flow from each woman to the man holding her. The energy pulses softly, brilliant and ethereal, and as each man absorbs it, he seems to grow stronger, brighter, more vital.

Yet the women appear perfectly content, lost in their satisfied haze, their smiles languid and serene.

"What is this?" I whisper urgently, my voice shaking. I turn to Malachi. "What's happening here?"

Malachi's eyes snap to mine, startled. "You can see that?"

I stare at him, heart pounding. "Yes—what are they doing?"

His expression darkens with confusion and wariness. "You shouldn't be able to see this."

Frustration sparks inside me, my voice rising slightly. "Well, I do. What's going on?"

Malachi takes a slow breath, regaining his composure. "It's the Ritual. The essence they release during climax—it feeds us, strengthens us. They give willingly; we take willingly. No harm is done."

I stare at him, pulse racing, thoughts whirling. "You feed off them?"

"Yes," he answers evenly. "It's an ancient exchange, one of pleasure and power. The women benefit materially and physically. Everyone leaves satisfied."

"And me?" I demand, suddenly uneasy. "You didn't⁠—"

"I did not," he confirms, voice low and heavy. "Not yet."

Something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. "Why not?"

He leans closer, his voice dipping into something dangerously intimate. "Because, Sage, I think I'd like to savor you more than a quick fuck."

Heat floods my cheeks, my mouth dropping open in stunned silence. Before I can recover, Malachi straightens, gaze returning to the scene before us.

"No," I whisper sharply, shaking my head. "I'm not doing this."

He looks at me sharply, eyes darkening. "You don't have a choice. You belong to me now."

"No," I snap defiantly, rising from my seat, trembling but determined. "I will not!"

His jaw clenches, and he reaches for my arm. "Sage, enough⁠—"

The moment he touches me, something inside me snaps. Energy surges from deep within my core, erupting outward in a burst I cannot control. Malachi is thrown back several feet, stumbling, shock etched clearly across his features.

A stunned silence falls over the room. Every head turns toward me, expressions masked but clearly astonished. I look down at my trembling hands, panic twisting tight in my chest.

"Impossible," Malachi breathes, eyes wide with disbelief.

I stumble backward, heart pounding painfully in my chest, terror rising sharp and hot. The silence around me shifts into something more sinister, hungry, predatory.

And suddenly, I understand: I'm no longer invisible.

I'm exposed, vulnerable.

Powerful.

The realization terrifies me. Without thinking, I turn and bolt from the ballroom, heart hammering in my ears as I flee into the shadows, knowing instinctively they'll follow.

And that I may never escape again.

Chapter

Thirteen

MALACHI

"Impossible," I breathe, voice barely above a whisper.

Sage doesn't answer. Panic blooms on her face, and suddenly, she's running, fleeing the ballroom in a blur of emerald silk and raw magic.

The warlocks around me react immediately, instincts taking control. Their carefully crafted masks of civility fracture, giving way to primal hunger. They surge forward, all rational thought consumed by the intoxicating rush of sensing something they thought extinct—a witch.

Sage is in danger.

I gather my strength, power flaring violently beneath my skin, stepping forward to block their path.

"Stand down," I command, voice hard with authority. But even as I speak, I know words won't be enough. Their eyes gleam with feral intensity, magic crackling in the air. They've tasted the raw power she's unleashed—and now they want her.

All of them.

With a grim determination, I unleash a wave of force, pushing them back, buying her precious seconds to escape.

My jaw tightens as I brace myself for the fight I know is coming.

Because Sage Holloway is mine—and no one else will have her.

Chapter

Fourteen

GIDEON CROSS

The room descends into chaos in an instant.

I pivot sharply, watching Sage flee—her movements frantic, edged with panic and raw power, her gown trailing behind her in waves of emerald silk. Malachi stands frozen beside me, fury radiating from every tense muscle in his body, his gaze burning toward the Magister.

The Magister steps forward onto the raised stage, his presence imposing, amplified by authority and dark power. He lifts his hand, voice carrying clearly over the chaos now sweeping through the ballroom.

"The woman is not human," he announces coldly, eyes narrowed and fierce. "She is a threat to our kind. Capture her immediately. Whoever brings her to me will be handsomely rewarded."

A collective shudder ripples through the assembled warlocks, each of them suddenly alert, eyes flashing with hunger and ambition. They've tasted her raw power—felt its potential—and now greed grips them. The elegant masks of civility they've worn all evening crumble in an instant.

I turn sharply toward Malachi, meeting his fierce stare head-on. His jaw is clenched so tightly it's a wonder it doesn't shatter.

"Malachi," I say firmly, my voice clipped and direct. "What's the play here?"

He doesn’t look at me right away.

His gaze is locked on the Magister, that self-important bastard standing on the dais, robes billowing as if the wind obeys him.

“I’m going to kill him,” Malachi says, voice low and flat. No emotion. Just lethal certainty.

I stiffen beside him. “Negative,” I reply immediately, scanning the chaos around us. “Too many witnesses. Too much fallout.”

Malachi turns his head slowly, finally facing me. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them—not wild with rage, but sharpened by purpose. A purpose he’s been waiting to act on.

“He’s threatened what’s mine,” he snaps. “She belongs to me, Gideon. And if he lays a hand on her, the High Council won’t be able to protect him.”

My jaw tightens. “And the consequences?” I counter. “You know what it means to kill the Magister. He’s not just a mouthpiece—he’s the High Council’s blade.”

Malachi’s lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. “I’ve waited too long to make my move against them.”

That pulls me up short.

Because I know exactly what he means.

The High Council—the ruling body of those warlocks who consider themselves from ancient bloodlines, who built their power on manipulation, secrecy, and blood-bound control—have long maintained dominion over our kind. They protect our secrets, enforce the sacred laws, and ensure warlocks like us stay in line. Malachi has never played their game.

But this is different.

This isn’t strategy.

This is personal.

“You’ve always hated them,” I say quietly, reading between the lines. “But this...This would make it war.”

His voice is iron. “So be it.”

I watch him for a beat longer, calculating the angles. We can’t take on the High Council tonight. Not like this. But Sage—we can still reach her first.

I nod once. “Target acquisition first. We secure the girl. Strategic retreat, then reassess.”

His shoulders ease slightly with my agreement. Not much, but enough to know he won’t rip the Magister apart just yet.

“Let’s move,” he mutters.

We push through the crowd, the Magister’s voice still ringing behind us like a curse.

Outside, darkness envelops us, cool air slamming into my face, sharpening my senses. I feel Malachi's magic coiling tightly around him—sharp, lethal, protective—as we move swiftly into the night.

We must find her first.

Because if anyone else gets to Sage Holloway before us, there will be nothing left to save.

Chapter

Fifteen

SAGE

My heart pounds violently in my chest as I stumble through unfamiliar corridors, the echoes of my frantic footsteps reverberating off stone walls draped in shadows. Elegant sconces cast dim, flickering pools of red neon light along dark, winding hallways, illuminating just enough to guide my frantic path forward.

The mansion feels like a maze—grand and opulent, yet menacing in its dimness. Rich velvet curtains hang heavily at every window, blocking any glimpse of escape, every door I try locked tight against me. Panic claws at my throat, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

A noise behind me—a low, dangerous growl—sends terror skittering up my spine. I whirl around, eyes wide in the gloom, but see nothing but shadows stretching across polished marble floors.

I press forward, pushing myself faster, the hem of my emerald gown snagging beneath my heels, nearly tripping me. I yank it up, stumbling forward. Adrenaline surges, mixing with fear and desperation as I turn down another corridor, heart hammering in my ears.

"Sage," a smooth voice calls from the darkness behind me, playful and unsettling. "You can't run forever."

Asher.

My pulse spikes. I quicken my pace, pushing open a heavy wooden door, slipping inside and shutting it quietly behind me. I press my back against the cool wood, breathing heavily as I glance around.

It's a library—massive, shadowed, lined floor to ceiling with shelves of leather-bound volumes, the scent of aged paper heavy in the air. Normally, this place would feel like sanctuary, but tonight it's oppressive, a prison of leather-bound walls.

Footsteps echo closer, calm and unhurried.

"Come out, sweetheart," Asher taunts gently. "I promise I'll make it worth your while."

I press deeper into the shadows, eyes darting desperately around for a way out. My pulse thuds painfully, panic rising. He's getting closer.

Another voice—cold, authoritative. Gideon. "Careful, Asher. Remember what she did to Malachi."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Asher drawls. "That's what makes this fun."

My breath hitches. I press my back tightly against the bookshelves, willing myself to disappear among the shadows and ink.

The door swings open, soft light spilling into the library. I see their silhouettes, two broad figures entering silently, stalking forward slowly, predators tracking their prey. My pulse spikes. There's nowhere left to run.

"She's here," Gideon murmurs quietly, his voice edged with sharp intensity. "I can sense her."

"Of course she is," Asher replies, sounding amused. "She's clever. Libraries are her natural habitat."

The footsteps draw closer. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling power simmering inside me, hot and insistent, a force I barely understand. It feels alive, ready, protective.

"There you are," Asher breathes suddenly, and my eyes snap open as he emerges mere feet away. His hazel gaze locks onto mine, his mouth curved in an arrogant smile.

"Stay away," I whisper, voice trembling despite my attempt at strength.

His smile widens, dangerous and charming all at once. "But we've barely gotten to know each other, Sage."

Instinct flares within me, desperate, raw. Without thinking, I thrust my hand out. Power explodes from me, fierce and bright, sending books flying from shelves and forcing Asher backward with a grunt of surprise. Gideon braces himself, narrowly avoiding the blast, eyes widening.

I don't wait. I sprint past them, ignoring their startled shouts, bolting through the open door into another corridor. My heels echo loudly as I run, breaths ragged, chest aching with exertion.

I skid to a stop at the end of the corridor, heart dropping when I find only a massive, ornate window. Behind me, their voices rise again, closer now, hungry.

Desperation claws at me. There's no other choice.

I wrench the window open, frigid night air washing over my flushed skin. The gardens sprawl far below, shadowy and uncertain in the dim moonlight. For a single heartbeat, doubt twists my stomach. It's too far down. I don't know if I'll make the leap.

Then I hear footsteps approaching behind me, and fear ignites into resolve. I begin to stand on the sill, and that's when I hear it.

"Sage?"

I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Elias?"

He steps forward slowly, the flickering light catching his glasses, eyes calm but alert behind the lenses. His usual air of scholarly detachment is still there, but his expression is softer now, warmer. "Please, come down from there."

I hold on tight to the window frame, wary eyes searching his face. "Stay back."

He raises his hands slowly, palms out. "I'm not going to hurt you, Sage."

I shake my head, pulse hammering in my throat. "Why should I believe you? You're with them—you tried to bid on me."

Elias lowers his hands but makes no further move toward me. He's careful, deliberate. "I did," he admits quietly, "but that was to protect you."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Protect me? That's what Malachi claimed too, and look how that turned out."

His expression tightens, concern flickering briefly across his features. "Malachi has complicated motivations—but he won't harm you. Not intentionally."

"Not intentionally?" I echo incredulously. "Did you not see what just happened back there?"

"I did," Elias says calmly, brown eyes watching me intently from behind his glasses. He adjusts them absently, the gesture oddly comforting—familiar. Normal, even, as if we were discussing a rare manuscript back at the library. "But believe me when I say Malachi wouldn't risk so much for mere cruelty. You mean something to him. To each of us it seems, actually."

I laugh sharply, harsh and bitter. "I don't even know what you people are."

"Warlocks," Elias says softly, taking a careful step closer. His voice stays even, soothing. "You've already sensed that much. We draw power from others. But you..." He pauses, brows knitting together as if still figuring out exactly how to explain. "You're something different."

"Different?" My voice cracks on the word. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"Neither do we." He hesitates, cautious. "I can sense the magic awakening in you. Can't you feel it?"

"I don't want any of this," I say, my voice breaking slightly, fear and confusion warring inside me. "I just want to go home."

He tilts his head gently, sympathy flickering in his eyes. "I wish it were that simple. But what you did back there—it caught everyone's attention. You revealed power that shouldn't even exist anymore. And that makes you very dangerous—and incredibly valuable."

"Valuable," I repeat, bitterness seeping into my voice. "Is that all I am now? Another piece of merchandise?"

"No," he says firmly, eyes darkening. "Not to me."

"And why should I believe you?"

He takes another cautious step forward, the candlelight catching the edges of his glasses. His voice is quiet but firm. "Because I didn't come here to claim you, Sage. I came because I felt something about you that goes far beyond this Ritual. Your mind, your strength, your love of the things that truly matter—books, stories, knowledge. There's more to you than you realize, and I want nothing more than to understand it."

His words catch me off guard. I study his expression carefully, looking for any hint of deception, any sign he's manipulating me. But all I see in Elias is sincerity, a careful honesty that makes something in me want desperately to trust him.

"You really don't want to hurt me?" My voice sounds small, vulnerable.

"Never," Elias says softly. "I only want to help you understand who you are—what you are. I think we both want the same thing."

"And what's that?" I ask warily.

"To understand the truth behind all of this," Elias replies gently. "Because I believe, deep down, we're both seekers of knowledge. And whatever secrets lie at your core could change everything."

He offers his hand cautiously, a quiet invitation rather than a demand. I stare at it, conflicted, my heart racing with indecision. But there's something steadying about Elias, something familiar, safe even, beneath the tension of the night.

Slowly, hesitantly, I reach toward him, my fingers trembling as I close the distance. I all but fall into him as he pulls me from the open window.

"Sage!"

My heart jolts at the sound—Malachi's voice, harsh, commanding, edged with anger.

I spin around just in time to see Malachi stalking toward us down the hall, Gideon at his side, both looking deadly, furious, and ready for violence.

Elias straightens, expression tightening with sudden tension. He shifts protectively closer, positioning himself subtly between me and them.

"Step away from her, Elias," Malachi growls, his voice low and lethal. "Now."

Elias meets his gaze evenly. "She's terrified. She doesn't trust you. You need to calm down."

"I said," Malachi repeats slowly, voice hardening dangerously, "step away."

"I'm not going anywhere," Elias says coolly, his voice controlled but unyielding. "She's confused. She needs answers, not threats."

Malachi's jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "I won't ask again."

Gideon steps forward, placing a hand firmly on Malachi's shoulder—a quiet warning. "Malachi. Not here."

Malachi exhales sharply, eyes locked on me. He's barely controlled, visibly wrestling with himself. "Sage, come to me now."

I shake my head, voice trembling but defiant. "No. Not until you tell me what's really going on."

He steps toward me again, his body taut with fury, but Elias blocks his path. "Don't make her afraid of you."

"She belongs to me," Malachi snarls, voice rough, barely contained fury simmering beneath his carefully controlled exterior.

"I belong to no one," I say quietly, my voice shaking but strong enough to echo around us.

Malachi's dark gaze flashes dangerously. "That's not how this works, Sage."

His anger ignites something inside me—a spark, raw and uncontrolled. Before I realize what's happening, power gathers beneath my skin again, hot and dangerous, humming like electricity through my veins.

"Don't!" Elias says, and I instinctively pull back. "Your powers, they will draw the others close." He turns to look at Malachi. "We need to move. Now."

Chapter

Sixteen

ASHER

The chaos unfolding around me is exactly my kind of entertainment—warlocks scrabbling over one woman, their carefully cultivated composure shattered in an instant. It's almost comical.

Almost.

I lean casually against the carved stone column at the edge of the balcony, overlooking the marble hall below. Malachi, Gideon, and Elias have formed a loose perimeter around Sage, clearly attempting to shield her from the inevitable onslaught of our kind that cannot resist the pull of her powers. Even from here, I sense the faint vibrations of magic around them, sharp and protective.

I myself am having a hard time keeping away from her. But, my bloodline, like Malachi's and Elias' is quite old, and with it comes a certain level of control over the magic that thrums through us.

She stands at their center, breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath that emerald gown that clings to her body in ways she's entirely unaware of—but I can't help noticing. Her eyes flash with a mix of fear and irritation, the kind of stubbornness that makes my lips curve upward.

I shift slightly, watching the scene unfold below. She's different, this one—this Sage Holloway. She hasn't yet realized how thoroughly she's disrupted the equilibrium of this carefully choreographed ritual.

Malachi glances toward Elias sharply. "What did you think you were doing back there? She's mine."

Elias doesn't back down, calm as ever, though the way he straightens his glasses gives away his tension. "You don't own her, Malachi. You can't simply stake a claim and⁠—"

"I paid for her," Malachi snaps, the ice in his voice clear. "Three million. And I will do whatever I must to protect what's mine."

Gideon remains silent, his stance defensive and watchful. Always the loyal shadow, never choosing sides openly, but I see the subtle flicker in his expression. He'll follow Malachi to hell if asked—but even he can't ignore the pull of the woman between them.

Malachi steps closer to Elias, voice dropping dangerously low. "Do not challenge me tonight, Elias."

Elias, ever composed, lifts his chin defiantly. "She's not a possession, Malachi."

"No," Malachi growls softly, taking a threatening step forward. "She's much more than that. She belongs with me."

Sage's head snaps up sharply, her fists clenching at her sides, anger blazing in her eyes. Oh, they've done it now. This isn't a woman who wants to be spoken about as if she's not even here. Interesting.

I lean forward slightly, watching as Sage takes advantage of the men's distraction. Her clever fingers begin working deftly at the seams of her gown, tearing the fabric away at the hem until it hangs just above her knees, giving her freedom to move. The fabric rips audibly in the tense silence.

My grin widens. Resourceful girl.

They don't even notice, too wrapped up in their petty conflict to see her preparing an escape.

I chuckle quietly to myself, pushing off the column as I watch Sage glance between them, eyes narrowing with contempt.

"I'm right here," she says sharply, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Stop talking about me like I'm some piece of jewelry you're fighting over."

The men pause, finally registering her anger, and I see the faint flash of guilt cross Elias's face. Malachi remains rigid, his expression hard and unyielding.

"I don't belong to anyone," Sage says coldly, her tone firm and clear, her voice echoing slightly against the marble walls. "And certainly not to you."

Before any of them can respond, she spins on her heels, bolting towards an open window and jumping.

They move to follow, but it's already too late. Sage is quicker than she looks, disappearing into gardens below. I hope she made the fall. Would be a lot less fun if this is how it all ended.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. She's got fire in her, more than any of them realize. A deliciously dangerous combination of stubbornness and spirit.

Malachi shouts something after her, his voice furious, but she's already vanished into the shadows.

Good for you, Sage.

I straighten, buttoning my jacket casually. If they're too blind to realize their squabbling is the exact thing pushing her away, then they deserve to lose her.

But maybe it's for the best.

Because now, I'll have my chance.

Without another glance toward the trio of warlocks still fuming in frustration, I slip from the balcony, melting quietly into the darkness, my footsteps silent as I move down the hidden staircase and out into the gardens.

I might not have been the highest bidder, but there's more than one way to win.

And I've never been very good at losing.

She's quick, I'll give her that.

I wait in the shadows. I know exactly which way she'll come—she's following instinct rather than logic, and instinct always leads people straight to me.

Sage rounds the corner at a run, nearly colliding with my chest. Her startled gasp echoes sharply in the brisk night air, her wide eyes meeting mine with instant recognition—and anger.

"You!" she shouts, breathless, voice tight with accusation.

I step smoothly into her path, catching her gently by the wrists before she can bolt again. "Easy now," I murmur, careful to keep my grip loose, non-threatening. "I'm not here to hurt you, Sage."

She jerks back instinctively, but I'm ready for it, anticipating her every movement. Her pulse races beneath my fingertips, quick and frantic. I feel it through her skin, warm, alluring, alive with energy.

"Let me go," she demands, struggling lightly against my hold, but not truly fighting—not yet.

"I will," I tell her calmly, "but first, I just want to understand something."

She glares up at me, defiant and suspicious. "Understand what? What's there to understand? You and your friends bid on me like I'm property⁠—"

"Malachi bid on you," I correct gently. "And believe me, I'm just as curious about that as you are."

Her expression falters slightly, uncertain. "Then why did you bid against him?"

I give her a half-smile. "Curiosity. I don't like to lose—and Malachi doesn't like to share. Watching him squirm was an unexpected pleasure."

Her brows furrow slightly, confusion mixed with lingering distrust. But the tension in her body lessens, just enough that I release one wrist, though I keep a gentle hold on the other. She doesn't pull away immediately.

"What's happening here, Asher?" she asks softly, eyes searching mine for honesty. "I can't make sense of it."

I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. "It's the Ritual—an old tradition. Powerful men bid on beautiful women. It's supposed to be a transaction, a trade. But you..." My voice trails off deliberately, inviting her closer, pulling her in with quiet curiosity. "You're something else entirely."

She exhales softly, her expression shifting from wary to vulnerable. "I don't even know what that means."

"Neither do I," I admit quietly. "But unlike my colleagues, I'd rather discover it gently than force it."

She watches me for a long moment, assessing, weighing my sincerity. The subtle way her lips part, the slight tilt of her chin—she's tempted to trust me. I see it plainly on her face.

Good.

I shift closer, just enough that our bodies brush lightly, her warmth radiating through her thin, torn dress. My pulse quickens at the way her breath hitches softly. She's aware of me now—not as a threat, but as something else entirely. Something tempting.

"You feel it too," I whisper, lowering my voice to a low rumble, thick and coaxing. "That pull, Sage. That need to know what lies beneath the surface."

She shakes her head faintly, denial flitting across her eyes even as she shifts toward me instinctively. "I can't trust you."

"Maybe not," I say, my voice gentle now, my hand moving slowly to brush her cheek. She trembles faintly under my touch. "But you want to."

She doesn't deny it. Her eyes soften, gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before lifting back to mine, uncertainty warring with desire in the quiet depth of her eyes.

And just like that, my restraint snaps.

I tilt her chin up, leaning in to press my mouth to hers. Her gasp melts quickly into something warmer, more welcoming. I deepen the kiss, pulling her flush against me, savoring the way she softens, opening beneath my touch, her mouth moving eagerly against mine. Her lips part, inviting me deeper, her taste intoxicating—sweet, like something forbidden. Her free hand grips my shirt, pulling me closer as if she's as lost in this moment as I am.

I slide my fingers into her hair, holding her firmly but gently, deepening the kiss until she moans softly into my mouth, the sound setting my blood on fire.

But before I can lose myself completely in her, footsteps approach, and then strong hands wrench us apart.

Malachi's furious face fills my vision, eyes blazing with barely-contained rage as he shoves me backward.

"Get your fucking hands off her," he snarls.

Sage stumbles back, eyes wide, mouth swollen from my kiss, breath uneven as Elias quickly steps in, shielding her protectively.

Gideon's grip tightens around my shoulders, yanking me further away, his expression coldly furious.

"You know better," Gideon growls low, voice tight with warning.

I chuckle breathlessly, fixing Malachi with a mocking stare. "Just offering a bit of comfort. Someone had to."

Malachi's jaw clenches sharply, eyes darkening dangerously as he shifts his gaze back to Sage. Something possessive, almost feral, flashes behind his controlled exterior.

"She's not yours," Malachi says quietly, deadly calm now.

I grin despite myself, straightening my jacket, forcing a casualness I don't feel. "Not yet," I reply smoothly, eyes meeting Sage's again. "But the night is still young."

Her gaze doesn't waver, defiant but still uncertain. And beneath her confusion and fear, I see it clearly now:

Desire.

She felt what I felt. She wants what I want.

And no matter what Malachi thinks, Sage Holloway isn't finished with me yet—not by a long shot.

Chapter

Seventeen

MALACHI

My fists clench, teeth grinding so hard my jaw aches. He's testing me, and he knows it.

"Say another word," I snarl, stepping toward him again, "and I'll carve your tongue from your mouth."

"Enough," Elias cuts in sharply. "This isn't the time for a pissing contest."

I shift my glare to him. "Did you know?"

His expression remains cool, but something flickers in his eyes. A fraction of hesitation.

He knew.

The realization only fuels my fury, but I shove it down, focusing instead on the real problem at hand.

Sage.

She stands between them, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Her lips are still swollen from Asher's kiss, a fact that only makes my blood burn hotter. But beneath that, beneath the confusion and exhaustion clouding her expression, I see something else.

Fear.

Not of us, but of what's waiting out there.

I force my rage into something useful, something sharp and controlled. "We can't stay here. The Magister won't let this go."

"Agreed," Elias says. "But we're not handing her over."

Sage shifts slightly, arms wrapping around herself. "So what are you saying?"

I exhale slowly, steadying myself. "We take you somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't sense your power signature."

She hesitates. "And where is that?"

"My Estate."

"I'll be coming along, then," Asher says, as if this is some joking manner.

I turn to face him fully. "You can't be serious."

Elias adjusts his glasses, voice mild but firm. "She's not staying alone with you."

I let out a humorless laugh, looking between them. "You think I'm going to let you come with us?"

"You think you're going to keep her to yourself?" Asher grins lazily, but there's an edge to it, something dangerous beneath the charm. "Come on, Malachi. You're not the only one who's drawn to her. You felt it back there, didn't you?"

I still.

Sage glances between us, eyes widening slightly, realizing exactly what's being laid bare.

We all want her.

And none of us are willing to give her up.

"The runes on your estate are powerful, but they won't be enough to hide her. You'll need us to add to them."

I exhale slowly, tension thrumming through me like a live wire. He's right, and I hate it. I should fight this. I should push back, reclaim control. But right now, getting her out of here alive and keeping Sage safe is more important than my own fucking pride.

"Fine," I bite out. "But once we're there, we settle this."

Asher smirks. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

Sage stiffens slightly beside him, clearly overwhelmed, but I don't have time to reassure her. We need to move.

I step closer, gripping her wrist just firm enough that she knows there's no fucking running this time.

"You're coming with us, Sage," I say lowly, voice cold, controlled.

She looks up at me, hesitant but unyielding. "And if I say no?"

I tighten my grip slightly, just enough to feel her pulse race beneath my fingers.

"Then I'll make you."

Chapter

Eighteen

SAGE

Malachi must have made good on his promise, because I wake up in another world.

For a moment, I don't move, my body still heavy with exhaustion, my mind sluggish as it struggles to recall the last thing I remember. The sensation of soft, cool sheets against my bare legs registers first—silk, impossibly smooth, impossibly expensive.

This isn't my bed.

My eyes snap open, heart immediately kicking into a frantic rhythm. Where am I?

I sit up too quickly, the world spinning slightly as my fingers clutch at the sheets. Not sheets—a duvet, thick and luxurious, the color of deep onyx, embroidered with silver threads.

I blink, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

The bedroom is lavish in a way that makes my stomach twist. Everything is oversized, designed with excess in mind. The bed itself is absurdly large, the kind of thing you'd see in a palace, draped in the softest fabrics imaginable. Dark wood and polished marble blend seamlessly in the space, the walls lined with deep bookshelves and floor-to-ceiling windows covered by sheer black curtains. A chandelier, sleek and modern, hangs above, casting soft golden light across the room.

Everything feels too refined. Too rich. Too perfect.

And I have no memory of how I got here.

A sharp pang of unease lances through me. The last thing I remember is—running. Fleeing into the dark. Then Malachi, Gideon, Elias—Asher.

My stomach clenches. They must have brought me here.

I shove the blankets off, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor beneath my bare feet is warm—heated, because of course it is. The sheer indulgence of it only makes my nerves tighten.

This isn't just some high-end hotel. This is a mansion.

And I am very much a prisoner.

I push up from the bed, hesitating for only a second before making my way across the room. The furniture is sleek, modern, and unbelievably expensive. A sitting area near the windows boasts a velvet couch and an impossibly low glass coffee table, while a sideboard stocked with crystal decanters gleams under the chandelier's glow.

But it's the closet that stops me in my tracks.

The door is already slightly ajar, the space beyond glowing with soft ambient light.

I swallow hard, fingers brushing the smooth handle before pushing it open fully.

The moment I step inside, my breath catches.

The closet is bigger than my entire apartment.

Racks of clothing—in my size—line the walls, organized with clinical precision. Dresses, skirts, blouses, coats—a wardrobe that looks hand-selected, tailored to my body before I ever set foot in this place.

I turn, running my fingertips over the fabric. Satin, silk, cashmere. Expensive in a way that makes my stomach tighten uncomfortably. The shoes alone could probably cover my rent for a year.

This isn't normal.

Nothing about this is normal.

But neither is a man paying three million dollars for the pleasure of my—what did he call it?—essence for one night.

Swallowing against the lump rising in my throat, I step out of the closet and head toward the only other visible door—the bathroom.

If I thought the bedroom was excessive, the bathroom is obscene.

Dark marble, sleek and polished, stretches across the floors and up the walls, shot through with veins of gold and silver. A massive walk-in shower with rainfall fixtures and steam settings stands to one side, glass walls framed by intricate black steel. The countertops are black quartz, lined with expensive bottles of products I don't recognize but know cost more than anything I own.

And in the center of it all?

A bathtub.

Not just any bathtub—a deep, freestanding soaking tub, big enough to drown in, already filled with steaming water, wisps of fragrant steam curling toward the ceiling.

I take a slow step forward, my reflection catching in the oversized mirror above the sinks.

I look like I don't belong here.

My hair is wild, my makeup smudged, a stark contrast to the impossible luxury surrounding me. I'm wearing a slip of satin I don't remember putting on.

My pulse thrums against my throat.

They were prepared for me.

They had all of this ready.

I grip the edge of the countertop, my breath shallow. "What the hell is going on?" I whisper, barely audible even to myself.

The water in the tub ripples slightly, a single droplet splashing over the edge, and I realize my hands are trembling.

This isn't real.

It can't be real.

And yet, the heat from the bath reaches my skin, the scent of something heady—amber and spice—lingering in the air.

I'm awake.

I'm here.

I turn away from the steaming bathtub, the rising heat curling against my skin. My pulse is still erratic, my thoughts a tangled mess. I need answers—I need to understand what's happening.

But instead, I find Asher.

Leaning casually against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with a slow, amused smirk.

I jolt back instinctively, gripping the edge of the sink. How long has he been standing there?

"Enjoying yourself?" he drawls, voice smooth and lazy, but there's something sharp in his gaze, something deliberate.

"I—" I stutter, tugging the hem of my slip down—not that it helps much. The silk is barely anything, thin and delicate, clinging in ways that make me far too aware of myself. "How long have you been there?"

Asher's smirk widens, his eyes flicking over me unapologetically. "Long enough," he says easily. "And I've got to say, the view is spectacular."

Heat rushes to my face. I look down, too uncertain to hold his gaze.

"Could you... please..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, unable to find the right words.

Before Asher can respond, another voice cuts in.

"Asher, stop antagonizing her," Elias says, stepping into the room with a composed expression.

Behind him, Malachi appears.

Unlike Asher, he's not smirking. His dark eyes scan me slowly, assessing. I feel the weight of them, the way his gaze lingers just long enough to make my skin prickle.

He doesn't look amused.

He looks possessive.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling very exposed. "Please," I say quietly, "I need to know what's happening."

Elias exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want to know?" he asks patiently.

I hesitate, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "Everything. What is this ritual? Where am I? And what... what did I do back there that made everyone react that way?"

Malachi stiffens slightly, but he doesn't speak.

Elias, as always, remains calm. "We believe," he says carefully, "that you're a witch."

I blink, the words not quite registering. "A... witch?"

"No broomstick," Asher muses. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing you in a cute little witch's hat."

"Asher," Malachi says, voice clipped.

But I'm not paying attention to their bickering. Because I remember.

The power. The way it surged out of me, unrestrained, uncontrolled. The way the warlocks reacted, the hunger in their eyes. Like they knew exactly what I was before I did.

Elias watches my expression shift. "You felt it, didn't you?" he asks softly.

I swallow hard. "If I'm a witch, how didn't I know?"

"That's the real question," Gideon finally speaks up from behind Malachi, his voice low, unreadable. "Witches haven't existed for centuries. Not since⁠—"

He stops himself, but Malachi cuts in.

"Not since we wiped them out," he says, voice cold.

The words drop between us like a stone in water, heavy and suffocating.

I stare at them, stunned. "You—you killed them?"

Malachi holds my gaze, unapologetic. "Warlocks did," he corrects. "We take power. Witches were power. It was inevitable."

I take a slow step back. "And now, I'm one of them?"

Elias nods. "It would seem so."

My mind reels, trying to process, to fit this information into something that makes sense. It doesn't. None of this does.

Even if I accepted it—which I don't—that still doesn't explain why I'm here, with them.

I take a slow breath, trying to steady myself. "Who are you, then?" I ask quietly.

Elias answers first. "We are warlocks. Asher, Malachi and I come from elite bloodlines." He gestures vaguely around us. "Our heritage gives us a certain amount of power, wealth, influence, control. And... other things."

I bite my lip, hesitant. "Other things like the Ritual?"

He pauses just long enough to make my pulse spike.

"Why don't we go have breakfast," Elias suggests smoothly. "I'll explain everything."

I exhale slowly, exhausted but desperate for answers. "Okay."

Asher stretches lazily, rolling his shoulders. "Sounds boring. I'll pass."

"Shocking," Malachi mutters.

Asher flashes a lazy grin, already heading toward the door. "Try not to scare her off, Malachi. I know you love to brood, but let the girl eat first."

Malachi's gaze snaps back to me, dark and sharp. "Don't take too long," he tells me, his tone flat. "We have a lot to discuss."

I nod silently, unable to find my voice as he turns to leave.

Chapter

Nineteen

ELIAS

Ilead Sage through Malachi’s estate, watching her take in the space as she moves. She’s still trying to process everything—the sheer size of the place, the polished elegance that hides how dangerous it really is. The tension in her shoulders, the slight furrow between her brows… she’s thinking too hard. Analyzing every detail. Searching for the cracks in reality.

Smart girl.

Most wouldn’t even notice the estate is built in a subtle spiral—designed to disorient, to keep guests from feeling grounded.

But I know the turns by heart.

I’ve been here more times than I can count.

The three of us—Malachi, Asher, and I—have worked together for years. Uneasy allies at times, bound by bloodlines, deals, and the kind of power that doesn’t play nice with politics.

Asher knows the estate too. Probably spent just as many nights here sneaking wine from the cellar as he did helping Malachi hide magical contraband.

Me? I was always drawn to the library.

And now, I’m guiding a witch through the house of a warlock who’s spent his life tearing down the system that once hunted her kind.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

I say nothing as we enter the dining area—if it can even be called that. The long, polished table stretches nearly the length of the room, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the mountain views. The entire space is an elegant blend of dark wood, sleek modern fixtures, and understated opulence.

She hesitates at the threshold, eyes flicking toward the massive chandelier overhead. "How many people do Malachi even feed here?" she asks quietly.

I pull out a chair for her. "You're assuming he hosts dinner parties."

"This table is big enough to seat twenty," she observes, her voice barely above a whisper.

I arch a brow. "And yet, here you are, the only guest."

She doesn't respond but sits timidly, folding her hands in her lap. I take the seat across from her, resting my forearms on the table. With a flick of my wrist, breakfast materializes before us—a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, golden croissants, and steaming coffee.

Sage stares at the plates. Suspiciously.

I watch, amused, as she leans forward, squinting at the food like it might sprout legs and scurry away.

"Something wrong?" I ask mildly.

She doesn't look at me, still eyeing the plate warily. "What... what is this even made of?"

I blink. "Food."

She exhales softly, shaking her head. "No, I mean—you just made it appear."

"Yes," I say slowly, watching her carefully.

"With magic," she adds, voice cautious, as if testing the words aloud.

"That is generally how warlocks operate," I confirm.

She finally lifts her gaze to mine. "So... did you create it? Or is it transported from some actual kitchen?"

I lean back in my chair, intrigued by the way her mind works. "It's transported, of course. Do you think I'm some kind of food alchemist?"

She doesn't smile. She looks dead serious.

"So someone actually cooked this," she clarifies. "In a kitchen. With normal ingredients."

I incline my head. "Correct."

She looks down at her plate. "And then you—what? Just... brought it here?"

"I wouldn't use the word 'brought,'" I say, drumming my fingers against the table. "But essentially, yes. Think of it as a very efficient delivery service."

She exhales softly. "Okay. But how do I know that transported food won't, I don't know, affect me somehow?"

I blink, then chuckle softly. "Sage, I sincerely admire your ability to analyze every possible consequence, but I assure you, you are perfectly safe."

"How do you know?" she asks, uncertainty in her voice.

I smirk. "Because I've been eating it for decades, and as you can see, I'm still alive."

She gives me a look like she isn't entirely convinced. But then her stomach growls, and she hesitates slightly, carefully picking up a fork. "I guess I am hungry."

"Noted," I say, amused as she finally takes a bite.

And then she really eats.

I don't miss the way she seems to relax after her first mouthful, her expression shifting into something more comfortable.

I sip my coffee, watching as she eats with growing enthusiasm. She was starving.

Which makes sense—her body has been using an immense amount of energy. First, from whatever latent magic awakened inside her. Then, from running for her life.

It's fascinating to see her now—focused entirely on the simple act of satisfying hunger.

But I'm also aware of her vulnerability.

The slip of a nightgown she's still wearing doesn't help.

She's utterly unaware of how she looks—barefoot, curled into the chair, the thin silk hugging her figure in ways that are impossible to ignore. It's soft, delicate, the kind of thing that should never be in the same sentence as Malachi's name.

I set my coffee down. "Sage, would you mind if I helped you change into something more comfortable?"

She pauses mid-bite, eyes widening as she sets her fork down. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing inappropriate," I say smoothly. "Just an adjustment."

Before she can protest, I flick my fingers subtly, shifting the magic just enough to change the fabric of her nightgown into something infinitely more appropriate.

A soft, plush set of loungewear replaces the thin silk—a perfectly fitted sweater and loose, cozy pants that look warm enough to make up for the chill in the air.

She gasps softly, her hands flying to her arms, feeling the change in fabric. "What⁠—"

"Better?" I ask, sipping my coffee.

She looks down at herself, clearly startled. "I... um, a warning might have been nice."

I smirk. "Where's the fun in that?"

She looks down at herself again, tugging at the edge of the sweater, testing the fabric.

And then, much to my amusement, she gives a small nod.

"Thank you," she says softly, adjusting the sweater around her shoulders.

I watch her settle back into her chair, continuing to eat, the tension from before slowly unraveling.

She still doesn't fully trust us.

She still doesn't fully understand what she is.

But she's starting to accept that whatever comes next, she won't be able to run from it.

Sage finishes eating, finally pushing her plate away with a quiet sigh, the tension in her shoulders slightly looser than before. Not completely gone, but it's a start.

She leans back in her chair, absently running her fingers along the rim of her water glass. I watch her carefully, studying the way her mind is still working, still trying to put together the puzzle pieces she doesn't yet understand.

She's adjusting faster than I expected.

Which only reinforces what I already suspect.

I stand, stepping toward the coffee station near the end of the dining area. I pour a fresh cup, the rich scent filling the air, and then set it in front of her before sitting down beside her instead of across from her.

She blinks, clearly surprised. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," I say simply, watching her fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto the warmth like it's grounding her.

The space between us is close now. Close enough that I can feel the faint heat radiating from her skin, the subtle brush of magic that lingers around her—untamed, raw, not fully controlled.

I know what it means.

And I have to tell her.

She exhales, glancing at me. "So, are you going to explain all of this? Because I'm still very confused."

I fold my hands in front of me. "Yes. But first—take a deep breath."

She hesitates but obeys, inhaling slowly, closing her eyes for a second before exhaling.

"Good," I murmur. "Now, ask me again. What's the first thing you want to know?"

She opens her eyes, blue-grey and questioning beneath the soft glow of the chandelier. "What's happening to me?"

I nod, expecting that question. "We believe you're a witch."

She looks down, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup. "But what does that mean? I'm just... me. A librarian. Not some magical being from a fairytale."

I study her carefully. "And yet, you threw Malachi across the room with nothing but your own willpower."

She stiffens slightly.

I tilt my head. "You've felt it, haven't you? Even before the Ritual. Strange things happening around you. Unexplainable feelings. Maybe heightened instincts, moments where the world felt different."

Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing.

That's answer enough.

I continue. "Witches haven't existed for centuries. The last of them were hunted down, either killed or drained for their power."

"By... warlocks?" she asks cautiously.

I nod once.

She looks down at her coffee. "So you're saying your kind... eliminated mine."

I don't look away. "Yes."

A beat of silence passes, thick and charged. But Sage doesn't flinch. She absorbs the information, processes it. Another confirmation that she is, in fact, exactly what I think she is.

"So if witches don't exist anymore," she finally says, "then what does that make me?"

I exhale slowly. "That's what we need to figure out."

She swallows hard, voice barely above a whisper. "So I am in danger."

I watch her carefully. "Do you feel like you are?"

She hesitates. "I'm... not sure."

I nod. "That's because you're surrounded by people who want something from you, but none of us know exactly what that something is. That makes you vulnerable."

Her lips press together, her shoulders tensing again.

I soften my tone. "That's why I want to help you, Sage."

She searches my expression, looking for deception, for ulterior motives. I hold still, letting her see that I'm telling the truth.

She exhales, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I see. But who exactly are you all?"

I smile faintly, tipping my head back. "Warlocks. The elite, if you want to be technical."

She looks at me questioningly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," I reply smoothly, "that warlocks exist in different levels. There are those who practice small, insignificant magic—low-level practitioners, hedge warlocks, minor bloodlines. And then there are those like us. The strongest. The most connected. The most powerful."

She looks down at her coffee again. "And with power comes wealth?"

"And control," I confirm. "Which is why what happened to you last night is so important. No warlock would ever allow a witch to exist—especially one as powerful as you."

Her fingers tighten around her cup again, but she doesn't respond.

I lower my voice slightly, softer now. "You're changing, Sage. I don't know why your power is awakening now, or why it was dormant before. But I do know that you can't face this alone."

She stares at me for a long moment before she exhales, her shoulders softening slightly.

Then, finally, she takes another sip of coffee.

"The coffee is good," she murmurs.

I chuckle. "I'm glad you think so."

She gives a small nod, a tentative acceptance of her current situation.

Sage listens.

She doesn't interrupt, doesn't recoil. She simply absorbs.

It's something I've noticed about her—the way she takes in knowledge before reacting. She's the kind of woman who wants to understand before she acts. It makes her incredibly fascinating.

"You said witches don't exist anymore," she says slowly, setting down her coffee. "But clearly... I do."

I nod. "We thought your kind was gone. All of them."

She looks up at me. "Gone... or eliminated?"

I hesitate, watching her closely. Smart girl.

"Both," I admit. "There was a time when witches ruled magic, not warlocks. The Mothers were the first. They were the source of all magic—their bloodlines stretched across continents, their power unlike anything the world had seen. Warlocks, by comparison, were far weaker."

She leans forward slightly, her eyes darkening with interest. "Then what changed?"

I exhale slowly. "The Order."

"The Order?"

"The ruling body of warlocks. Old magic. Old money. They saw what witches were capable of and feared it. And so they did what all men do when faced with women who hold power over them."

She swallows. "They took it."

I nod. "They called it balance. Control. But it was theft. The Mothers were overpowered, their magic drained. The curse that followed is still whispered about. No witches were born after that day. Their bloodlines faded."

"But if that's true..." Sage trails off, shaking her head. "Then how am I here? How do I exist?"

I study her carefully. "That's the question we need to answer. Because recently, there have been whispers that the curse was broken. That the Mothers' magic has begun to return."

She blinks, absorbing that, but says nothing.

I lean back slightly, rubbing my jaw. "And if that's true—if you are proof of that—then it's only a matter of time before others come for you."

She exhales softly, pressing her fingers against her temples. "I see."

"You told me what witches are. But what about the Ritual? What was that exactly?"

I study her carefully, then sigh. "The ritual has changed over time. I don't know what its origins are, but I do know that over the years it has evolved into something more self-serving."

She looks down. "And what happens to the women who don't have magic? To those that were there last night? Do they lose something of themselves?"

"In a way," I admit. "Giving your essence over to warlock during the height of pleasure is something that cannot be undone. There are many names for it. Some would call it one's soul."

She looks at me, shocked. "You mean to tell me that your kind siphon souls?"

"The rules are laid out clearly for the women that participate. Those who choose to stay leave without this piece of them, but they leave satisfied, taken care of, and in many cases, significantly wealthier."

Her brows knit together. "Wealthier?"

"The elite warlocks don't hunt the way others do," I explain. "We conduct the Ritual through money." I gesture slightly toward the grand estate around us. "The women who participate aren't just drained of their essence; they're compensated—handsomely. They leave with a small fortune, set up for financial success. Many of them use that wealth to build businesses, invest, retire early."

She stares at me, absorbing that.

And then her expression shifts. "Oh."

I raise a brow. "What is it?"

She looks up, eyes widening with realization. "Malachi spent three million dollars on me."

Ah. There it is.

I nod slightly, tilting my head. "Yes. He did."

She sits back slightly, looking overwhelmed. "That's... that's a lot of money."

I sip my coffee, watching her. "Yes, it is."

"And he just—spent it. On me."

"Yes."

"Why would he do that?"

I chuckle, shaking my head. "That is the question, isn't it?"

She looks at me questioningly. "You don't know?"

"Oh, I do," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "But it's not my answer to give."

She hesitates. "Then whose is it?"

A new voice cuts in smoothly.

"Mine."

Chapter

Twenty

MALACHI

Iwalk into the dining room, and the first thing I see is them.

Elias is leaned in slightly, speaking to her in that calm, patient voice, the one that makes people feel understood, the one that makes them trust him.

And she's responding to it.

She's too comfortable, too at ease. Like she belongs here. Like she belongs with him.

Rage coils deep in my chest, slow-burning, insidious. I don't like it. She's asking him why I spent three million dollars on her.

The answer is simple. Because she's mine. Which is what I tell her.

She looks up at me and I don't hesitate. "Sage. Come with me."

Elias exhales, adjusting his glasses, clearly amused by my interruption. Smug bastard.

"Why?"

I arch a brow. "Because I said so."

Her lips part slightly, stunned by my audacity. Good. Let her be surprised. I don't care.

Elias sighs dramatically. "Malachi, must you always be so charming?"

I don't even look at him. "You're done here."

I see the flicker of irritation in Elias's eyes, but he knows better than to push me right now.

Sage, on the other hand, has no such self-preservation instincts.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," she says quietly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

I lean down, resting my hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. She stiffens immediately, but she doesn't look away. "You will."

A flicker of something flashes in her eyes—confusion, apprehension.

But she doesn't argue when I straighten, offering her my hand.

She doesn't take it, of course.

But she does follow.

My office is exactly as it should be—expensive, sleek, powerful.

The walls are lined with dark, built-in bookshelves, filled with both classic literature and ancient magical tomes. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch behind my desk, overlooking the horizon, the sunlight's rays reflecting off the polished surfaces of my desk. The air smells of leather, old books, and faint traces of my cologne.

It's a room built for command.

Sage steps inside cautiously, her bare feet soundless against the dark wood floor. I watch as her gaze drifts over the space, taking in the richness of it, the opulence.

I close the door behind us. "Sit."

She turns slowly, arms wrapped protectively around herself. "Why would I do that?"

I arch a brow, stepping toward her. "Because I told you to."

She shakes her head, her voice barely audible. "I need you to understand something. You don't own me."

I tilt my head slightly, watching her. Then, slowly, deliberately, I lean against the edge of my desk, folding my arms. "Oh, but I do."

She tenses visibly. "Excuse me?"

I shrug. "I paid three million dollars for you, Sage. That means I own you."

She stares at me, a mix of disbelief and hurt crossing her face before she finds her voice again.

"That's not how this works," she says, her voice stronger now but still uncertain. "That just means you bought... the ritual. Which was one night that now is over. Nothing else."

I smirk. "Oh? Is that what you think?"

She steps forward, her voice wavering slightly. "I am not a possession."

I catch her wrist before she can pull back, my grip firm but not bruising. Her pulse races beneath my fingertips.

"No," I murmur, voice dropping lower. "You're not a possession, Sage. You're a prize."

Her breath hitches, just slightly.

I tighten my grip slightly, just enough to feel her react. "So tell me, Sage," I murmur, tilting my head, "what exactly should I do with my prize?"

She looks up at me, conflict evident in her eyes. She feels this, too.

She just doesn't want to admit it yet.

That's fine.

Because she will.

Every uncertain word, every hesitant glance, every time she hugs herself like she's trying to disappear—it's all revealing. She wants to see what I'll do next.

It's infuriating.

It's fascinating.

And it makes me want to break through her protective walls piece by piece.

She pulls her hand away, stepping back, arms crossing over her chest defensively. "Nothing. I can handle myself and just want to go home."

I press forward, voice lowering to something deadly. "Whether you want to admit it or not, your life has changed for you now. You can never go back to your home."

She bites her lip, looking down. "I can't accept that."

"You don't have a choice."

"Please don't."

Something inside me snaps.

I move.

In a blink, I'm in front of her, caging her in against the desk, both hands bracing on either side of her. I lean in, voice a rough whisper against her ear. "You need protection. I can provide it."

Her breath hitches.

I feel it.

The way her pulse quickens, the way her body tenses but doesn't pull away. The heat rolling off her in waves.

I want to tear down her walls, to strip her hesitation down to raw, honest submission. I want to show her that every inch of her body, every uncertain word and shaky breath, already belongs to me.

I can see it in her eyes—the way her pulse jumps when I lean in, the way her breath catches just slightly. She's trying to understand, to process what's happening.

But she can't.

She's mine.

And then, just as the tension pulls too tight, the door swings open.

"Alright, I've had enough of this," Asher drawls, strolling in like he owns the place. "If you two aren't going to sort this out already, then just end the conversation right here, because watching this is just painful."

Sage steps back from me immediately, her face flushing. I see the way she hunches slightly, uncomfortable, uncertain, embarrassed.

I clench my jaw so tightly my teeth nearly crack.

I should kill him.

I turn to glare at Asher, who leans lazily against the doorway, smirking like he's just walked in on something delightfully scandalous.

His cocky amusement only fuels my temper.

"Get the fuck out," I growl.

Asher just grins wider. "Now, now. No need to be so tense, Malachi. You look like you're about to combust."

Sage exhales softly, clearly overwhelmed by this entire situation. "I need to leave," she whispers, already heading for the door.

A sharp spike of jealousy stabs through me as she walks away.

And then it gets worse.

Asher follows her.

And I can't do a damn thing about it.

Control is an illusion.

I've spent my life mastering my urges, my instincts, my desires.

I have never lost control.

Until her.

Until the way she looked at me just now—like she was lost, like she was confused, like she wanted to understand but wasn't ready to admit it.

I barely wait until the door clicks shut behind them before I turn, my body thrumming with rage, my cock aching painfully in my slacks.

Fuck.

I palm myself through my pants, biting out a curse. I need relief. Now.

Storming into my private bathroom, I lock the door behind me and lean back against it, shutting my eyes.

She did this to me.

I don't get like this. Ever.

But the moment I touched her, the moment I felt her beneath my fingers, I was ruined.

The first night, when I had her shaking beneath me⁠—

When she came apart under my hands⁠—

I groan softly, shoving a hand into my slacks, gripping my rock-hard cock.

She had been so beautiful in that moment.

Her soul.

I saw it.

When she came for me, it unraveled—that flickering light, her essence spilling out, shimmering, warm, untouched. Untainted power.

I stroke myself roughly, the ache too much, too consuming.

I should have taken her that night.

She was soaked for me, trembling, whispering my name.

I groan again, tighter, faster, imagining her beneath me, imagining what it would feel like when I finally sink into her, when I finally make her mine.

She doesn't even know what she is.

She doesn't know that every part of her, every breath, every pulse, will soon be tied to me.

I feel my muscles tighten, my pleasure cresting too fast. My release spills out, my cock pulsing.

Not enough.

This is not enough.

But it has to be.

For now.

Chapter

Twenty-One

ASHER

Sage is practically sprinting away from Malachi's office, her bare feet barely making a sound against the floors.

She's flustered. Upset.

I can't blame her. Malachi has that effect on people.

Unfortunately for her, I have an effect on people, too.

I catch up easily, slipping into step beside her. "So, that was fun."

She glances at me, her eyes wide with lingering distress. "Fun? Are you serious?"

"Always." I flash her my most charming grin. "You and Malachi really had a moment in there. Lots of intense eye contact. Lots of tension. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were about to rip each other's clothes off."

She stops abruptly, her cheeks flushing bright pink. "Please don't say things like that."

I smirk. "I'm just saying, if you ever want to process your complicated feelings for Malachi, I'm here for emotional support."

Her eyes drop to the floor. "You're not being helpful."

I clutch my chest dramatically. "That hurts, Sage. That really hurts."

She wraps her arms around herself and starts walking again.

"I know, let's go this way," I suggest, lightly grabbing her wrist. She looks down where I've gripped her, but doesn't fight it.

"Where are you even taking me?"

"Gym."

She stops. "Gym?"

"Yeah, you know. Place where people lift heavy things, get sweaty, take their shirts off." I waggle my brows. "I highly recommend it."

She shifts uncomfortably. "I don't work out. I read."

I gasp. "No."

"Yes."

"You mean to tell me," I say, slowly, "that you don't spend hours sculpting your body into a masterpiece like I do?"

She gives a tiny, hesitant smile. "Absolutely not."

I place a hand over my heart. "That is deeply tragic. But fear not, Sage. I will personally introduce you to the joys of physical exertion."

She looks down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "I'm not sure I have a choice here."

"You don't," I confirm, steering her toward the gym doors.

She sighs softly. "I suppose it's better than going back there."

That's the thing about Sage.

She fights against Malachi, she tenses with Elias, but with me?

She goes along with it.

I like that.

The gym is empty, because obviously, this is Malachi's mansion, and no one else is allowed here unless he deems it necessary. Which means, right now, it's just me and Sage.

Perfect.

I step inside, inhaling deeply. "Ah. Smells like ambition and the faint remnants of testosterone. Beautiful."

Sage looks uncertain, hovering near the doorway. "You have a unique way of describing things."

"Why shouldn't I be?" I wink, stripping off my jacket and tossing it onto a nearby bench. "Look at me."

She looks away quickly. "You're very... confident."

"I am. And, you're still here." I grin. "Which means part of you enjoys my company. Go on. Say it. I won't judge."

She murmurs something inaudible, tucking her hair behind her ear.

I head toward the free weights, cracking my knuckles. "Alright, watch and learn, librarian. This is how a real man works out."

I grab a set of heavy dumbbells, rolling my shoulders before smoothly pressing them overhead. Flawless form. Impeccable technique.

I see Sage watching.

I grin, adjusting my grip slightly, making a show of it. "Like what you see?"

Her face flushes immediately, and she looks down. "I'm just... observing."

I lower the weights, wiping a fake bead of sweat from my forehead. "So that's a yes."

She shifts her weight. "I don't know why I'm here."

"Mm." I smirk. "But you're still here."

She doesn't respond.

I laugh, dropping onto the bench, reaching for a towel. "You can admit it, Sage. You're intrigued by me. Fascinated, even."

She glances up. "Fascinated?"

"Deeply," I say solemnly. "I mean, I understand. You've never been around someone like me before. Handsome, charming, ridiculously talented⁠—"

She gives a small, nervous laugh.

I press a hand to my chest. "Was that a laugh I just heard?"

She quickly covers her mouth, but there's a hint of a smile there, and something warm curls in my chest.

Damn.

I like that sound.

A little too much.

I stretch my arms, making a big show of flexing just enough to remind her exactly who she's dealing with. "Alright, your turn. Grab some weights. Let's go."

She looks at me with wide eyes. "I don't think so."

"Come on," I coax. "I'll even let you spot me. You can save my life, Sage. Imagine the bragging rights."

She shakes her head, arms still wrapped protectively around herself. "I wouldn't know what to do."

I flash her a bright, unapologetic grin.

"And yet," I say smoothly, "you're still here."

Sage stands there, arms still crossed, watching me with those uncertain blue-grey eyes.

It's endearing, really.

She finally tilts her head. "I saw you at the Ritual."

I raise a brow. "Oh? Enjoy the show?"

She looks away quickly. "With two women."

"Ah." I nod solemnly. "Yes. Lovely girls."

Her lips press together. "What happened to them?"

I blink, not expecting that question. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, are they okay?"

I grin, stretching my arms over my head. "They got paid. They're happy. They went home with more money than they probably ever expected."

She glances up at me cautiously. "That's not what I meant."

I sigh dramatically. "Sage, are you fishing for some kind of dark, tragic consequence? Because I assure you, there isn't one."

She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. "I just don't understand how you all talk about the Ritual like it's just... normal."

I tilt my head, studying her. "That's because, for most of us, it is."

She frowns. "But intimate connections aren't supposed to be transactions."

"Not for everyone," I admit, rubbing my jaw. "But for some? It's a relief."

She looks confused, so I continue.

"You assume everyone wants the chase. That everyone needs to feel the drive to find someone. But that's not true. Some people don't want to be tied down. Some people don't want to feel that hunger at all."

I lean against the machine beside me, watching her process my words.

"You have to understand, Sage—the Ritual doesn't just benefit warlocks. There are plenty of people who find it comforting to just... let go. To not have to chase something, to not have to wonder. They take part, they walk away, and they never have to think about it again."

She doesn't respond right away.

Instead, she bites her lip, considering, really considering.

I grin. "See? Not so sinister after all."

She exhales softly. "I still don't understand it completely."

I laugh, pushing off the machine. "Of course you don't. You're still questioning everything."

She looks down. "I can't help it."

"Which is exactly why you're here," I say, gesturing around us. "Come on. I'll show you how to use one of these machines. You might enjoy it."

She hesitates visibly. "I'm not sure..."

"You will when I personally guide you through it," I say, flashing my most charming grin.

She sighs. "Just one machine. Then I'd like to rest."

I beam. "That's the spirit!"

I lead her to one of the weight machines, gesturing grandly. "Alright. This one's a classic. Let's see what you've got, bookworm."

She gives me a timid look. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Extremely."

She hesitates before finally sitting on the bench. "What do I do?"

I step behind her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

She goes completely still.

Oh.

Interesting.

I ignore the way her body reacts to my touch, leaning over just slightly. "Alright, put your hands here," I murmur, guiding her fingers to the handles. Her skin is warm, softer than I expected.

She exhales, and I feel the way her chest rises and falls.

I smirk. "Relax, Sage. I don't bite."

She stares straight ahead, her voice barely audible. "I'm just not used to this."

I chuckle, keeping my touch light, deliberate as I adjust her grip. "Now, when you push forward, engage your core. Try to keep your movements controlled."

She does as I say, hesitant at first, but then smoothly extends her arms.

"Good," I murmur, my hands brushing down her arms, lingering just a second too long.

She shivers.

Fuck.

I shouldn't be this close to her.

I shouldn't remember the way she kissed me.

But I do.

And it's a problem.

I force myself to step back, stuffing my hands into my pockets before I do something reckless.

"Alright, that's enough education for one day," I say, forcing lightness into my tone.

Sage lowers the weights, exhaling, and when she turns to look at me, her cheeks are slightly flushed.

I grin, pretending like I don't feel a damn thing.

"See? Not so terrible, right?"

She gives a small nod, her voice soft. "Thank you for the distraction."

I wink. "Any time, librarian."

Chapter

Twenty-Two

GIDEON

Idon't like Asher.

Never have. Probably never will.

It's not that he's incompetent—because he's not. He's quick, sharp when he wants to be, dangerously clever when he bothers to use his intelligence. That's what makes him so irritating. He pretends like the world is a joke, like everything is a game, when in reality, it's not fucking funny.

And right now, as I step into the gym and see him all over Sage, I find myself dangerously close to breaking his damn jaw.

He stands behind her at one of the machines, too close, hands on her arms, adjusting her grip, touching her like it's effortless.

I grind my teeth.

I should have expected this. Asher can't resist pushing boundaries.

Sage doesn't seem to notice, or maybe she just doesn't understand. She's smiling timidly at something he just said, looking down shyly, her eyes uncertain. She's not resisting his proximity. Not enough.

The irritation in my chest flares hotter.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

Sage startles visibly, Asher doesn't even look up.

"You need to get ready for dinner, Sage" I say, barely acknowledging her as I glare at Asher.

Asher finally looks up, arching a brow. "Dinner, huh? Sounds fancy."

"It's a private dinner. With Malachi."

Asher laughs outright. "Oh, so now Malachi is planning romantic candlelit meals? Adorable."

I narrow my eyes. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're not coming," I say flatly.

Asher clutches his chest dramatically. "Wow. Harsh."

"It's not for you."

Sage looks down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "It's just dinner."

I shake my head. "It's not just dinner. Malachi requested this time with you. Alone."

Asher tilts his head, mocking, amused. "Oh? And you're just the personal messenger now?"

I exhale slowly, forcing control. "Asher⁠—"

"Nah, let Malachi tell me himself." Asher shrugs, stretching lazily. "I'm coming too."

My patience snaps.

"You're not going to keep interrupting every single moment between her and Malachi," I say, voice low, controlled, deadly.

Asher smirks. "Why not? It's fun."

We're seconds away from a fight when something makes me stop.

The quiet.

The absence.

I turn sharply—and she's gone.

"Fuck."

Asher whistles lowly. "Damn. She's getting good at that."

I shoot him a murderous glare before storming out after her. Most people don't slip past me. Most people don't even try.

And yet, Sage keeps doing it.

I search methodically, not rushed, not frantic—just efficient. She's smart, but she's also new to this world. She wouldn't leave the estate. Not yet.

I pass room after room, the familiar dark wood paneling, the grand chandeliers above casting long, flickering shadows along the marble floors. The house is too big, too decadent, but Malachi wouldn't live anywhere else. He thrives in places like this.

Finally, after checking the main corridors, I turn toward the east wing, stopping just outside her room.

The door is slightly ajar.

I push it open, stepping inside.

She's standing by the large bay window, arms folded, gazing out over the sprawling grounds beyond. The fading sunlight filters through the glass, catching the edges of her loose hair, making her look... vulnerable.

I ignore the way my chest tightens at the sight of her.

"You need to get dressed," I say, keeping my tone even.

She doesn't turn. "I'd rather not go."

I exhale slowly. Of course.

"It wasn't a request," I tell her, stepping further inside.

That gets her attention. She turns to me, her expression uncertain, a hint of anxiety in her eyes. "What if I'm not ready to talk to Malachi again?"

I resist the urge to soften my approach. "It's not about what you want. It's about understanding what's happening to you."

She hugs herself tighter. "I'm trying to understand."

"Are you?" I tilt my head. "Because you keep running."

She looks down. "I keep running because everything is overwhelming."

I let out a slow breath, reining in my impatience. "You spoke with Elias. You had your talk with him."

"Yes, and that helped," she admits quietly. "But I still have questions."

"Then go to dinner."

She hesitates, chewing her lower lip. "First, I'd like to know more about you."

I blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Yes," she says, her voice soft but persistent. "You're obviously devoted to Malachi. Why? What's your connection to him?"

I hate this question.

It's too personal, too messy.

I straighten my shoulders, closing off. "Leave it be."

She doesn't push further.

She watches me carefully, waiting.

But I don't answer.

Instead, I nod toward the dressing room. "Get changed."

Her lips press together, but after a moment, she nods, turning toward the wardrobe.

"I'll be outside," I tell her, stepping back toward the door. "When you're ready."

Then I step out, shutting the door behind me.

I lean against it, closing my eyes for a long moment.

And I try—really fucking try—not to think about my past.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

GIDEON

The past...

Pain is an old friend.

It settles deep in my ribs, curling around every breath, a dull ache that reminds me I'm still alive. For now.

I press my forehead against the damp, blood-slick floor, forcing myself to stay conscious. My hands are tied behind my back, the rope rough against my wrists, slick with my own blood where the fibers have rubbed my skin raw.

The concrete beneath me is freezing, damp from the storm rolling in through the broken warehouse windows. I can taste iron, taste the grit of my own blood between my teeth.

The room stinks of sweat, gasoline, and old rust. A perfect place to die.

I grit my teeth, exhaling slowly through my nose. No. Not yet.

The men standing around me talk in low voices. I stopped listening to them hours ago. Their words don't matter. The deal is done. I lost.

One of them—Jensen—kicks me hard in the ribs.

A sharp crack, pain radiating up my side.

I barely grunt.

He sighs. "Still conscious? Damn, Cross, you're one stubborn bastard."

I don't respond.

Jensen crouches beside me, fingers digging into my hair as he yanks my head up. "Tell me something," he muses, eyes glinting with amusement. "Was it worth it? All that moral superiority? All that big talk about loyalty and honor?"

I glare at him through bloodied eyes. "Go to hell."

He grins. "Oh, you first, soldier boy."

His fist connects with my face, another sharp burst of pain. My vision blurs.

I was ex-military. I was supposed to be one of the good ones.

But that was before.

Before the war, before the dishonorable discharge, before I had nothing left but the skills they beat into me and a world that didn't want me anymore.

I made mistakes. Took jobs I shouldn't have. Aligned with the wrong people.

And now, here I am, on the floor of some back-alley warehouse, waiting for the bullet that'll put me down.

Jensen stands, shaking out his fist. "I'd say it's been fun, but honestly? It really hasn't." He nods toward the guy by the door. "Let's end this."

I brace myself.

Then something strange happens. The rage I've been suppressing starts to burn hotter, deeper. My skin prickles with an unfamiliar heat. For a moment, the lights overhead flicker, and I feel... something... stirring inside me. Power I've spent a lifetime suppressing, telling myself wasn't real.

But before I can understand what's happening, everything changes.

A sharp gust of wind rushes through the warehouse, slamming the doors wide open. The temperature drops instantly, freezing air biting at my exposed skin.

And then… the lights flicker out.

For a moment, silence.

Then a voice. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Step away from him."

Jensen and his men react instantly, weapons drawn.

"Who the fuck⁠—"

Before he can finish, the first man goes down, a sickening snap echoing through the room.

A shadow moves.

Another man screams. Then silence.

Jensen stumbles backward. "What the⁠—"

The dim emergency light flickers, just enough to catch a glimpse of the ghost as he steps forward. Unbothered. Calculated. His tailored coat barely shifts as he moves, as if he's completely unaffected by the bodies on the floor.

He tilts his head, dark eyes glinting beneath the low light. "I gave you a chance to walk away."

Jensen fumbles for his gun. "You're making a mistake⁠—"

The man sighs, bored. His fingers twitch.

Jensen chokes.

He grabs at his throat, body spasming as invisible force constricts around his neck. His eyes bulge, face turning red, then purple, then white.

I watch, dazed, as power ripples through the air.

I can feel it. It's the thing I've tried to convince myself wasn't real my entire life, despite the unexplained events that followed me since childhood. The kind the military psych eval had labeled "combat-induced hallucinations" when I'd once slipped and mentioned it.

The man lets him drop.

Jensen hits the ground hard, body twitching once before going still.

He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders before turning toward me.

"You look like shit," he remarks.

I grunt. "You think?"

He sighs and crouches beside me, his dark eyes scanning the damage. His expression doesn't change. Not at my injuries. Not at the blood. Not at any of it.

Then his eyes narrow slightly. "You were trying to use it. Right before I came in."

I stiffen. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." He studies me with renewed interest. "You've been suppressing it for years, haven't you? The power inside you."

I don't answer. Decades of denial are hard to break, even now.

Then, without another word, he pulls out a blade and cuts me free. He straightens, sliding the knife back into the sheath inside his coat. Then, he offers his hand.

I stare at it.

"You can stay here," he says simply, "or you can stand up and come with me."

I glance around at the bodies, the blood pooling on the floor.

I know what staying means.

I know what leaving means.

Neither is a good choice.

But one of them is a death sentence.

I follow this man out of the warehouse, the cold air biting into my torn skin, the scent of blood and gunpowder still thick in my lungs. The city is dark beyond the alley, streetlights casting long shadows against the wet pavement.

The man moves like he's already forgotten the bodies behind us. Unbothered. Efficient. Like this was just another night for him.

For me, it's something else entirely.

I should be dead.

I was dead the moment I got caught up with Jensen, the moment I made one too many bad calls.

But now, I'm alive.

And I owe him.

I glance at him as we walk. His pace is unhurried, the faint glow of streetlights flickering over the sharp planes of his face. He's dressed like someone untouchable—an expensive coat, black gloves, everything in place. Nothing about him looks like the kind of man who should be dragging someone like me out of a bloodstained warehouse.

And yet, here we are.

We stop by a sleek black car, the kind that looks too clean, too refined for someone like me.

"Get in," he says, already opening the driver's side door.

I hesitate.

He notices.

"You planning to bleed out on the street?" he asks dryly, arching a brow.

I huff a humorless laugh, shaking my head. Then, with what little strength I have left, I slide into the passenger seat.

The moment I sit, exhaustion slams into me. I feel it everywhere—the bruises, the cracked ribs, the dull burn of my split lip. My hands rest in my lap, still shaking slightly, coated in dried blood.

Some of it mine. Some of it not.

He starts the engine, the low hum filling the silence between us as the city moves past in a blur.

Neither of us speak for a long time.

I stare at my reflection in the window, barely recognizing myself. The man staring back at me looks—hollow. Worn down.

Maybe I am.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "You'll clean up when we get there."

I let out a slow breath. "Where's 'there?'"

"My estate."

Of course. He would have an estate.

"You make a habit of picking up half-dead men from abandoned warehouses?" I mutter.

He smirks slightly, eyes still on the road. "No. Only the ones with untapped power."

I stiffen, my hands clenching into fists. "What do you mean?"

"You're a warlock, Gideon." He says it simply, matter-of-factly. "You've been trying to live as a human, but that's never going to work. Not for our kind."

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Our kind. Right."

"You don't believe me?" His voice is mild, but there's an edge to it. "You think what you felt back there was just adrenaline? The lights flickering, the temperature dropping? That was you, starting to tap into your power."

"I was hallucinating from blood loss."

"Is that what you told yourself in the military too? When things happened that you couldn't explain?"

I go silent. Because he's right. There were moments—when I was in combat, when my team was in danger—when impossible things happened. Enemies who suddenly couldn't see us. Bullets that missed by millimeters. Storms that came out of nowhere, providing cover when we needed it most.

Things I convinced myself were coincidences. Luck. Anything but what they really were.

"Why me?" I ask finally.

His fingers flex on the steering wheel. "Because I make it my business to find warlocks who don't know what they are. Especially those with raw talent. The High Council would rather you remained ignorant—easier to control that way. I prefer to build my own allies."

I pause.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone isn't calling me a failure.

A drunk. A disgrace. A waste.

No. He's looking at me like I still have something left.

Something valuable.

I glance at him, studying the way he drives—calm, controlled, unreadable.

"Why'd you do it?" I ask finally. "Why risk yourself for someone like me?"

He doesn't answer right away.

Then—a simple truth.

"Because you remind me of me. Denying what you are. Fighting against your nature. It never works, Gideon. We are what we are."

The words hit harder than I expect.

Because this man isn't a good man. He isn't some savior. He's dangerous. Ruthless. A man who plays with power like it's a tool designed for his hands alone.

"What's your name?" I finally ask him.

"Malachi Black."

Chapter

Twenty-Four

SAGE

Ifeel trapped.

Not in the dramatic sense—I'm not locked in a tower, there are no chains, no barred windows. If I wanted to, I could walk out of this room. But to where?

I have no idea how to escape a place like this.

I'm not some heroine from a fantasy novel, scaling walls or jumping into the night with nothing but sheer determination and a stolen dagger. I'm a librarian. I know how to sort books, file records, and spend far too much time wondering what it would be like to live inside the stories I love.

Well.

Now I am.

And it's nothing like I imagined.

I let out a long, shaky sigh and sink back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Malachi and his men—if that's what they are to him, because their relationships are as complex and layered as the ancient texts I've handled with gloved hands at the library—aren't turning me over to the Magister.

So that's a point in their favor, right?

But they're also warlocks.

And warlocks feed on women like me for power.

So. You know. There's that.

I press my hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing before forcing myself to sit up. Lying here isn't going to help.

I need to get dressed.

I push off the bed and head toward the imposing walk-in closet, the sheer size of it making me feel even smaller than I already do.

Too many dresses. Too many options. Every fabric, every color, every texture imaginable. Each one looks like it belongs on a runway or at some wealthy socialite's exclusive masquerade ball.

I run my fingers hesitantly over the silk, the velvet, the sheer fabrics, trying to ignore the absolutely intimidating collection of lingerie that I refuse to acknowledge.

"I just need something normal," I whisper to myself. "Something⁠—"

I freeze, hand pausing over a black turtleneck dress.

It's a sheath, form-fitting, covering everything.

Perfect.

I grab it and quickly pull it over my head, adjusting the high collar.

The fabric slides smoothly against my skin, almost too smooth, hugging me a little tighter than I expected.

I turn to look in the mirror and⁠—

Oh no.

The dress is sheer.

Not scandalously transparent, but enough. Enough that I can see the outline of my bra, the faint shadow of my thighs beneath the fabric.

I bite my lip, heart sinking.

"Of course," I whisper, my cheeks warming. "Of course this is what counts as modest in Malachi's world."

I turn sideways, assessing the damage.

At least it's black.

That's something.

I exhale slowly, hugging my arms around myself. It's fine. It's not like I have other options, and if I stay in this closet any longer, I might just lose my mind entirely.

Besides.

It's just dinner.

And I have much bigger things to worry about than my warlock-approved wardrobe.

A knock sounds at the door.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then exhale as I open it.

Gideon.

Of all of them, he's the one who keeps his distance.

He doesn't crowd me like Malachi. Doesn't tease me like Asher. Doesn't coax me into conversation like Elias. He just watches. Always watching.

And right now, he's doing exactly that.

His steel-gray eyes flick down over me, slow and unreadable. He doesn't react outright, but I feel the moment he notices how the dress clings to me.

The moment his gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long.

But then, just as quickly, it's gone. He straightens, neutral, detached, and gestures for me to follow.

And I do.

I don't know why, exactly. Maybe because there's no real choice here. Maybe because escaping isn't an option.

Maybe because I trust him more than the others.

Dangerous thought.

The estate is eerily silent as we move through the halls, the soft flicker of wall sconces casting golden shadows along the dark wood paneling. The entire place is too grand, too elegant, too much.

It makes me feel like I'm in someone else's story.

Like I'm wearing someone else's life.

I don't have time to dwell on it. The doors to the dining room open.

Malachi is already there, speaking to Elias in low, hushed tones. His posture is rigid, his expression unreadable, but there's something simmering beneath the surface.

Tension.

Control.

Elias, in contrast, looks as he always does—calm, effortless, the picture of refined elegance.

I like Elias.

Of all of them, he unsettles me the least.

So when he glances up and sees me, when he offers me that small, knowing smile, I return it with a timid one of my own.

And that's when I see it.

The shift.

Malachi's jaw tightens, just slightly. His fingers twitch against the glass in his hand.

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken, sharp with annoyance. Jealousy.

It hits me all at once.

These men—all of them—want me.

And I don't know how to handle it.

No man has ever really noticed me before. Not like this.

Sure, I've had a few dates, a half-hearted relationship in college that fizzled out before it ever began. But nothing serious. Nothing dangerous.

And definitely not with men like these.

But now?

I'm sitting at a table where all four of them are watching me.

And I don't know whether to be terrified or something else entirely.

Malachi sits at the head of the table, silent, brooding, watching me. He hasn't said a word since I walked in, but I can feel his irritation like a living thing curling in the air.

Elias, ever composed, takes the seat beside me. Cool. Elegant. Effortlessly at ease. If Malachi is a storm on the horizon, Elias is the calm before it.

Gideon, on the other hand, doesn't sit at all.

He stands just behind Malachi, hands clasped in front of him, eyes scanning the room like he's waiting for an attack.

Waiting. Watching. Always on guard.

I wonder if he ever relaxes.

The tension in the air is thick, unspoken. No one acknowledges it, but I feel it in my bones.

And then⁠—

Asher.

The doors swing open dramatically, and he strolls in like he owns the place.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, arms outstretched as if he's the guest of honor. "A private dinner, and no one invited me? I'm hurt."

Malachi exhales sharply, already on edge.

"Asher," he says flatly.

Elias sighs, rubbing his temple. "Of course you're here."

Asher grins, utterly unbothered. "I was told this was a private affair. And yet..." He slides into a chair directly across from me, flashing me a wink. "I think Sage would prefer my company, wouldn't you, sweetheart?"

I look down at my plate, my cheeks warming at the attention.

Malachi slams his glass down against the table.

"You were not invited."

Asher leans back, entirely unaffected. "And yet, here I am."

Gideon shifts slightly, his expression darkening. "Leave, Kane."

"Mm." Asher swipes a piece of bread off the table, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "No, I don't think I will."

Malachi's fingers tighten against the edge of the table. "You have exactly ten seconds to get the fuck out."

"Or what?" Asher grins, waggling his brows. "You'll throw me out? Please. You'd miss me too much."

Elias lets out a long, exhausted sigh, muttering something under his breath before finally turning to Asher. "Must you always be this insufferable?"

Asher pops another bite of food into his mouth, shrugs. "It's a gift."

Malachi leans forward, voice low, sharp. "You are testing me."

Asher grins wider. "And yet, you haven't done anything about it."

I can see Malachi's patience snapping like a frayed thread.

They are about to fight.

Over what? My presence? Their egos? Because Asher refuses to respect authority?

Probably all of the above.

I should say something. I know I should. In my books, the heroine would stand up now, would command the room with quiet authority.

Be brave, I tell myself. Just once, be brave.

I take a deep breath and clear my throat softly.

"Um," I begin, my voice barely audible. I clear my throat again and try once more. "Could we maybe... eat first? Before... whatever this is?"

They all pause, looking at me.

I feel myself shrinking under their collective gaze, but I've started this now, and I need to finish. "I'm... I'm just really hungry. I skipped lunch."

A beat of silence.

Then—Asher smirks.

"Look at that," he murmurs, clearly entertained. "The librarian speaks."

Malachi, still tense, exhales sharply but doesn't argue. Elias just gives me a small, encouraging nod. Gideon, still standing, watches me with that intense, unreadable gaze.

Asher, as if sensing victory, grabs another piece of bread and winks at me.

"Fine," he concedes. "Dinner first. Fighting later."

He flashes a grin.

"Wouldn't want to waste a perfectly good meal, after all."

I exhale shakily, relieved my small moment of courage didn't make things worse. I can't believe I actually spoke up. It wasn't much—certainly not the commanding presence I'd imagined—but it was something.

Maybe I can find my voice in this strange new world after all.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

MALACHI

She walks in.

And I forget how to breathe.

The dress. Fuck.

She's wrapped in black fabric that clings to her like it was painted on, every line of her body on full display.

And worse?

It's sheer.

I see everything.

The faint lace pattern of her bra beneath the fabric. The long line of her thighs. The curve of her waist.

She has no idea what she's just done.

And when Elias smiles at her first, that easy, casual way he does, I nearly snap my glass in my hand.

Then she gives him a timid smile in return.

And I'm fucking seething.

This was supposed to be my dinner with her.

A controlled conversation. A chance to assert my authority, to ground her, to make her understand exactly where she stands.

Instead, I'm sitting at a table with Asher fucking Kane, Elias playing the mediator, and Gideon standing like a goddamn sentinel in the background.

The moment Asher opens his mouth, I know it's going to devolve.

"So, Sage," he starts, far too casually, "what do you think so far? Enjoying your stay in our luxurious prison?"

She stiffens slightly, her eyes widening as she looks down at her plate.

Elias shoots Asher a warning glance. "Don't antagonize her."

"Antagonize?" Asher grins, feigning innocence. "I'm just making conversation."

I set my drink down a little too hard. The glass rattles.

Sage hesitates, pushing her food around her plate. "I don't really know what to think," she admits quietly. "I'm trying to understand everything."

That's more diplomatic than I expected.

Elias sighs. "That's understandable. It's a lot to process."

I shoot him a sharp look. "You're not helping."

"I wasn't trying to," he says mildly.

Asher leans in, smirking. "What's wrong, Malachi? You don't like hearing that she's still coming to terms with all this? After all, you did spend a record-breaking amount of money on her."

I grip the edge of the table, rage curling hot in my chest. "I could have bid nothing, and she still would have ended up here."

Sage looks up at me, her blue-grey eyes wide with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Warlocks don't ignore power like yours," I say evenly, locking eyes with her. "Even if I hadn't claimed you, someone else would have. Someone who wouldn't have given you the choice to sit here and eat dinner."

She flinches.

And then⁠—

Her fork clinks against the plate as she lowers it with a shaking hand.

Her eyes lift to mine, wide and glossy, and her voice is quieter than I expect when she says, “So I’m supposed to be thankful?”

I narrow my gaze. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” she whispers. “But that’s what it feels like.”

She tries to stay calm—I can see her biting the inside of her cheek, drawing in a trembling breath, hands clasped in her lap like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I didn’t ask to be dragged into this. I didn’t ask to be bought, or… claimed. Or whatever this is.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and her fingers tighten around the fabric of her dress. “You all talk around me like I’m not here. Like I’m something to study. Or to use.”

I start to respond, but she shakes her head, more to herself than at me. “I’ve spent my whole life being quiet. Doing what I’m told. I kept my head down, followed the rules. And it didn’t protect me from any of this.”

Something in her fractures.

It’s like a dam giving way.

Her power surges out of her like a storm breaking over the sea.

Everything explodes.

The chandelier above rattles violently, the heavy silverware clatters against the walls, and the entire dining table flips over with a deafening crash.

Dishes shatter. Food splatters against the marble. Candles extinguish, sending smoke curling into the air.

And we all go dead silent.

Sage gasps, hand flying to her mouth.

She did that.

I stare at her, my pulse a thunderous roar in my ears.

Her power wasn't wild. It wasn't a flicker, a gentle breeze of energy.

It was raw, unfiltered destruction.

It was more than anything I've felt in centuries.

She stumbles back, shaking her head, terror in her eyes. "Oh my god. I— I didn't mean to⁠—"

No one moves.

No one speaks.

Even Asher, who always has a fucking comment, looks stunned.

Sage takes one look at our expressions, at the devastation around her, and her face goes pale.

And then she turns—and runs.

Before any of us can stop her. Before I can move, breathe, process.

She's gone.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

ELIAS

Ifind her first.

Not because I'm the fastest. Not because I'm the strongest. But because Malachi and Asher—predictably—are too busy arguing to focus on anything else.

And Gideon? Gideon never leaves Malachi's side.

So while they fight over what just happened, over what she is and what they should do, I do the obvious thing.

I go after her.

I find her in one of the quieter wings of the estate, tucked away in the corner of a sitting room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head buried between them.

The tension I didn't realize I was holding in my chest eases. She didn't run far. She's still here.

She's still with us.

I step forward slowly, making sure she hears me approaching. The last thing she needs is to be startled right now.

She doesn't look up.

She's crying.

The sight of it—the way her shoulders tremble, the way she's trying so hard to keep it in, to keep herself composed even now—it does something to me.

I sit down beside her.

I don't say anything. Not at first. She needs a moment.

Instead, I do something rare. I reach for her.

Carefully. Gently.

I rest a hand on her back, fingers barely pressing into the space between her shoulder blades.

She stiffens at first, but then—she exhales.

And when she leans into me, just slightly, just enough to let herself accept the comfort, I know she's breaking, unraveling in a way that has nothing to do with her power and everything to do with the weight of it all.

"I don't know what's happening," she murmurs finally, voice hoarse. "I don't understand any of this."

I nod slowly. "I know."

She sniffs, lifting her head just a little, her eyes red-rimmed. "It doesn't feel real." She lets out a small, broken sob. "It's like a dream. Or—" She swallows, voice cracking. "Or a nightmare."

My chest tightens.

Of course it feels that way.

A few days ago, she was just a librarian. Living a quiet life, unbothered by magic, untouched by our world.

And now?

She's sitting in a mansion filled with warlocks who all want something from her.

She's discovering powers that shouldn't exist, powers that shouldn't belong to anyone, let alone her.

She's being hunted.

I keep my voice steady, my hand still on her back. "It's okay to be scared, Sage."

She trembles slightly at that, like the admission itself is terrifying.

But I feel it—the way she holds herself, the way she tries so hard to act like she's not falling apart.

I watch her for a moment before continuing, softer this time. "I know this feels impossible. That you feel like you're drowning in something you don't understand. Like nothing makes sense anymore."

She exhales shakily, pressing her forehead against her knees again.

"But you're not alone," I add.

She looks up at me with uncertainty in her eyes. "I feel like I am."

"No," I say simply. "You're not."

She doesn't argue with me.

Not this time.

She just closes her eyes and leans into me further.

And I let her.

She's calmer now.

Not fine, not even close, but the way her breath evens out, the way her shoulders loosen slightly—it's enough.

Enough for me to know she's not about to shatter completely. It's been a long time since I've held someone like this—not for pleasure, not for power, but just to keep them grounded.

And I don't know why I want to keep her grounded.

I should be using this moment to figure her out. To press for more information. To unravel the mystery of what she is and why she's here.

Instead, I find myself saying something entirely different.

"I have an idea."

She looks up hesitantly, her blue-grey eyes puffy and red-rimmed, but more alert than before. "What kind of idea?"

"Something that might make you feel a little more at home."

She gives me a doubtful look. "I don't think that's possible."

I smirk slightly. "Trust me."

Before she can protest, I flick my fingers.

A soft, plush robe materializes around her, wrapping her in warmth.

She blinks, startled, looking down at herself, then back at me. "Oh—I..." she touches the fabric tentatively. "Thank you."

I shrug. "The dress wasn't particularly comfortable, I imagine."

She shakes her head, pulling the robe tighter around herself, visibly relieved to feel less exposed.

I watch as she wipes at her tears with the sleeve of the robe.

Then, without thinking, I reach forward and gently brush away a stray tear beneath her eye.

She freezes for a second, her breath catching slightly.

I don't pull back right away.

Her skin is warm, soft.

And when her lashes flutter slightly, when she looks down shyly instead of pulling away—I feel something dangerous stir in my chest.

I ignore it.

Instead, I lower my hand and step back, regaining my composure.

"Come on," I say, voice back to normal. "I want to show you something."

The library is one of the best parts of Malachi's estate.

It stretches across two levels, lined wall to wall with shelves that seem to rise endlessly. Dark wood, gold-accented ladders that glide effortlessly across the railings, and a massive chandelier that casts a warm glow over the entire space.

It's impossibly grand.

When I push open the heavy doors, Sage steps inside cautiously, her lips parting as she takes it all in.

I smirk slightly.

"Well?" I say, watching her expression shift from wariness to pure, unfiltered awe.

She turns in a slow circle, eyes sweeping over the towering bookshelves. "It's like... Beauty and the Beast."

I chuckle, stepping beside her. "Does that make me the Beast?"

She gives a small, tentative smile, the expression so genuine it catches me off guard.

"Well," she says softly, "you are all magical beings."

I grin. "A charming one, though."

She looks down, that shy habit of hers returning. "You've been kind to me."

I place a hand over my heart. "High praise indeed."

She gives another small smile, and for the first time since tonight's disaster, she looks... lighter.

And for some reason, that feels like a victory.

I lead her deeper into the library, letting her take it all in—the dark mahogany shelves, the endless rows of books, the soft glow of the chandelier above. The scent of old parchment and leather lingers in the air, familiar and grounding.

I watch her carefully as she walks down one of the aisles, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books. She moves slowly, reverently, like she's afraid touching them too hard will make them disappear.

"Could I... maybe come here sometimes?" she asks softly, still staring at the shelves.

I nod. "It's yours to use. Any time you wish."

She turns, eyes searching mine, and for a moment, she just looks at me.

Like she's trying to figure me out.

Finally, she exhales, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Thank you," she murmurs.

I shrug, pretending like it doesn't mean anything, even though I know it does.

"Maybe it'll help," I say, "so you don't feel so... trapped."

Her lips twitch, but there's something softer in her expression now, something unguarded.

And I need to leave before I do something I can't take back.

"You must be tired," I say, clearing my throat, shifting the conversation away from whatever this is.

She nods, looking down. "Yes. Very."

I nod. "Let me walk you back."

She doesn't argue.

She lets me.

Her room is dimly lit when we arrive, the soft glow of the sconces casting warm shadows against the walls.

She steps inside, pausing near the doorway, turning back toward me.

She's too close.

Her robe is still wrapped around her, but I can still see the shape of her beneath it, the way the fabric clings to her.

And I should leave. Now.

But I don't.

Instead, I hover.

She lingers, too.

Neither of us move.

Neither of us speak.

And then, before I can stop myself, I lean in.

Her breath catches.

I don't hesitate.

I kiss her.

It's soft at first, but when she responds—tentatively, uncertainly, but with a quiet warmth that I can feel—I lose all sense of control.

I cup the back of her neck, tilting her head up to deepen it.

She tastes like something I can't have.

Something I shouldn't have.

And I don't fucking care.

Her hands rest hesitantly against my chest, not pulling me closer but not pushing me away either, and for a second—just a second—I let myself take it.

Let myself sink into her, into the warmth of her body, the way her lips part against mine, the way she responds like she's never been kissed like this before.

I don't know how long it lasts.

But when I finally force myself to pull back, my breath is ragged.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted, a look of wonder and confusion in her eyes.

I take one step back. Then another.

"Goodnight, Sage," I say quickly, voice strained, barely under control.

And then I do the only thing I can.

I turn and leave before I go any further.

Before I make a mistake neither of us can take back.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

SAGE

Iclose the door behind me, exhaling shakily.

My heart is still racing.

I touch my lips, pressing my fingers lightly against them, as if the warmth of Elias's kiss might still be there.

Oh. What just happened?

I sink onto the edge of the bed, trying to process.

The way Elias touched me—so careful, so gentle. The way he held himself back, even as he kissed me like he couldn't help himself.

It should have been overwhelming. It was overwhelming.

But not just because of him.

Because he wasn't the first.

Because Asher kissed me too.

Because Malachi had his hands on me the first night, had me trembling beneath him.

Because even Gideon, with his silence, with his distance, looked at me in ways that made me feel things I don't understand.

It's too much.

I need to clear my head.

I carefully remove the dress and robe, setting them aside as I step toward the bathroom and its large freestanding tub, already filled with steaming water. It's extravagant, really—too luxurious for someone like me—but for once, I don't overthink it.

I step in, the warmth enveloping me, and for the first time since I got here, I'm alone.

No warlocks watching me.

No intense stares.

Just silence.

I sink deeper, my muscles unwinding, tension easing from my body as I close my eyes.

But my thoughts won't stop.

Elias.

Asher.

Malachi.

Even Gideon.

I bite my lip, shifting slightly in the water. This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be thinking about them like this. But the heat of the bath, the way my body feels too aware of itself—it's making it impossible to ignore.

I let my hand drift lower, hesitantly sliding across my collarbone, over the curve of my breasts, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through me.

I shouldn't.

But I can't stop.

Because then I think about Asher, the way he smiled before he kissed me. The playfulness that made me feel less afraid. The way he made me feel wanted.

The water is warm but it’s not helping.

If anything, it’s making it worse.

It’s like the steam is seeping into my skin, feeding this heat already coiled in my belly—tight and needy and getting harder to ignore by the second.

I try to close my eyes, try to relax, but all I can see is him.

Malachi.

That first night. His fingers inside me, slow and calculated, like he was mapping every inch of me with the intent to ruin. His voice, low and demanding, calling me good girl like he knew it was the one thing that would break me open.

God, I’d let him do it again.

I press my palm between my legs. Just pressure, at first. A tease. But the ache is immediate—deep and wet and hungry.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

But I do.

Because I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t want them.

I rub slow, lazy circles against my clit, biting down on my bottom lip. My hips twitch at the touch, already too sensitive, already soaked.

I can’t stop thinking about Asher.

That cocky smirk, the way he touched me like I was already his. The way he kissed me like he’d waited years for it—mouth hot, hands everywhere, all confidence and chaos.

Then Elias, fucking Elias, with his perfect mouth and his perfect words and his soft goddamn hands. He’d be the type to talk me through it, to make me say please just to hear it in my voice.

I slip two fingers inside and moan quietly, head falling back.

Fuck.

My walls clench around the intrusion, tight and greedy. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I want a mouth on me. I want a cock filling me, stretching me, making me feel used and worshipped in the same breath.

And **Gideon—**that unreadable bastard who looks like he could break me in half without trying. His silence says more than words ever could.

What would he sound like when he loses control? What would he do if I dropped to my knees and begged?

My fingers move faster, sloppier now.

The tension builds sharp and fast—a fever pitch of desire that burns through every rational thought.

I imagine Malachi watching me. Not stopping me. Just standing there, arms crossed, eyes dark. Smirking while I fall apart, because he knows he’ll be next.

And that thought sends me straight over the edge.

I come with a stifled cry, clenching around my fingers, thighs shaking, teeth biting into my lip to keep from screaming.

It crashes through me, intense and consuming, a full-body unraveling.

I lay there panting in the tub, water rippling gently around me.

I don’t move.

Because the worst part?

I want more.

And I’m starting to realize⁠—

They haven’t even touched me yet. Not really.

I force myself out of the water and towel off slowly, my limbs heavy, languid from the bath. But the moment I slide beneath the sheets, exhaustion doesn't claim me the way I expect it to.

I should be relaxed. My muscles are loose, my body spent from the bath, the tension from the day drained away.

But something is wrong.

I feel it before I fully slip into sleep—a pull, a shift in the air, something curling at the edges of my mind.

And then⁠—

Fire.

It roars around me, crackling, consuming.

Thick, black smoke coils into the sky, choking, suffocating. The scent of burning flesh fills my nostrils, mingling with the acrid sting of charred wood.

I hear them before I see them.

The screams.

High and shrill, women wailing, pleading.

Run. Run. RUN.

I can't move.

I can't move.

The world shifts, flickering like a distorted film reel. I blink, and I'm standing in the middle of a clearing.

Bodies tied to stakes.

Women. Their faces twisted in agony as flames lick at their skirts, their hair, their flesh.

I want to look away.

I can't.

I hear them crying, screaming for mercy, their eyes wide with terror.

"Please! Please!"

Their voices blend together, a chorus of pain, of betrayal, of loss.

I turn—warlocks. Dozens of them, watching. Some with hunger. Some with satisfaction. Some with cold, detached amusement.

They stand in perfect rows, faces obscured by dark masks.

I stumble backward, breath coming in sharp, gasping bursts.

This isn't real. This isn't real.

The smoke burns my throat. The heat scorches my skin.

And then I hear the worst thing of all.

A voice. Deep, commanding, laced with finality.

"Take their souls."

A warlock steps forward, lifting a hand, dark tendrils of magic stretching toward the dying women.

No, no, no.

The magic curls around their bodies, and suddenly—their souls begin to rise.

Light. Flickering. Fragile.

It's beautiful.

It's horrific.

They reach toward the sky, toward something beyond this world.

And then the warlocks take them.

The women's bodies go still.

Their eyes, once filled with pain, go empty.

Silent.

And the warlocks—they glow.

Their bodies drink in the power, absorbing the very essence of the women they just burned alive.

I choke on a sob.

I know this magic.

I saw it at the Ritual.

I finally find my voice, a soft, broken whimper escaping my lips⁠—

And I wake up.

I bolt upright, gasping.

The sheets are damp with sweat. My skin burns like I was standing too close to the fire. My lungs ache, my pulse racing.

I press a hand to my chest, willing myself to breathe.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

But my fingers curl into the sheets, trembling.

Because it was.

Somewhere, sometime, it was real.

And somehow, I remember it.

I sit there in the dark, wide-eyed, heart thudding in my chest.

There's no way I'm getting back to sleep.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

SAGE

Ican't stay in this bed.

Not after that dream. That memory.

Even now, my skin still feels too hot, my lungs too tight, my fingers trembling with the phantom sensation of smoke curling around them.

I exhale shakily and push the blankets away, carefully swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

The air is cool against my bare skin, my silk sleep shorts and camisole doing little to protect me from the lingering chill. I consider looking for a robe, but I'm not planning to see anyone, and besides, Elias said I could go to the library whenever I wanted.

I leave my room quietly, hesitantly, padding through the dimly lit halls. The estate is silent, the kind of silence that feels heavy. Like the walls themselves are watching.

When I reach the library, I pause before gently pushing open the heavy doors. Towering bookshelves, flickering chandeliers, the scent of old parchment and ink. It's the only place in this mansion that feels... comforting.

Familiar.

I move toward the nearest shelf, trailing my fingers lightly along the spines of books, scanning the gilded titles.

Some are in languages I don't recognize. Some are in English but still don't make sense.

I pull one out carefully.

The Forsaken Order: Warlocks Who Defied the Blood Oath.

I feel a small flutter of curiosity.

I slide it back and select another.

The Seven Bloodlines: Tracing the Ancestry of High Magic.

I tilt my head slightly. That sounds important.

I make a mental note to come back to that one.

Moving deeper into the library, I let my fingers skim across more titles.

Soulcraft: The Art of Harnessing Human Essence.

I wrap my arms around myself. That sounds a little too close to what I saw in my dream.

I turn away, heading toward the far shelves where the books seem older, dustier, untouched.

And then—something catches my eye.

A book with no title on the spine.

The leather cover is deep burgundy, almost black in the dim light, and the edges are frayed, as if it's been read a thousand times over.

I hesitate.

Then I reach out and carefully pull it from the shelf.

There's an inscription on the front, barely visible in the flickering light.

The Covenant of Fire: Witches, Warlocks, and the Ritual That Binds Them.

My pulse quickens.

I stare at it, holding it gently in my hands.

Because this—this might have answers.

I step back toward the nearest reading table, heart fluttering, fingers tentative.

And then I slowly, carefully, open the book.

The book is heavy in my lap, the pages thick, old, filled with handwritten annotations in the margins. The ink seeps into the parchment like whispers of the past, as if whoever wrote this was trying to share something important.

I bite my lip, running my fingers lightly over the faded words.

The Covenant of Fire. The Ritual. The binding between witches and warlocks.

I don't know what I expect to find here—understanding, perhaps, or maybe even a way to make sense of whatever is happening to me.

But before I can read further, something catches my eye.

A shift in the shadows.

A door.

Tucked between towering shelves, barely visible behind an overgrowth of ivy creeping along the stone wall, is a set of double doors made of dark wood and iron. They don't belong here—not in a place filled with books and dust and quiet things.

But the faint glow of moonlight through the glass panels draws my attention.

Slowly, I rise from my seat, reluctantly leaving the book behind.

Each step toward the door feels... important. Significant.

I reach out, fingers brushing over the cool iron handle. It shouldn't be unlocked.

But it is.

With a gentle push, the doors swing open.

And I step into a different world.

The garden is unlike anything I've seen before.

It stretches endlessly, winding stone paths lead through meticulously kept hedges, twisting into intricate mazes of wild roses and creeping vines.

Statues stand between the foliage—gods, monsters, figures frozen in time. A marble woman stands with a serpent curled around her wrist, her blank eyes staring skyward. Another figure, a warlock, perhaps, holds an open book, his face chipped, weathered by time.

This place feels ancient.

I walk deeper, drawn forward by something I don't understand.

The scent of night-blooming jasmine lingers in the air, mixing with the damp earth beneath my bare feet. The wind carries something distant, something almost... familiar.

And then I see it.

The edge.

At first, I think it's just the end of the garden—a break in the land, the rolling hills sloping downward into the night. But the closer I get, the more I realize...

It isn't natural.

There's a shimmer, faint but unmistakable. A ripple in the air, like the shimmer of heat over pavement, but colder, tinged with something that makes my skin prickle.

I stop.

I know what this is.

A ward. A boundary.

I lift my hand slowly, watching the way the air seems to pulse before me.

It's keeping something out.

Or, more likely, keeping me in.

I swallow, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.

I have a choice.

I can turn around. I can go back to my room, pretend I never saw this, pretend I don't know that I'm trapped.

Or—

I can try to cross the threshold.

My fingers tremble as I reach forward.

And then—I move.

One step. Then another.

The moment my foot lands beyond the glimmering boundary, the air shifts—like the breath before a storm.

And then⁠—

Malachi materializes in front of me.

I stumble back, a small gasp escaping my lips.

His form is perfectly still, perfectly controlled, but his dark eyes⁠—

They burn.

"Going somewhere, Sage?"

His voice is calm. Too calm.

I freeze.

I don't know what to say.

Because I just tried to leave.

And I have the sinking feeling that Malachi Black is not the kind of man who lets what belongs to him simply walk away.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

MALACHI

"Itold you already," I murmur, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "You belong to me now."

Her breath catches. I feel the tremor run through her—subtle, like a thread pulling taut.

She should pull away. She doesn’t.

Good.

I release her face and step back just enough to give her a choice. And just like I expect, she stays rooted. Not because she’s obedient. Not because she’s scared.

Because she wants this.

She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.

I let my power stir beneath my skin, slow and intentional. Not an attack—just a brush against her senses. A dark, velvety pressure curling around her spine like smoke.

Her nipples harden through the thin fabric of her dress. She shifts, thighs pressing together, like she can ignore the pulse building between them.

"You crossed my boundary, Sage."

She flinches, like I’ve struck her.

“I—” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

"You did," I cut in, voice low. Measured. “You wanted to see if you could escape. You wanted to see if I’d come after you.”

I walk a slow circle around her. Her breath stutters.

"You like being chased. But you’re not ready for what happens when you’re caught.”

She shivers.

I stop behind her, close enough to make her feel the heat of my body but not close enough to touch. Not yet.

"I could fuck you right now," I say, soft and cruel against the back of her neck. “Push you against that wall, tear off that dress, and fill your sweet cunt until you screamed my name.”

She gasps—soft, high, shamefully needy.

“But I won’t.”

Her hands curl into fists at her sides.

Not yet.

Because I want her aching. I want her wet and frustrated and begging. I want her to remember this the next time she even thinks about running.

"Strip," I say.

She turns to look at me, wide-eyed. “What?”

I meet her gaze, unflinching. “Take. It. Off.”

There’s a beat of hesitation. Then she does it. Slow. Awkward. Every motion tentative.

And when she’s bare before me, arms instinctively crossing over her chest, I see it.

The flush that runs from her throat to the tops of her breasts. The small tremble in her legs. The way she won’t look at me.

"Look at me, Sage."

She does.

And I see it. The truth.

"You’ve never done this before.”

She freezes.

I take one step closer. “You’re a virgin.”

She swallows hard but doesn’t deny it.

Gods.

Something primal claws up my spine.

Of course she is. Of course no one’s touched her. Of course no one’s been allowed to see her like this, undone and vulnerable and panting with need.

It’s going to be me.

But first, she learns discipline.

I flick my fingers, and my magic answers. A soft shimmer lifts her body and lays her down across the bed—sprawled, legs parted, wrists pinned by invisible threads of my power.

Completely at my mercy.

Exactly where she belongs.

Her eyes—those perfect, pleading eyes—track my every movement like she's already anticipating the wreckage. Like she wants it.

And maybe she does.

But she doesn’t understand what it means to test me. Not yet.

She gasps, arching slightly. “Malachi⁠—”

“Quiet,” I murmur. “You don’t get to speak. You get to feel.”

My fingers trail down her ribcage, slow and reverent, and I watch the way her hips lift in response—chasing the touch, needy and impatient.

“You wanted to run,” I murmur. “You wanted to see if you could escape me.”

She swallows. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“You did.”

I dip my fingers between her legs and groan at how soaked she is.

“Fuck,” I whisper darkly, running two fingers through the slick mess coating her thighs. “You’re dripping for me, Sage. Did sneaking off make you this wet?”

She gasps when I rub slow circles against her clit—just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. Her hips buck off the mattress, her legs straining against the bindings, and her eyes flutter closed.

“Malachi—please⁠—”

"Please what?" I whisper, dragging my fingers lower to tease her entrance, then pulling away just before giving her what she wants.

Her head rolls side to side on the pillow. “Please touch me—like you did that first night—please, I need it⁠—”

“You want to come?” I ask, brushing the pads of my fingers over her clit again. “You want me to make you fall apart on my hand?”

"Yes—yes, please—I’ll be good⁠—"

My hand stills.

And I step away.

Her eyes snap open in confusion, chest heaving.

“No.”

She blinks, stunned. “W-What?”

I sit in the chair beside the bed, undo my belt, and pull my cock free—already thick and leaking from how badly her begging’s undone me.

"You think you get to come after disobeying me?” I say calmly. “No, Sage. You get to watch."

Her mouth falls open in disbelief, but her eyes are glued to my hand as I wrap it around my shaft and stroke slow, lazy pulls from base to tip.

She whimpers. Literally whimpers.

"I should be buried inside you right now," I growl, watching her writhe. “Your tight little cunt squeezing me while you scream my name.”

Her thighs twitch, her whole body trembling against the magic that holds her in place.

But I don’t go to her.

I lean back in the chair and keep pumping my cock—slow, deliberate, brutal.

“You want to know what I imagined while you were sneaking out of my estate?” I bite out. “I imagined dragging you back by your hair, tying you to this bed, and fucking you until you forgot your own name.”

Her lip trembles. “Malachi—please—I’ll do anything⁠—”

“Anything?” I smirk. “That’s cute.”

I keep stroking. Harder now.

I can see her clenching around nothing, see her hips trying to grind against empty air.

“Look at you,” I breathe. “Desperate. Ruined. And I haven’t even let you come.”

Her eyes are wild. Hair splayed across the pillow, breasts heaving, slick coating her thighs. I know its her powers. They're a raging river inside of her, seeking their counterpart-a warlocks powers. It makes her crazy with need and not even I'm immune from the pull.

I come—hot and thick, across my abs and chest, groaning her name like a fucking prayer.

She jerks like it hits her, like just the sound of my release pushes her closer to her own.

But I don’t let her.

I stand. Walk to the bed. The magic holding her down slowly releases, her wrists and thighs falling limp against the sheets, boneless with frustration and overstimulation.

I tower over her, still half-dressed, abs glistening with the mess I made of myself.

And then I crouch, so close our mouths nearly touch.

"You have a choice, Sage."

Her eyes lift to mine, full of hunger and humiliation.

"You can crawl over here and lick me clean. Maybe then, I’ll let you come. Free you from that burden you're carrying. Teach you what it means to lose yourself to the pleasure of another.”

I tilt my head.

“Or...you can walk away. Unsatisfied. Just like you deserve.”

I wait.

Watching.

Breathless.

And hungry for her answer.

She stares at me like she’s already fallen. And she has.

Slowly, slowly, she sits up on shaking limbs and crawls across the bed to me. Her eyes don’t leave mine. And when she reaches me, she lowers her mouth to my stomach, breath trembling as she licks a single stripe through the mess I left behind.

Fuck.

My jaw clenches as her tongue traces up to my chest, her eyes fluttering closed in something between shame and hunger.

I grip her jaw. Not rough. Just enough to hold her still. To make her look at me.

"Good girl," I whisper.

Her breath hitches at the words.

And that’s when I know— She’s mine.

Not because I claimed her in the ritual. Not because I paid a king’s ransom for her.

But because she wants to be.

I pull her into my lap, one hand splayed wide against her lower back, the other sliding into her hair. Our mouths crash together, not sweet or tentative, but starved. Like we’ve both been holding back and now the dam’s broken.

She gasps into the kiss, and I take the opportunity to deepen it—tongue sliding against hers, hand roaming over her bare skin like I own every inch.

And I do.

She whimpers when I roll her beneath me, her back hitting the mattress, legs falling open like she wants to be devoured.

"Tell me to stop," I growl against her throat. "Now’s your chance."

She wraps her arms around my neck. “Don’t you dare.”

My cock twitches against her thigh.

"Good."

I kiss down her neck, to her collarbone, then lower, taking my time exploring her breasts with my mouth—licking, sucking, teasing her nipples until she’s moaning and writhing.

Her hands tangle in my hair. Her thighs press around my waist.

But I’m not done warming her up.

I trail kisses down her stomach, biting gently at the soft skin of her hips. And then I settle between her thighs and taste her.

She cries out, hips bucking, fingers digging into the sheets.

I groan into her—she’s sweet and soaked and made for me.

I eat her like a man starved, licking her slowly, drawing circles with my tongue around her clit, then flattening my tongue and pressing until her thighs shake.

"Malachi—oh god⁠—"

I slide two fingers inside her, easing the stretch with my power, making it perfect. Her walls clench, hot and fluttering, her body desperate for more.

"You’re doing so fucking good, Sage."

She cries out again, louder this time.

"You want more?" I murmur against her.

“Yes—please—need you inside me⁠—”

I crawl up her body and kiss her deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue. And then I line myself up and push inside her.

She gasps, clinging to me, and I still.

"It’s okay," I whisper. "I’ve got you."

She’s so tight I could lose control right here and now—but I hold back. Just for her. Just long enough to let her body adjust around me, letting my magic ease the ache.

And when she exhales, nodding faintly, I start to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Rolling my hips until her breath is shaky and she’s moaning into my mouth.

And then—she begs.

“Faster—please—I need⁠—”

I snap.

I grip her thighs and thrust harder, her cries echoing off the walls.

She meets every thrust, greedy for it, hungry, mouth falling open in shock every time I hit deeper.

“You feel this?” I growl, pounding into her. “This is what happens when you’re mine.”

She claws at my back, her legs locked around my waist. “I—can’t—Malachi—gonna⁠—”

“Come for me,” I snarl. “Now.”

She screams as she shatters—body convulsing, back arching off the bed, her climax pulsing through her like a storm.

And as she comes, something happens.

Our magic flares—white-hot and wild, a brilliant pulse that ripples across the room.

I freeze.

And then I feel it.

Her.

Inside me.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Her emotions. Her breath. Her essence wrapping around mine.

And when I look down, there's a mark circling her wrist—black ink, ancient and alive, matching one now etched into my own skin.

The Binding.

A legend. A myth. A magical impossibility.

And it just happened.

She opens her eyes, dazed and panting. “What… what was that?”

I can’t speak.

I just pull her to me, heart racing.

Because she’s not just mine now.

She’s bound to me.

Forever.

Chapter

Thirty

SAGE

My body is shaking.

I can still feel him inside me, even after he’s pulled out. His cum is leaking from between my thighs, warm and slick against my skin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it— Except him.

Malachi Black.

The man who just took my virginity, claimed me in every way a person can be claimed, and then left his mark on my soul like it was always meant to be there.

I stare up at him, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

There’s sweat on his brow. His muscles are tight, jaw clenched like he’s trying to stay in control. But I can feel it now— His need.

It’s not just in his face, or his hands, or the thick, twitching length still glistening between his thighs.

It’s in me.

The bond.

I feel it like a second heartbeat. His hunger. His restraint. His absolute fucking obsession.

And I want to feel it again.

“Malachi,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

He looks down at me—like a man on the edge of breaking.

“I want more,” I say, trembling. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He growls low in his throat—raw, possessive, feral—and then he’s flipping me over, dragging me to the edge of the bed until I’m on my knees, chest pressed to the sheets, ass in the air.

“Gods, Sage,” he groans. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

And then he’s inside me again— deep, thick, stretching me open in one long, ruthless thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.

I scream into the sheets, my body arching, pulse slamming against my skin.

“Malachi—”

He doesn’t give me time to think. Doesn’t give me anything except the relentless drag of his cock inside me.

Long, deep strokes at first—controlled, measured.

His hips slam into the backs of my thighs, the sound obscene, wet and loud, matching the slick mess dripping down my legs.

“You feel that?” he growls behind me, voice wrecked, almost animal. One hand fists in my hair, the other locking down on my hip, anchoring me in place. “Feel how deep I am? That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes—Malachi⁠—”

He pulls nearly all the way out and slams back in, harder, sharper.

I cry out again, gripping the sheets so tight my knuckles ache.

But I don’t want him to stop.

I want more.

I want everything.

He fucks me like it’s a punishment and a prayer. Like he needs to burn me into memory. Like this is how he stays sane.

Each thrust knocks the air from my lungs. Each drag of his cock inside me winds me tighter.

I’m panting now, legs shaking, stars prickling behind my eyes.

“Say it again,” he snarls.

“I’m yours,” I sob, high and breathless. “I’m yours—please⁠—”

He snarls and thrusts harder. Faster. My knees nearly slip from the bed, but he drags me back with brutal precision, keeping me where he wants me.

His fingers dig into my hips so deep I’m sure he’ll leave bruises—marks I want.

His name falls from my lips like a mantra, broken and pleading, and then he hits a spot inside me— and it turns everything white⁠—

I shatter.

Not quick. Not instant.

Long. Drawn out. Over and over again.

My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, and I swear I black out for a second, trembling so hard my vision blurs.

And I know he feels it. Because I feel him.

The bond sings with it—magic and lust and ownership, pulling us tighter.

He pulls out suddenly, dragging me to my knees on the floor in front of him.

I look up, dazed and wrecked and panting.

He strokes his cock, eyes wild, jaw tight.

“Open your mouth.”

I do.

“Good girl.”

He feeds it to me slowly, and I take him deeper, hungry for it, addicted to the taste and the power in his voice when I swirl my tongue around the head.

He watches me, hand in my hair, hips rocking forward.

“You like this?”

I moan around him in answer.

His hips jerk. His muscles tighten.

And then he comes—hot and thick, down my throat.

I take every drop.

I don’t spill a single fucking thing.

And when he pulls out, panting, sweat dripping from his brow, I look up at him and smile.

Because I want him again.

Because I’m not done.

And neither is he.

Chapter

Thirty-One

SAGE

Iwake slowly, the first traces of morning light bleeding through the velvet curtains that drape across the tall windows.

Everything feels... too soft. Too quiet. Too surreal.

For a second, I don’t move.

My body aches in the best way—sore, tingling, like my skin is still remembering his touch. Last night wasn’t a dream. Malachi.

I sit up carefully in the oversized bed, letting the silk sheets pool around my waist.

He kept me here. Got me cleaned up. Put me to bed.

But did he sleep beside me? I glance to the other side of the bed. It's perfectly smooth, untouched. Of course.

My gaze drops to my wrist—and there it is. The tattoo.

Dark ink circling the delicate skin like a bracelet of flame and thorns. Intricate. Alive. His mark. My mark.

I saw it on his wrist last night, just before everything blurred into color and heat and magic.

What is it? What did we do?

My throat tightens. I should be panicking. Or at least... spiraling. I lost my virginity to a man who literally bound me with magic.

And yet… I don’t feel broken. I don’t feel used.

If anything, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world that has always been waiting for me. And now I can't go back.

“Okay,” I whisper, exhaling. “Let’s just... not think too hard about any of that.”

I swing my legs off the bed, wincing at the cool floor beneath my bare feet. My body still buzzes—like his power is woven through me now, sparking along my nerve endings.

I glance around the room, expecting to find some kind of robe or dress tossed over a chair—something to wear.

But there's nothing.

It hits me then.

This is Malachi's room.

He doesn’t keep women here.

The thought sends a strange flutter through my chest, but I push it down.

I spot a door just off to the left and slip through it into what looks like a closet—or maybe a dressing room. There’s a sleek dresser nestled between tall wardrobes, and I step up to it, half-grumbling to myself.

“I just need a t-shirt. And maybe shorts. That’s it. Is that so hard?”

The drawer in front of me clicks.

And then it opens.

Inside, folded with exacting precision, is a t-shirt and a pair of soft black shorts—both my size.

I blink. “Seriously?”

I glance around the room like someone’s going to pop out and say gotcha.

No one does.

I grab the clothes, tug them on quickly, the soft cotton strangely comforting against my skin.

None of this is normal.

But at this point, I’m not sure I’m normal either.

I brush my fingers once more over the tattoo on my wrist. The skin tingles beneath my touch.

Then I slip out the door and make my way to the library. I need answers. And that book is calling to me. The one I found last night before I discovered the garden—The Covenant of Fire: Witches, Warlocks, and the Ritual That Binds Them.

The hallways are mercifully empty as I make my way to the library. I walk quietly, my footsteps almost soundless against the polished floors. Every few seconds, I pause to listen for anyone approaching, but the estate seems unnaturally quiet this morning.

When I reach the library doors, I hesitate, pressing my ear against the wood. Silence. I push the door open slowly, wincing at the slight creak, and slip inside.

The library looks different in the morning light. Sunbeams filter through tall windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air. The bookcases stretch upward like ancient trees, their shadows creating a peaceful pattern across the floor. It feels... safe here.

I move cautiously toward the reading table where I left the book last night. My heart sinks when I see the empty surface—no burgundy leather, no ancient pages waiting to be read.

"No," I whisper, looking around frantically. "It was right here."

I scan the surrounding tables, wondering if someone moved it. Nothing. Just polished wood surfaces gleaming in the sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, I try to remember exactly where I found it. The far shelves, the dusty section, books that looked untouched for years. I make my way back there, eyes scanning each shelf carefully.

The book has to be here somewhere.

After fifteen minutes of searching, my fingers trace over the empty space where it had been. Someone took it deliberately. Someone who didn't want me reading it.

I lean against the shelf, frustration tightening in my chest. Just when I thought I might find answers...

Wait.

My eyes catch on another book, just two shelves down from where the first had been. The binding is different—deep green instead of burgundy—but something about it calls to me. I reach for it carefully, pulling it from its place.

Testimonials of the Seven Mothers: First-Hand Accounts of the Original Covenant

The title sends a chill through me.

I clutch the book to my chest, eyes darting across the library. It’s still empty. Still quiet. Just me, the dust motes in the sunlight, and this impossibly delicate tome that might hold every answer I’ve been looking for.

There’s a small reading nook tucked between two towering bookshelves—hidden, partially curtained, just enough for privacy. I slip inside, curling up on the window seat as golden light spills over the page like blessing.

The book is old. Ancient. The pages whisper when I turn them, and the ink is faded in places, the script hand-lettered in a flowing, elegant style.

“I, Morgana of the Fifth Bloodline, commit these words to parchment so that future generations might know the truth of our sacred bond with the Seven Warlocks. The Covenant of Fire was never meant to be broken.”

My heart pounds as I keep reading.

The Seven Mothers. The original witches. Not myths. Not stories. Real.

Women of power, born of earth and flame and shadow. Each one a vessel of a unique kind of magic—elemental, spiritual, divine. They weren’t hunted, not then. They were revered. Worshipped, even.

And beside them: the Seven Warlocks.

Not enemies.

Partners.

Morgana writes of a time when magic was balanced. When warlocks and witches bound themselves to one another—not through force, not through violence, but through sacred ritual. The Binding. A union of souls.

“The Binding creates balance in the natural order. A witch’s magic flows from creation—instinctive, wild, woven into the bones of the earth. A warlock’s power comes from discipline—structure, focus, control. One births the current. The other shapes it.”

Together, they made each other stronger. Not weaker. Not drained. Not consumed. Whole.

But halfway through, the words shift. A sense of unease creeps in through the lines.

“The Council speaks of order. Of hierarchy. Of man’s rightful place at the top. We hear whispers in the dark. They fear what we are when we stand beside them. They want us kneeling beneath them instead.”

I flip forward, the pages growing frantic, smudged in places by what might be tears, or blood.

“They took the Ritual. They twisted it. Warped it into something vile. Now they steal what was once given. Now they consume instead of connect.”

My stomach turns.

“We seven gathered beneath the Blood Moon one last time. We poured our power into the world itself—into stone, into fire, into blood, into wind, into sea, into shadow, into time. We knew we could not survive. But we made sure our magic would. We made sure our daughters would.”

I press my fingers to the page, breath caught in my throat.

“One day, a daughter of each Mother will awaken. They will be born with our blood and our memory. They will return balance to a world drowning in imbalance.”

I flip the page—and there, in bold, is a name I somehow already know.

The Mother of Stone – Amara. “She who grounds the world. She who shields what is sacred. She who remembers.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

The dreams. The nightmares. The visions of witches burned alive. They weren’t just dreams.

They were memories. Passed down. Buried deep. Until now.

I read the final line aloud in a whisper, barely audible over the rush in my ears.

“If you are reading this, you are she. We have imbued magic into this text and it recognizes you. You are our stone. You are the one who must remember.”

I close the book, hugging it to my chest. I am not just a witch.

I’m the descendant of Amara. The Mother of Stone.

I glance toward the library door—and that’s when it opens.

Elias.

He’s holding a cup of tea, glasses perched on his nose, brows raised in surprise.

“Sage,” he says, voice warm. “Didn’t expect to find you here so early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, hiding the book behind me, even though he makes no move toward me.

He looks at me carefully, gaze lingering a second too long on my wrist. “After last night, I’m not surprised.”

I stare at him for a beat. Does he know? Could he sense what happened between me and Malachi?

“I found something,” I say. “I wanted to ask you about it.”

He sets his tea down, intrigued. “What kind of something?”

I grip the book tighter. “What do you know about the original Binding Ritual? Before the corruption. Before the stealing.”

His face changes. Not surprise. Not suspicion.

Recognition.

“What a... curious thing to ask,” he says quietly.

I step closer. “I think I’m connected to it. I think I’m connected to them. The Mothers.”

Silence. Tension. Then, softly⁠—

“I believe,” Elias says, “we have much to discuss.”

Chapter

Thirty-Two

ELIAS

Inod toward the nearby alcove. “Come. We should sit for this.”

She follows me silently. There's a kind of quiet strength in her now—a rootedness that wasn’t there before. She’s still afraid, yes, but no longer aimless. She has direction. She has knowledge. And knowledge, especially this kind, is dangerous.

She settles back into the cushions, clutching the green-bound volume, Testimonials of the Seven Mothers. The moment I see it, my breath catches. That she found that book—one of the few original testimonies written by the Mothers themselves—feels like destiny reaching forward through time.

“You found something important,” I say softly.

Her eyes meet mine. “I think you know exactly how important it is.”

I nod. “I do.”

She opens it between us. The parchment is thin, fragile, handwritten in Morgana’s looping script. “Morgana of the Fifth Bloodline,” she murmurs. “She talks about the Covenant. About how the ritual was sacred. Mutual. Balanced.”

I exhale slowly. “Yes. That’s the part most of us were never taught. Or if we were... it was buried deep beneath lies.”

“And now?” she asks. “You remember it?”

“I’ve never forgotten,” I admit. “But remembering and speaking of it are two very different things.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Because the High Council made sure silence was the safest option.”

She tilts her head slightly, watching me. “The Council… that’s who Malachi hates, isn’t it? The Magister. The others.”

I nod. “They’re not just political leaders. They are the oldest surviving warlocks—many of whom took part in the original betrayal. When the Seven Mothers sacrificed their lives to protect the truth, the Council made sure that history was rewritten. They institutionalized the perverted version of the ritual. They made soul-draining legal. Celebrated.”

Her fingers tighten on the edges of the book. “But this wasn’t supposed to be like that. The Binding was meant to unify.”

I reach forward gently, touching the open page. “Seven Mothers. Seven types of magic. Seven warlocks they chose freely, willingly, to bond with. Not just lovers—partners.”

She goes still. “The Mothers had different types of magic?”

“Yes,” I say. “Each one channeled a different domain. Fire, Wind, Sea, Blood, Shadow, Time… and Stone.”

She stares at me. “Stone.”

I nod. “The most grounded. The protector. The one who remembers.”

Her breath catches. “Morgana says that's me.”

My eyes widen in a bit of shock. "Then, it must be true."

“But what does that mean?” she demands. “That I’m descended from her?”

“It means your magic runs deep. Deeper than memory. It means you were born not only with power—but with the ability to remember what was lost. To awaken that memory in others. That’s what the Mother of Stone did. She held the stories. She preserved the truth.”

She presses a hand to her temple. “The dreams… the visions. I felt them. Burnings. Betrayals. As if I was there.”

“You were,” I say. “Through her. Through all of them. When the Mothers made their final sacrifice, they wove their memories into the bloodline. Waiting for someone like you.”

Sage’s hands tremble. “I’m not ready for this.”

“No one is,” I say gently. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

She closes the book carefully, then leans back against the window seat. “So what happens now?”

“That depends on you,” I say. “You’ve found the truth. You’ve remembered. The question is: what are you going to do with it?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the beams of sunlight playing across the floor.

Finally, she says, “What would happen if I tried to restore the original ritual?”

I hesitate.

“Would it even work?” she presses. “After all this time?”

“With the right warlock?” I say. “Yes.”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “And who is the right one?”

For a beat, I don't answer.

Because the truth is—my first instinct is to say me.

That I would treat her as she deserves to be treated. That I would never see her as a vessel, or a prize, or a source of power.

But before I can speak, my eyes fall to her wrist.

My breath catches.

A symbol—intricate, ancient—circles her delicate skin like a cuff made of light and shadow, stone and smoke.

No, not just a symbol.

A mark.

The Binding.

I stare at it, stunned into silence. I’ve seen renderings of it in texts so old they crumble under your fingertips. I’ve dreamed of what it might look like if the original ritual was ever reawakened.

And now it’s real.

It’s on her.

And it’s not just her wrist. I’ve felt it in the air ever since I walked in. The residue of powerful, joined magic. The scent of blood and stone. Of need and surrender.

She’s already bound.

To someone.

My heart twists, violently.

“You’ve already...” My voice falters as I gesture toward her wrist. “That mark—Sage...that’s not just decorative.”

She looks down, startled. Her fingers drift over the glowing outline as if she’d almost forgotten it was there. “I know.”

“When did this appear?”

“Last night,” she whispers. “After...after Malachi.”

Of course.

Malachi.

I fight the surge of heat rising in my chest. Jealousy is beneath me. Dangerous. But it’s there, rising all the same.

The bastard got to her first.

“It just happened,” she adds quickly, as if she can feel the shift in my energy. “I didn’t know. I didn’t choose it. Not consciously.”

I force myself to breathe. To remember what this is—who she is. The Mother of Stone’s descendant. The one who carries all the memory of our kind. Her magic doesn’t follow the same rules as ours. Her instincts are deeper. Older.

“I believe you,” I say carefully. “The true Binding...it can’t be forced. Not even by him.”

She nods, hugging her knees closer to her chest. “It felt...I don’t know. Like something inside me woke up. Like I wasn’t alone in my body anymore.”

I want to touch her. To comfort her. But I stay where I am.

“I’ve studied this for years,” I tell her. “The Binding was believed to be a myth by most warlocks. A story. A relic of the old ways. But it’s real. You’re real.”

Her gaze lifts to mine again. “What does it mean?”

I shake my head slowly. “It means you’ve already begun restoring the balance. And that perhaps fate is no longer waiting. It’s intervening.”

Her brow furrows. “But what if I made a mistake?”

“You didn’t,” I say firmly. Then more gently: “But that doesn’t mean this isn’t complicated.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “That’s one word for it.”

I smile faintly. “What would you call it?”

“Terrifying,” she says without hesitation. Then, after a pause, “But also kind of beautiful.”

My heart aches.

“I wish—” I stop myself.

“What?” she asks.

“I wish I’d met you first.”

The silence stretches between us, warm and heavy. She doesn’t pull away from it. She doesn’t dismiss it.

She just whispers, “Me too.”

And I think—for the first time in centuries—maybe there’s still a place for the old ways.

Even if fate had other plans.

Chapter

Thirty-Three

SAGE

He says it so quietly I almost miss it.

“I wish I’d met you first.”

The words settle into the quiet between us like a stone into deep water—small, but rippling far and wide.

I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the ache in his voice. The way he hasn’t once tried to claim me or possess me. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time since all of this began, I feel seen. Not just as a vessel for power or some mythical witch bound to ancient fate.

Just… me.

So I lean forward.

And kiss him.

Softly. Tentatively. My lips brush his with barely-there pressure, as if asking a question I’m not brave enough to speak.

He goes still. Not tense—but stunned, like he didn’t expect it. Like he doesn’t dare believe it’s real.

Then—his hand comes up, fingertips grazing my cheek, and he kisses me back.

God, it’s different.

Malachi is fire and storm and raw hunger. But Elias… Elias is warmth and gravity and something deeper than want. Something like wonder.

His lips part, his breath catching slightly as I lean in again, bolder now. My hand rests against his chest, feeling the steady drumbeat of his heart. When I pull back slightly to look at him, his gaze is full of questions—but also reverence. Like I’m something sacred.

“I didn’t mean to—” I start.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says, voice low. “Not to me.”

I nod, exhaling shakily. But I don’t move away.

Neither does he.

His hand slides to my hip, tentative, waiting for any sign that I want to stop.

I don’t.

I rise up slightly, straddling him where he sits on the window seat. The kiss deepens, slow and heady, the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away. He groans softly into my mouth, and it lights something up inside me—something reckless and greedy and new.

My fingers find the hem of his shirt. He lets me lift it, baring skin that’s warm and smooth, lean muscle beneath soft cotton. I run my palms up his chest, exploring, and he shudders beneath my touch like it means something to him.

“Sage,” he whispers, like it’s a prayer and a warning.

But I don’t stop.

I can’t.

He lets me explore him, lets me guide the pace. His hands stay gentle, reverent—thumbs brushing my thighs, my waist, never taking more than I offer.

And when I unfasten the buttons of my own sweater and let it fall from my shoulders, his breath catches audibly.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes drinking me in with something close to awe. “So beautiful.”

His mouth finds my neck, then my collarbone, lingering in the space just above my heart. His breath is warm against my skin, and the way he moves—slow, reverent—makes every nerve in my body come alive. I arch into him without meaning to, my fingers gripping his shoulders, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels real right now.

He murmurs something soft against my skin—my name, I think—and then his mouth is lower, brushing the swell of my breast, his lips closing gently around my nipple. I gasp, my back curving, as sensation sparks through me like a lit fuse. My hands thread through his hair, holding him there, needing more, needing everything.

I can feel him beneath me. Hard. Unyielding. The heat of his arousal pressing between us, impossible to ignore.

And suddenly, I want to be closer. I want to give him everything, take everything. There’s no fear now—just the sharp ache of want that burns through me like wildfire.

I slide down between his legs, my fingers finding the fastening of his trousers. He watches me, breath shallow, eyes darkened with something raw and real. My hands tremble slightly as I ease the fabric open and slip my hand inside, feeling the heat of him, the way his breath stutters at the first touch.

He tastes like heat and salt and something uniquely him, and when I take him into my mouth, his hands clench in the cushions beneath him, a soft, choked sound escaping his lips.

“Sage…” he groans, his voice a broken thread. “If you keep going—I won’t be able to stop.”

I look up at him, breathless and aching. “Then don’t.”

Something in him snaps.

In the next breath, I’m in his arms—lifted effortlessly, my back cradled by his strength as he rises to his feet. The air shifts. Magic hums between us like a living thing.

And then—he lowers me, slow and reverent, onto him.

He fills me inch by inch, and the stretch of him steals my breath. His forehead rests against mine as we both try to hold onto the moment, to feel it fully.

This isn’t just a claiming.

It’s a communion.

Each movement is slow, deep, intentional. Like he’s carving his name into my soul with every thrust, with every whispered promise in the space between our mouths.

And when I shatter—when I fall apart around him—it’s not just pleasure.

It’s transformation.

Because I’m not just Sage anymore.

I’m his.

And somewhere deep in my magic, something answers.

A new thread winds itself into place—binding, anchoring, remembering.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

ELIAS

She clenches around me with a cry, her body shuddering, trembling, completely lost in the throes of her release—and I can feel it.

Not just physically.

Magically.

Her power coils around mine in a sudden rush, wild and untamed, like a storm breaking free of its sky. I barely manage to keep control as she pulls me into that storm, her magic spinning with mine until I can’t tell where hers ends and mine begins.

The moment fractures.

Pleasure hits me with devastating force, and I let go.

Magic erupts from me as my body follows hers, my head tipping back, a growl tearing from my throat as I spill into her, deeper than I ever thought I could go. For a moment—just one—everything stops. Suspended in the space between climax and collapse, power and surrender.

And then… It settles.

Our magic, still swirling, begins to quiet. To soften. And then it roots.

I feel it first in the center of my chest, like something ancient snapping into place.

And then I see it.

She’s slumped forward against me, her body spent, her forehead resting against my collarbone as her breath comes in soft, unsteady waves. I shift slightly, brushing her hair away from her face, only to catch sight of her wrist—her second wrist.

Another mark.

Smaller, but unmistakably there. Nested beside the first binding sigil that already circled her skin like an intricate bracelet.

This one is different. Sharper. A mirrored reflection of the mark I now feel burned into my own wrist.

I lift my hand.

It’s there.

Branded into my skin—twisting runes and delicate lines that pulse faintly, as if still cooling from the heat of the ritual neither of us intended to perform.

I swallow hard, staring down at the mark, the implications of it spinning through my mind like unraveling thread.

A second bond.

She’s already bound to Malachi. That much was clear from the beginning.

But this—this shouldn’t be possible. Not according to anything I’ve read. Not according to anything anyone knows.

Yet… there it is.

She carries us both. Two bindings. Two sigils. And her magic didn’t resist. It accepted me.

I should be panicking. I should be thinking about the Council. The Order. About what Malachi will say when he realizes what’s happened.

But all I can think about right now… is her.

She shifts against me, letting out a soft sigh, still too far gone to realize the change.

She needs rest.

I slide my arms beneath her and lift her easily. She melts against me, pliant, trusting—too trusting for someone who’s been hunted, manipulated, used.

The thought makes my chest ache.

I carry her from the alcove, leaving behind nothing but scattered clothes and the faintest shimmer of magic in the air.

I don’t take her to her room. Not yet.

Instead, I bring her to the quietest place in the estate—my quarters. A private room tucked beyond the west wing, sealed against interference. It’s filled with books and soft light and silence. She’ll be safe here. Unbothered.

I lay her down gently and draw a blanket over her shoulders.

She stirs once, lashes fluttering, her voice barely a whisper. “Elias…?”

“I’m here,” I murmur, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Rest.”

She sighs and drifts off again, her breathing steady.

But I can’t sleep.

I stare down at the matching mark on my wrist, feeling it pulse faintly in time with the rise and fall of her breath.

This changes everything.

She bound to me.

Which means what I’ve suspected for weeks may be true.

Sage isn’t just the witch born to remember.

She’s something new.

Something more.

And the Council… the Order… they will come for her.

Unless we find out what this truly means— And how to stop them first.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

SAGE

Islip into sleep unwillingly. I'm somewhere new, Elias' quarters maybe? What just happened between us? It felt like what happened with Malachi, but it couldn't be, could it?

But before I can fully process what it might mean, sleep claims me, dragging me down into darkness.

And then, the dream begins.

I'm seven years old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' car. Rain patters against the windows, the windshield wipers keeping steady rhythm as we drive through the storm. Dad's humming along to some old song on the radio, Mom's head resting against the passenger window, her breath fogging the glass.

"You okay back there, bookworm?" Dad calls, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

I nod, clutching my library book tighter. "Can we read another chapter when we get home?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he says, smiling. "Just as soon as we⁠—"

Bright lights flood the car. A deafening horn. Mom's scream.

Then nothing.

The scene shifts, and I'm standing in the rain at the cemetery, my small hand engulfed in my aunt Patricia's larger one. Her grip is firm but not comforting. Practical. Like everything about her.

"Stand up straight," she murmurs, tugging at my shoulder. "People are watching."

I try, but I feel like I might shatter if I move too much. The twin caskets before me—one large, one smaller—seem impossible. How can they contain my parents? My dad with his booming laugh, my mom with her gentle hands?

Someone says my name, and I look up into the face of a neighbor or family friend—I can't tell which. They're bending down, trying to look me in the eye.

"Poor thing," they say, not to me but about me. "So quiet. Hasn't shed a tear."

I haven't. I can't. The tears are locked somewhere deep inside, in a place I can't reach.

"She's in shock," someone else whispers.

I'm not. I'm just... empty. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered.

Later, at Aunt Patricia's house—my house now—I sit on the edge of a twin bed in a room that isn't mine. The walls are beige. The bedspread is beige. Even the curtains are beige, like someone was afraid of color.

Aunt Patricia stands in the doorway, arms folded. "You'll start school on Monday. I've already spoken to the principal. They know about your... situation."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Your clothes are in the dresser. Bathroom is down the hall. Dinner's at six." She delivers this information efficiently, like she's reading from a manual on how to care for orphaned nieces.

"I..." My voice cracks. "I left my book. In the car."

Her expression softens, just slightly. "I'll see about getting you a new one."

But she doesn't ask which book. Doesn't understand that it wasn't just any book—it was the last story my father started reading to me. The last adventure we were supposed to finish together.

She leaves, closing the door with a quiet click.

I curl into myself, small hands clutching at the beige bedspread. And finally, finally, I cry.

The dream shifts again.

I'm ten, sitting alone at lunch, a book propped against my milk carton. The cafeteria buzzes with noise—laughter, shouting, the clatter of trays—but I've built a fortress of solitude around myself. The words on the page are my shield against the chaos.

"Is that the weird girl?"

The whisper carries from the table behind me. I don't look up, just turn the page, pretending I didn't hear.

"Yeah, the one who lives with her aunt. I heard her parents died in a car crash."

"Gross. Is that why she never talks to anyone?"

"Probably. My mom says she's traumatized or whatever."

I turn another page, not reading anymore, just going through the motions. The characters in my book wouldn't care about whispers. They'd be brave, would stand up and say something clever.

I just sit, silent.

"Hey, book girl."

I look up. Three girls stand across from me, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and that specific cruelty children specialize in.

"Is it true you don't have parents?"

The question hits like a physical blow. I swallow. "My parents died."

"That's so sad," one says, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "So who takes care of you? Like, do you cook your own food and stuff?"

"My aunt⁠—"

"Does she even want you?" another girl cuts in. "Or did she, like, have to take you?"

I stare at them, something cold and defensive building in my chest. "She's my family."

The first girl leans forward. "My mom says your aunt never wanted kids. That's why she never got married."

"Your mom doesn't know anything about my aunt," I say quietly, but there's a tremor in my voice.

"Ooh, she's getting mad," the third girl giggles. "Careful, she might curse you or something."

"I heard her talking to herself in the bathroom yesterday," one stage-whispers to the others. "Total freak."

I wasn't talking to myself. I was reading aloud, softly, the way my dad used to read to me. The memory of his voice was fading, and sometimes, if I read the way he did, I could almost hear him again.

But I don't explain. I just gather my book and lunch tray and leave, walking stiffly to the far end of the cafeteria where I can sit alone.

That night, I ask Aunt Patricia if I can eat lunch in the library instead.

"Why?" she asks, not looking up from her crossword puzzle.

"I like it better there."

She glances at me, pen poised mid-air. "Are those girls bothering you again?"

I'm surprised she noticed. "Sometimes."

She sighs, setting down her pen. "Sage, you need to learn how to stand up for yourself. The world isn't kind to people who stay quiet."

"I know," I whisper.

"Your mother was like that too," she says, and I look up sharply. She rarely mentions my parents. "Always had her nose in a book. Never stood up to anyone."

"That's not true," I protest. "Mom was brave."

"She was," Aunt Patricia agrees unexpectedly. "But not with people. She let them walk all over her. Don't make the same mistake."

I want to defend my mother, to say she was perfect, but the truth is hazier. I remember how she would sometimes let salespeople talk her into buying things we didn't need because she hated saying no. How she would agree to volunteer for school events even when she was exhausted.

"I don't know how," I admit finally.

Aunt Patricia looks at me for a long moment. "You start by deciding what matters enough to fight for. And then you don't back down."

It's the closest thing to actual advice she's ever given me.

The scene shifts again.

I'm sixteen, standing in the high school hallway, clutching my acceptance letter to Columbia University. Full scholarship. My hands are shaking slightly.

"I got in," I tell Aunt Patricia that night, sliding the letter across the kitchen table.

She picks it up, reading it carefully, her face giving nothing away. Then she looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes I've never seen before.

Pride.

"Well done," she says simply.

Two words. That's all. But coming from her, it feels monumental.

"Thank you," I say, and I mean for more than just the congratulations. For the roof over my head. For the quiet stability. For doing her best, even if her best was distant and practical rather than warm.

She seems to understand because she nods once, briskly. "Your parents would have been proud."

The words hang between us, fragile and precious.

"I miss them," I say, the admission slipping out before I can stop it.

"I know," she replies. "I miss my sister too."

It's the most personal conversation we've ever had.

The dream shifts again, and now I'm in my dorm room at Columbia, the walls lined with books, my small sanctuary in the chaos of college life. I've made a few acquaintances but no real friends. It's easier that way. Safer.

A guy from my Medieval Literature class asked me out yesterday. I said no automatically, the refusal like a shield I've learned to deploy at the first sign of personal interest.

"You always do that," my roommate commented afterward. "Push people away before they get close."

"I don't push people away," I argued.

She gave me a knowing look. "When was the last time you let anyone see the real you?"

The question haunts me, even in the dream.

The real me. Who is that, exactly?

The bookish girl who finds more comfort in fictional worlds than the real one? The orphan who learned early that love can be snatched away in an instant? The quiet observer who sees too much but says too little?

The scene blurs, shifts, and suddenly I'm standing in a forest clearing, surrounded by seven women in flowing robes. Their faces are both ancient and timeless, their eyes filled with wisdom and sorrow.

The Seven Mothers.

"You've hidden long enough, daughter," one says, her voice like wind through autumn leaves.

"I'm not hiding," I protest.

Another steps forward, her dark eyes piercing. "You've been hiding your whole life. From pain. From connection. From your own power."

"I didn't know I had power," I whisper.

"Didn't you?" a third asks gently. "Haven't you always sensed you were different? That there was something more?"

I think about the strange occurrences throughout my life—books falling from shelves when I was upset, lights flickering when I was frightened, the time in college when my roommate's abusive boyfriend suddenly tripped and broke his arm after he raised his hand to her.

"I thought it was coincidence," I say weakly.

They smile in unison, knowing and sad.

"You were born to remember," the first Mother says again. "Not just our history, but yourself. Who you truly are."

"And who is that?" I ask.

"Someone who doesn't hide," the second replies. "Someone who stands her ground. Someone who faces her fears."

"Even Malachi?" I ask before I can stop myself.

They exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.

"Especially Malachi," the third says. "He is bound to you in ways neither of you yet understand."

"He frightens me," I admit.

"Good," says a fourth, her voice strong and clear. "Fear keeps us sharp. But do not let it keep you small."

"What should I do?" I ask, desperation creeping into my voice.

"Stop hiding," they say in unison. "Face him. Face yourself."

The clearing begins to fade, the Mothers becoming translucent.

"Wait!" I call. "I still don't understand⁠—"

"You will," the first Mother says, her voice echoing as she disappears. "When you stop hiding."

I wake with a start, my heart pounding in my chest.

The dream clings to me, more vivid than any normal dream—a mixture of memory and message. The grief of losing my parents. The loneliness of growing up with a guardian who provided stability but little affection. The habit of seeking safety in solitude.

And the Mothers' words, echoing in my mind.

Stop hiding. Face him. Face yourself.

I sit up in bed, wrapping my arms around my knees as I stare into the darkness. The truth settles over me, uncomfortable but undeniable. I've spent my entire life retreating from challenges, finding safety in books and silence rather than confronting difficult realities.

I've been hiding from Malachi since the moment I met him—not just physically, but emotionally. From the intensity of his presence. From the strange pull I feel toward him.

From what it might mean if I stopped running.

He is bound to you in ways neither of you yet understand.

I take a deep breath, resolve hardening in my chest.

No more hiding. No more running.

Tomorrow, I will find Malachi. I will face him directly, ask the questions I've been afraid to ask.

It's time to discover who I truly am—and what binds me to a warlock who claims to own me.

Chapter

Thirty-Six

MALACHI

"Ineed you to be careful," I tell Gideon, watching him as he stands near the window of my office. "The Magister has eyes everywhere."

Gideon nods, his expression characteristically stoic. "I always am."

I move to my desk, fingers drumming against the polished surface. "Find out if they're looking for her specifically. If the Council has involved the Order. If they know what she is."

"And if they do?" he asks, voice cool and pragmatic.

"Then we accelerate our plans," I respond simply. No need to elaborate further with Gideon—he understands what's at stake.

He straightens, adjusting his jacket with practiced precision. "What about the others? Elias has been spending a lot of time with her."

A flicker of irritation courses through me. "Let me worry about Elias."

"And Asher?"

I exhale sharply. "Asher is... being Asher. He's not a threat."

Gideon studies me for a long moment. "You're certain?"

"No," I admit. "But I have more pressing concerns right now."

He nods again, accepting my decision without further question—one of the many reasons I value him. "I'll report back by nightfall."

"Be discreet," I remind him. "If the Magister suspects we're harboring a witch..."

"He won't learn it from me," Gideon assures me, his voice hardening slightly. His loyalty has never been in question, not since the day I found him half-dead in that warehouse.

I watch as he leaves, the door closing quietly behind him.

The moment I'm alone, I allow myself a brief moment of uncertainty. The Magister will be looking for her by now. A witch of her power can't remain undetected for long. And once he finds her...

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

I straighten, immediately on alert. "Enter."

The door opens slowly, and I freeze, surprise washing over me before I can mask it.

Sage.

She stands in the doorway, hesitant but determined, her slender frame draped in a simple blue dress that makes her eyes seem deeper, more luminous. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and something about her seems... different. More present. More focused.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

"You're the last person I expected to find at my door," I say finally, keeping my voice neutral despite the sudden tension humming beneath my skin.

She takes a small step forward, entering my domain willingly for the first time. "Is this a bad time?"

I study her carefully, intrigued by this unexpected boldness. "That depends on why you're here."

She closes the door behind her—another surprise. She's choosing to be alone with me, not fleeing at the first opportunity.

"I wanted to talk to you," she says, her voice quiet but steadier than I expected.

I lean back against my desk, allowing a small smile. "By all means. Talk."

She takes another step into the room, her gaze sweeping over my bookshelves, the large window overlooking the estate grounds, before finally settling on me.

"I realized something last night," she begins. "I've been hiding from you since the moment we met."

This admission catches me off guard. "Hiding?"

She nods. "Not just physically running away, but... emotionally. Mentally." She takes a breath. "I've been afraid to face you directly."

"And now you're not afraid?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.

"No," she says, then corrects herself with a small smile. "I mean, yes. I'm still afraid. But I'm here anyway."

I push off from the desk, moving closer to her, testing whether she'll retreat. She doesn't.

"Why?" I ask simply.

"Because I want to understand," she says, her blue-grey eyes meeting mine with surprising steadiness. "I want to know you. To face my fear instead of running from it."

I chuckle, the sound low and pleased. "So I'm something to be faced? Like a challenge to be overcome?"

A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "You terrify me."

"Good," I say softly. "Fear is honest. It's real."

I circle her slowly, observing the way she tenses but doesn't follow my movement with her eyes. She's forcing herself to stay still, to endure my scrutiny—to face it, as she put it.

"What exactly frightens you about me, Sage?" I ask, coming to stand before her again.

She swallows, but her voice remains steady. "The way you look at me. Like you can see right through me. Like you know things about me that I don't know myself."

"Perhaps I do," I murmur.

"And the way you make me feel," she continues, the blush deepening on her cheeks. "Like I'm not in control of my own body."

I feel a surge of heat at her words, remembering the night of the ritual—the way she came apart under my touch, uninhibited and raw. The way she felt just a night ago, clenching around my cock as I took her for her first time.

"Is that so terrible?" I ask, stepping closer. "To lose control?"

"For me? Yes." Her honesty is disarming. "I've spent my whole life carefully maintaining control. Being quiet. Being invisible. Being safe."

I reach out, allowing my fingers to brush a strand of hair from her face. She shivers but doesn't pull away.

"And how has that served you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"It kept me alive," she admits. "But not living. Not really."

Something shifts between us—the air growing heavier, charged with an energy that's not entirely magical.

"So this is about more than just understanding me," I observe. "This is about understanding yourself."

She nods. "I think so. Yes."

I move to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. I offer one to her, and after a brief hesitation, she takes it.

"To facing fears," I say, raising my glass slightly.

She lifts hers in response, taking a small sip. Her face scrunches slightly at the burn, and I find the expression unexpectedly endearing.

"Tell me something true about yourself, Sage," I say, leaning against the sideboard. "Something you've never told anyone."

She considers this, rolling the glass between her palms. "I used to talk to my books," she says finally. "After my parents died. I would tell them things I couldn't tell my aunt. My fears. My dreams. It was easier than talking to real people."

The confession touches something in me—a recognition of loneliness I understand all too well.

"Books don't judge," I agree. "They don't disappoint."

She looks up, surprised. "You read a lot?"

"I've had centuries to develop a taste for literature," I say with a slight smile. "You'd be surprised what interests me."

"Try me," she challenges, and I see a flash of the woman she could be—confident, assertive, unafraid to meet my gaze.

"I collect first editions of romantic poetry," I tell her, enjoying her widened eyes. "Keats. Byron. Shelley."

"You're joking," she says, disbelief clear in her voice.

"I never joke about books," I respond seriously. "Beauty is rare in this world. When you find it, you should treasure it."

Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a curiosity. She sets her glass down and steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and delicate.

"You're not what I expected," she admits quietly.

"And what did you expect?" I ask, not moving, allowing her to dictate the closeness between us.

"Someone colder. More... ruthless."

"Oh, I can be ruthless," I assure her. "When necessary."

"But not with me?" she asks, looking up at me.

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility.

"Not in the way you fear," I say finally. "I have no desire to break you, Sage. To control you, yes. To possess you, absolutely. But not to destroy what makes you... you."

She absorbs this, her eyes never leaving mine. "The night you found me at the barrier," she says, her voice dropping lower. "What you did to me..."

"Yes?" I prompt when she falters.

"I've never felt anything like that before," she admits, color rising in her cheeks again. "It was like... like I became someone else. Someone who wasn't afraid. Who knew exactly what she wanted."

"That wasn't someone else," I tell her, my voice deepening. "That was you. The real you, beneath all the careful control."

She steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, the slight tremor in her breath.

"I want to feel that again," she whispers. "But I don't know how to let go."

I remain perfectly still, understanding instinctively what she needs in this moment. "Then don't," I tell her. "Don't let go. Take control instead."

Her eyes widen slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I say carefully, "that there's power in choosing to act rather than being acted upon. In taking what you want rather than waiting for it to be given."

I see understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by something else—determination mixed with desire.

"What if what I want is you?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

The question sends heat coursing through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Then take me," I challenge softly.

She hesitates, uncertainty battling with desire on her face.

"I won't move," I promise her. "Whatever happens next is entirely your choice."

Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for manipulation. Finding none, she takes a deep breath.

Then, with a deliberation that's almost painfully slow, she raises her hand to my face. Her fingers are cool against my skin as she traces the line of my jaw, exploring with gentle curiosity.

I remain motionless, allowing her this exploration, though every nerve in my body demands action.

Her touch grows bolder, fingers sliding into my hair, tracing the curve of my ear, brushing across my lower lip with feather-light pressure.

"Your heart is racing," she observes, her other hand coming to rest lightly on my chest.

"Yes," I admit, seeing no reason to deny the obvious.

"Because of me?" she asks, wonder in her voice.

"Entirely," I confirm.

This admission seems to embolden her. She steps even closer, her body now just a breath away from mine. Her hand slides from my chest to my shoulder, steadying herself.

I see the moment she makes her decision—a flash of resolve in her eyes, a slight firming of her mouth.

Then she rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine.

The kiss is tentative at first, hesitant and questioning. I remain still, letting her set the pace, though it takes every ounce of my control not to take over, to deepen it, to show her exactly what I want.

But this isn't about what I want. Not now.

Her lips move against mine, growing more confident with each passing second. When her tongue tentatively traces the seam of my lips, I open to her, allowing her to explore.

A small sound escapes her—surprise mingled with pleasure—and her hand tightens in my hair.

The kiss deepens, her initial hesitation giving way to curiosity, then to hunger. She presses closer, her body flush against mine now, and I finally allow my hands to move, settling lightly at her waist, neither pulling her closer nor pushing her away.

When she finally breaks the kiss, she's breathing hard, her eyes wide and dark with desire.

"That was..." she trails off, searching for words.

"A good start," I finish for her, unable to keep a note of satisfaction from my voice.

She laughs—a small, surprised sound that transforms her face completely. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of who she could be, who she was meant to be, before life taught her to hide.

"Did I do that right?" she asks, and beneath the teasing, I hear a genuine question.

I allow myself a slow smile. "You tell me."

She considers this, her fingers absently tracing patterns on my chest. "I think," she says finally, "I might need more practice."

"I'm at your disposal," I tell her, meaning it more than she could possibly understand.

She studies me, her head tilting slightly. "This isn't what I expected when I came here today."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know," she admits. "To be intimidated. To be afraid. Maybe even to argue."

"We can still do all of those things, if you prefer," I offer, enjoying the small smile that crosses her face.

"No," she says decisively. "I think I prefer this."

I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, allowing myself the small liberty. "As do I."

Her expression grows serious again. "This doesn't change everything, you know. There are still so many questions. So many things I don't understand."

"I know," I acknowledge. "But it's a beginning."

She nods, stepping back slightly, creating space between us. I let her go, recognizing her need to regain equilibrium.

"I should..." she gestures vaguely toward the door.

"Go?" I suggest, arching a brow. "Or stay?"

She hesitates, clearly tempted. "Go, I think. For now."

I nod, respecting her decision even as desire still pulses through me. "Until next time, then."

She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. She turns back, a new confidence in the set of her shoulders.

"There will be a next time," she says, not a question but a statement.

I smile, slow and certain. "Yes, Sage. There will."

She returns the smile—small but genuine—before slipping out the door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and the taste of her still on my lips.

I exhale slowly, allowing myself to feel the full weight of what just happened. Of what it means.

She came to me. Chose to face me. Chose to kiss me.

More importantly, for the first time since I claimed her, she acted rather than reacted. Took control rather than surrendering it.

And in doing so, she revealed a truth I've suspected from the beginning:

She is far stronger than she knows.

I shake my head, unable to suppress a begrudging smirk. Elias, that bastard. The fool actually completed the binding with her. Now I'm going to have to murder him—purely out of principle, of course. Nothing personal.

Well, perhaps slightly personal.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

ASHER

Timing is everything.

That's what I've learned in my centuries of existence—be in the right place at the right time, and the universe hands you exactly what you want.

Like now, for instance.

I'm lounging against the wall in the east corridor, idly spinning a small flame between my fingers (a trick that drives Malachi absolutely mad when I do it near his precious antiques), when I spot her.

Sage, coming down the hallway from the direction of Malachi's office, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her eyes holding that particular dazed look that I recognize all too well.

Well, well, well. Isn't this interesting?

I extinguish the flame with a flick of my wrist and push off from the wall, timing my casual stroll to intercept her path perfectly.

"Good morning, librarian," I call cheerfully, enjoying the way she startles at my voice. "Fancy meeting you here."

She freezes momentarily, then composes herself, though that delicious blush deepens. "Asher. Hi."

I circle her slowly, taking in every detail—the slight dishevelment of her hair, the way her fingers nervously smooth down her dress, the lingering tension in her shoulders.

"You seem... flustered," I observe, stopping directly in front of her. "Been somewhere interesting?"

She lifts her chin slightly. "Just talking with Malachi."

"Talking," I repeat, letting my disbelief color the word. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Her eyes widen, and for a moment I think she might deny it, but then something shifts in her expression—a flicker of newfound confidence that's both surprising and incredibly appealing.

"Among other things," she admits, the flush spreading down her neck.

I throw my head back and laugh, genuinely delighted by her honesty. "Look at you, getting all brave and forthright. I like it."

She smiles tentatively, and I'm struck by how different she looks when she's not actively trying to disappear into the background. There's a quiet beauty in her features, something that goes beyond conventional prettiness—a depth, an intelligence that shines through when she lets her guard down.

"Where are you headed?" I ask, falling into step beside her when she starts walking again.

She shrugs. "Nowhere specific. Just... processing."

"Ah yes, processing. A heavy burden after an encounter with our brooding overlord," I say dramatically. "Luckily for you, I'm an excellent distraction."

She glances at me skeptically. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," I declare, placing a hand over my heart. "It's one of my many talents. Along with making excellent cocktails, dancing the tango, and—" I lean in conspiratorially, "—certain other activities that would make you blush even harder than you already are."

Right on cue, the pink in her cheeks deepens, but she doesn't look away.

"You're ridiculous," she says, but there's no bite to it.

"Ridiculously charming," I correct. "Come on." I take her hand, tugging her toward a different corridor. "Let's go have some fun."

She hesitates but doesn't pull away. "What kind of fun?"

"The kind that doesn't involve brooding or ancient rituals or magical politics," I promise. "Just good old-fashioned enjoyment."

After a moment's consideration, she nods. "Okay."

I lead her through the winding corridors of Malachi's absurdly enormous mansion, taking shortcuts I've discovered over years of snooping where I shouldn't. Finally, we reach a door tucked away in a rarely used wing.

"Close your eyes," I tell her.

She raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because surprises are more fun that way."

She sighs but complies, and I guide her through the door, positioning her in just the right spot before saying, "Okay, open them."

She does, and her gasp is exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

The room is my secret hideaway—a greenhouse of sorts, but filled with exotic plants from every corner of the world. Massive windows let in streams of sunlight, and the air is warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. A small fountain bubbles in the center, surrounded by cushions and low tables.

"What is this place?" she asks, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

"My sanctuary," I tell her, flopping down onto the cushions and patting the space beside me. "The one place in this mausoleum where Malachi never bothers me."

She sits more carefully, running her fingers over a nearby orchid. "It's beautiful. I wouldn't have expected... this from you."

I clutch my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Sage. What did you expect? A dungeon filled with empty liquor bottles and discarded lovers?"

Her lips twitch. "Something like that."

"Well, I have one of those too," I assure her with a wink. "But this is where I come when I need to think."

"You think?" she teases gently, and I'm struck again by this new boldness.

"Occasionally," I admit. "Don't tell anyone—it would ruin my reputation."

She laughs—a genuine sound that transforms her entire face. I find myself staring, oddly captivated by the way her eyes crinkle at the corners.

I clear my throat, reaching for a crystal decanter on a nearby table. "Drink?"

"It's not even noon," she protests.

"Time is a construct," I counter, pouring two glasses of pale golden liquid. "Besides, this is special."

She accepts the glass cautiously. "What is it?"

"Mead from a hidden valley in the Himalayas. Made by monks who've never spoken a word aloud," I tell her. "It's said to show you glimpses of your true self."

She eyes the drink suspiciously. "Are you making that up?"

"Only one way to find out," I challenge, raising my glass.

After a moment's hesitation, she clinks her glass against mine and takes a small sip. Her eyes widen in surprise.

"It tastes like..." she pauses, searching for words. "Like summer. And honey. And something I can't quite name."

I smile, pleased. "That's the magic."

"Is it really from silent Himalayan monks?" she asks, taking another sip.

"No," I admit. "I made it myself. The recipe is about three hundred years old."

She stares at me. "You made this?"

"Don't sound so surprised," I say, leaning back against the cushions. "I've had a lot of time to perfect my hobbies."

She studies me over the rim of her glass. "How old are you, exactly?"

"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care," I say automatically, the deflection familiar and comfortable.

"That's not an answer," she points out.

I take a long sip of my mead, considering how much to reveal. There's something about her—something that makes me want to be more honest than I usually am.

"I was born in 1693," I tell her finally. "In a little village in what's now southern France."

Her eyes widen. "You're over three hundred years old?"

"I moisturize," I say with a grin, but then grow more serious. "I was seventeen when I discovered what I was. When the magic awakened."

"What happened?" she asks softly.

I rarely talk about this. In fact, I can't remember the last time I told anyone the full story. But something about her quiet attentiveness pulls it from me.

"It was during a storm," I begin, twirling my glass idly. "Lightning struck our barn. The fire spread quickly, trapping my younger sisters inside."

Her expression softens with sympathy.

"I ran in after them without thinking," I continue. "The heat was unbearable, the smoke choking, but I found them huddled in a corner. And when I tried to get them out, I discovered I could... control the flames. Push them back. Create a path."

"You saved them," she murmurs.

"I did," I nod. "But the village saw. And in 1693, people who could control fire weren't celebrated as heroes."

"They tried to kill you," she guesses.

"They would have," I agree. "But that night, a stranger arrived. A warlock passing through who sensed the sudden surge of power. He got me out, taught me what I was, introduced me to others like us."

"Malachi?" she asks.

I laugh. "God, no. Malachi and I didn't cross paths until much later. No, his name was Sebastian. He's long gone now." I take another sip of mead, feeling the familiar warmth of it spreading through my chest. "I never saw my family again."

She's quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "I'm sorry."

I shrug, pushing away the old grief. "It was a different time. And I've had a good run since then."

"Is that why you're always so..." she searches for the word.

"Charming? Devastatingly handsome? Witty?" I suggest helpfully.

She smiles. "I was going to say 'determined to enjoy yourself.'"

"Ah." I consider this. "Maybe. I learned early that life can change—or end—in an instant. Seems a waste not to squeeze every drop of pleasure from it while I can."

She nods thoughtfully. "That makes sense."

"What about you?" I ask, setting my glass down. "What's your story, librarian?"

She hesitates, then gives me a condensed version of her childhood—parents lost in a car accident, raised by a distant aunt, finding solace in books. It's sad but told with a matter-of-factness that suggests she's come to terms with much of it.

"So that's why you're so quiet," I observe when she finishes. "You learned to make yourself small, unnoticed."

"It was safer," she admits.

"But boring," I counter.

Her lips quirk. "Not everyone needs excitement the way you do, Asher."

"Everyone needs some excitement," I insist. "Some pleasure. Some fun."

She blushes slightly at the word 'pleasure,' and I can't resist teasing her.

"Speaking of pleasure," I say, leaning closer. "How was your 'talk' with Malachi?"

Her blush deepens. "It was... enlightening."

"Enlightening," I repeat, grinning. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

She laughs despite herself. "We really did talk. Mostly. But..."

"But?" I prompt, enjoying her discomfort.

"But there was a kiss," she admits.

"Just one?" I ask, feigning disappointment. "Amateur."

She throws a small cushion at me, which I catch easily. "Not everyone is as... experienced as you probably are."

"Probably?" I echo, pretending offense. "I'll have you know I am extremely experienced. Centuries of practice."

"I'm sure," she says dryly.

A thought occurs to me—one that's both self-serving and genuinely helpful. "You know," I say casually, "if you're interested in gaining more experience, I'd be happy to offer my services."

She chokes on her mead. "What?"

"As a teacher," I clarify, unable to keep the mischief from my voice. "I could give you lessons. How to please a man. How to be pleased by one. All the tricks and techniques I've learned over my very long and very enjoyable life."

She stares at me, clearly unsure whether I'm joking. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely," I say, leaning back on my elbows. "Think of it as a public service. I'd be helping you, and you'd be helping me maintain my skills."

"Your skills," she repeats skeptically.

"They require regular practice," I insist solemnly. "It's very important work."

A surprised laugh escapes her. "You're ridiculous."

"So you keep saying," I agree. "But the offer stands. No pressure, no expectations. Just pleasure and education."

She shakes her head, but I notice she doesn't outright refuse. "I'll... think about it."

"Fair enough," I concede, satisfied to have planted the seed. "In the meantime, how about we start with something a little less intimidating?"

"Like what?" she asks warily.

I stand, offering her my hand. "Dancing. I happen to be an excellent teacher."

She looks skeptical but takes my hand, allowing me to pull her to her feet. "There's no music."

I snap my fingers, and soft jazz begins to play, seemingly from nowhere. "Problem solved."

"Show-off," she mutters, but she's smiling.

I guide her hand to my shoulder, place mine at her waist, and begin to lead her in a simple step.

"Dancing is just like sex," I inform her, enjoying her immediate flustered reaction. "It's all about rhythm, communication, and paying attention to your partner's body."

"Is everything about sex with you?" she asks, trying to maintain her composure as she follows my lead.

"Not everything," I admit. "But all the best things usually are."

She rolls her eyes, but she's relaxing into the dance, her movements becoming more fluid.

"You're a natural," I tell her, and I mean it. There's a grace to her that she herself doesn't seem aware of.

"I took lessons as a kid," she admits. "My aunt insisted. Said it would teach me poise."

"Smart woman," I comment, spinning her gently.

She comes back into my arms with more confidence, her body closer to mine now. "She had her moments."

We dance in silence for a minute, and I find myself genuinely enjoying it—the simple pleasure of movement, of connection without expectation.

"Asher," she says after a while, her voice softer. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything," I tell her. "Whether I answer truthfully is another matter entirely."

She smiles at that. "Why did you bid on me? At the auction."

I consider deflecting with a joke, but something about the moment calls for honesty. "At first, just to annoy Malachi," I admit. "He rarely shows interest in the women at the Ritual, so when he did..."

"You couldn't resist antagonizing him," she finishes.

"Exactly," I nod. "But then..." I trail off, searching for the right words.

"Then?" she prompts.

"Then I saw something in you," I say simply. "Something different. Something interesting."

"My power," she guesses.

"Not just that," I shake my head. "Though that's certainly part of it. But there's more to you than power, Sage. You have... depth. Stillness. Most people are so busy trying to be seen that they never really see. You observe. You understand."

She looks surprised by my assessment. "I do?"

"You do," I confirm. "It's... refreshing."

A comfortable silence falls between us as we continue to dance, the steps becoming more natural, more fluid.

"So," I say eventually, unable to resist. "About those lessons..."

She laughs, the sound light and unguarded. "You're incorrigible."

"One of my better qualities," I agree cheerfully. "Think about it, though. No strings, no complications. Just enjoyment and education."

She shakes her head, but I notice she's still smiling. "I'll consider it."

"You know," I say casually, spinning her gently, "now that you're no longer a virgin, there's so much to learn. Consider me a master willing to share my knowledge."

She freezes, her eyes widening. "Wait—how do you know that?"

I smirk slightly, leaning in conspiratorially. "Oh, I can tell."

Her cheeks flush beautifully, but she narrows her eyes skeptically. "Really?"

"Absolutely," I assure her solemnly. "It's practically written all over your face."

She rolls her eyes, though a soft smile lingers on her lips. "You're ridiculous."

"And charming," I add helpfully.

"And humble," she deadpans, making me chuckle.

"That's all I ask," I say magnanimously, spinning her one final time as the music fades.

She comes to a stop facing me, closer than before, her eyes holding mine with unexpected directness.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"For the dance?" I ask, still holding her hand.

"For treating me like a person," she clarifies. "Not a possession or a puzzle or a weapon. Just... me."

Something shifts in my chest—an unfamiliar tightness that I'm not entirely comfortable with. "Don't get used to it," I warn her, keeping my tone light. "My reputation, remember?"

She smiles, seeing through me. "Of course."

Then, surprising me completely, she rises on her tiptoes and presses a brief, soft kiss to my cheek.

"What was that for?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"For being exactly what I needed today," she says simply.

Before I can respond, she steps back, smoothing down her dress. "I should go. There are some books in the library I want to check."

I bow with exaggerated flourish. "Until next time, librarian."

She pauses at the door, looking back at me with a small smile. "I might take you up on those lessons someday."

And then she's gone, leaving me staring after her with an uncharacteristic loss for words.

I sink back onto the cushions, refilling my glass of mead.

Well, that was unexpected.

I've spent centuries perfecting the art of keeping people at a distance—using charm, humor, and sex as shields against genuine connection. It's safer that way. Easier.

And yet, somehow, this quiet librarian with her thoughtful eyes and careful words has managed to slip past my defenses without even trying.

How very inconvenient.

I drain my glass, letting the warmth of the mead chase away the uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability.

This is going to complicate things considerably.

But then again, I've never been one to shy away from complications.

Especially when they come in such intriguing packages.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

GIDEON

Ikeep to the shadows.

It's what I do best—moving through spaces unnoticed, gathering information while leaving no trace of my presence. The military taught me discipline; being a warlock perfected it.

The Magister's compound sits on the edge of the city, a sprawling estate that rivals Malachi's in size if not in taste. Where Malachi's home speaks of old money and restrained power, the Magister's screams of excess—golden gates, marble statues, fountains that flow with water dyed blood-red. Subtlety was never his strong suit.

I approach from the south side, where the tree line provides adequate cover. The wards around the property are strong but familiar—I've studied them for years, mapping their weaknesses, their blind spots. Not that Malachi ever planned to attack the Magister directly. We're not that reckless.

But information? Information is always useful.

I slip through a gap in the wards where two magical signatures overlap, creating a thin seam of vulnerability. The Magister's security team would detect a direct breach, but this—this is more like stepping through an unlocked door they don't know exists.

Once inside the grounds, I move swiftly toward the east wing. The Magister holds his council meetings there, in a chamber designed to amplify and contain magical energy. Sound doesn't escape those walls, but I don't need to hear to understand what's happening.

I find a position in the garden outside, concealed by a row of perfectly manicured hedges. From here, I can observe the council chamber windows. They're covered with heavy curtains, but the faint glow of power emanates from the edges—they're definitely in session.

Now comes the waiting.

An hour passes before the doors finally open and council members begin to file out. I recognize most of them—warlocks from old bloodlines, men who've amassed both wealth and power over centuries of existence. They move with the confidence of those who've never had to question their place in the world.

I don't move, don't breathe, as they disperse across the grounds. Years of training have taught me how to become part of the scenery, how to dampen my magical signature until it's barely a whisper.

Two warlocks pause near my position, their voices carrying clearly in the still evening air.

"—still can't pinpoint the source," one says, frustration evident in his tone. "The signature is unmistakable, but it's diffused across the northern district."

"Malachi's territory," the other replies thoughtfully. "You think he's involved?"

"He did pay an unprecedented sum for that woman at the Ritual. Perhaps he sensed something we missed."

"Or perhaps he's merely indulging his appetites in private."

A chuckle. "Malachi has never been one to indulge openly. Not like some."

They move away, their conversation shifting to other matters. I remain still, processing this information. They sense her, but can't locate her precisely. They suspect Malachi's involvement but haven't connected all the dots yet.

It's something, but not enough.

I wait until they're out of sight before shifting positions, making my way toward the main building. The Magister keeps his private offices on the top floor—inaccessible without direct invitation. But his secretary's office, that's another matter.

The secretary—a thin, nervous warlock named Drummond—is a creature of habit. Every evening at precisely 8:15, he takes a smoke break in the eastern courtyard. It's a weakness I've exploited before.

At 8:17, I slip into his empty office.

The place is meticulously organized, files arranged in perfect rows, desk clear of all but essential items. Drummond compensates for his lack of power with obsessive efficiency. It makes my job easier.

I move directly to the filing cabinet behind his desk. The lock is both physical and magical—designed to keep out common thieves and lesser warlocks. It takes me thirty seconds to disable both.

Inside, I find what I'm looking for: the Magister's daily agenda.

I scan it quickly, memorizing the key points. Most of it is mundane—meetings with wealthy patrons, inspections of ritual sites, discussions about the next Blood Moon. But halfway down the page, a specific entry catches my attention:

4:30 PM - Emergency Council: Anomalous Magical Signature (North District) - Possible Witch Activity

So they're taking it seriously enough to call an emergency meeting. That's concerning.

I'm replacing the agenda when a notation at the bottom of the page catches my eye:

Dispatch surveillance team to monitor Black estate. Observe only, no engagement.

My jaw tightens. They're already watching Malachi's home. I should have sensed that. I need to be more careful.

I close the file, return it to its exact position, and relock the cabinet. Then I check my watch—8:22. Drummond will return in approximately three minutes.

I exit the way I came, silent and unseen, leaving no trace of my presence.

Outside, I make my way back to the weak point in the wards, slipping out with the same care I used to enter. Once clear of the Magister's property, I move swiftly through the city, taking a circuitous route back to Malachi's estate.

It's nearly midnight when I finally return, the moon hanging full and heavy in the sky. The guards at Malachi's gate recognize me immediately, magic recognizing magic, and allow me passage without question.

I find Malachi in his study, standing by the large windows overlooking the garden. The same garden where Sage tried to escape just nights ago. The memory brings a flicker of amusement—she has spirit, I'll give her that.

"Report," Malachi says without turning, sensing my presence the moment I enter.

"They know something's here," I tell him, getting straight to the point. "They can sense her magical signature in the area, but haven't pinpointed the exact location yet."

Now he turns, his expression unreadable. "Do they suspect what she is?"

"They're calling it 'possible witch activity,'" I reply. "The Magister called an emergency council meeting today to discuss it."

Malachi's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And their conclusion?"

"They're watching your estate," I say. "Surveillance only, for now. But it's only a matter of time before they make a move."

He nods slowly, absorbing this information. "They think I purchased her at the Ritual and am keeping her for myself."

"Yes," I confirm. "They don't seem surprised by the possibility. Your reputation for... privacy... works in our favor."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "For once."

"They'll figure it out eventually," I warn. "The longer she stays here, the stronger her signature will become, especially as her powers develop."

Malachi is silent for a long moment, his profile sharp against the moonlight. "We need to accelerate our plans."

"How?" I ask.

"Within the week, we make our move."

I hesitate. I'm not one to question Malachi's strategy, but his suggestion seems reckless. "Alone could be dangerous."

"Then, what do you suggest?"

I grind my teeth, but he already senses what I'm about to say. "You think we involve Elias and Asher."

"They've shown loyalty thus far. They could have gone to the Magister and betrayed us many times over."

"True, but then they'd never have her for themselves. They know that."

"Then keeping her safe secures their loyalty."

I mull over his words. "To an extent. I want everyone gathered tomorrow to discuss this. It seems I have no option but to form an alliance with the two warlocks who dared challenge me at the Ritual. Keep watching the Magister's surveillance team. I want to know immediately if they make any moves."

"Of course," I agree, recognizing the dismissal.

I nod once and leave, closing the door quietly behind me.

In the hallway, I allow myself a moment of stillness, processing everything I've learned today. The Magister is searching. Malachi is planning. And Sage—Sage is at the center of it all, a witch who shouldn't exist, whose power ripples through the air like a stone dropped in still water.

The last witch was burned centuries ago. Their bloodlines extinguished, their knowledge lost, their power absorbed into warlock lineages through that final, brutal ritual.

Or so we thought.

But Sage's existence challenges everything we believed to be true. And if there's one thing I've learned in my long life, it's that truth—when revealed—is often more dangerous than any lie.

Tomorrow, Malachi will gather us all together. Tomorrow, we'll begin to form a plan.

But tonight, I have one more task to complete.

I move silently through the estate, making my way to the perimeter. If the Magister has surveillance teams watching us, I need to know exactly where they are, what they can see, what they might report.

Because when it comes to protecting Malachi—and by extension, Sage—I leave nothing to chance.

It's going to be a long night.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

MALACHI

"You're all here. Good."

I survey the three men gathered in my office, each representing a different facet of power, each crucial in their own way. Gideon stands by the door, ever the sentinel, his posture rigid and watchful. Asher sprawls in one of the leather armchairs, feigning casual disinterest though his eyes remain sharp. Elias sits with perfect posture, his analytical gaze already dissecting my purpose for calling this meeting.

The morning light filters through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. I've chosen this time deliberately—when our minds are clear.

"I assume this is about our houseguest," Asher remarks, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "The one who's been making the rounds."

I ignore the bait, keeping my expression neutral despite the flare of irritation. "It's about the Magister. And the Council."

This captures their full attention. Asher's smirk fades, Elias straightens slightly, and Gideon shifts his weight, ready for whatever comes next.

"Gideon has confirmed that they're aware of a magical signature in this area," I continue. "They haven't pinpointed Sage's location yet, but they've already dispatched surveillance teams to watch the estate."

"How long until they make a move?" Elias asks, ever practical.

"Days. Perhaps a week at most," I reply. "They're calling it 'possible witch activity' in their internal communications."

Asher lets out a low whistle. "That's not good."

"No," I agree. "It's not."

I move to the window, looking out over the estate grounds. In the distance, I can just make out the garden where Sage tried to escape. The memory stirs something in me that I quickly suppress.

"We need to make a decision," I say, turning back to face them. "About Sage. About what we're going to do."

"What exactly are our options?" Elias asks.

"As I see it, we have three," I reply. "We can turn her over to the Magister and the Council, washing our hands of the entire situation."

"Not happening," Asher says immediately, surprising me with his vehemence.

"Agreed," I nod. "Which leaves us with two alternatives. We can attempt to hide her, to shield her signature and hope the Council loses interest."

"And the third option?" Elias prompts, though I suspect he already knows.

I meet his gaze directly. "We take on the Council."

A heavy silence falls over the room. Even Asher looks momentarily stunned.

"You're joking," he says finally, but there's no humor in his voice.

"I'm entirely serious," I reply.

Elias studies me carefully, his expression calculating. "Taking on the Council would mean open war. The four of us against the most powerful warlocks in existence."

"Five," I correct. "Sage would make five."

"She's untrained," Gideon points out from his position by the door. "Raw power without direction is as dangerous to its wielder as to their enemies."

"Which is why we would train her," I counter.

Asher lets out a bark of laughter. "You want to overthrow the magical government that's ruled our kind for centuries, and your grand strategy hinges on teaching a novice witch how to use powers she didn't know she had until a few days ago?"

When he puts it that way, it does sound absurd. But I've never been more certain of anything.

"Yes," I say simply.

Asher throws his hands up in exasperation. "Wonderful. I'll start planning my funeral. Something extravagant, please, with dancers and an open bar."

Elias hasn't taken his eyes off me. "I'm concerned," he says slowly, "that this entire situation has been engineered by you, Malachi."

I raise an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

"Your behavior regarding Sage has been... uncharacteristic," he continues. "The bid at the Ritual, bringing her here, your protective stance. And now suddenly you're proposing direct action against the Council—something you've carefully avoided for centuries."

I can feel Gideon's eyes on me, watchful, assessing.

"It makes me question your true motivation," Elias finishes.

His observation is uncomfortably accurate. My behavior has been uncharacteristic. I've acted on instinct rather than calculation, drawn to Sage in a way I can't fully explain even to myself. But I won't give Elias the satisfaction of acknowledging this.

"She is different," I say instead, my voice cool and measured. "Her existence changes things."

"Does it?" Elias presses. "Or have you simply found a convenient catalyst for a conflict you've always wanted?"

Before I can respond, Asher interjects. "Hate to interrupt this fascinating psychological analysis, but let's get back to the part where we're all going to die fighting the most powerful warlocks in the world."

I shoot him a sharp look. "No one said anything about dying."

"It was heavily implied," he retorts.

"Elias," I say, ignoring Asher's commentary, "you've spent more time researching the old ways than any of us. You know what she represents. What she might be capable of."

Elias doesn't immediately respond, his expression thoughtful. "I do," he acknowledges finally. "But that doesn't change the fact that your behavior has been... concerning."

"You've all spent time with her," I point out. "You've all felt it. She affects each of us differently, but she does affect us. Deny it if you can."

None of them speak, which is answer enough.

"I will need time," Elias says finally, "to consider whether I'm willing to ally myself with you in this."

I nod, having expected this response. "Take what time you need. But not too much. The Council won't wait forever."

I consider our options, weighing risks against necessities. "Regardless of what we decide about the Council, Sage needs to be trained," I say. "If she can learn to shield her own magical signature, we might buy ourselves more time."

This, at least, they all agree on.

"I can teach her control," Elias offers. "Mental discipline, focus, the fundamentals of magical theory."

"She needs physical training too," Gideon adds. "Combat skills. Endurance. She won't survive on theory alone."

"And I," Asher says with a flourish, "can teach her how to have fun with it. Magic isn't all grim faces and rigid disciplines, you know. There's joy in it too."

I nod, acknowledging each of their contributions. "We start today. Divide your time with her, but be methodical. We don't know how much time we have."

"And you?" Elias asks, his gaze sharp. "What will you teach her?"

I meet his eyes steadily. "Power. Raw, unfiltered power. How to channel it, how to wield it, how to make it bend to her will rather than the other way around."

Asher snorts. "Sounds intense. Maybe save that lesson for day two."

Despite everything, I find my lips quirking into the ghost of a smile. "We work with what we have."

The meeting concludes with a tentative plan—each of us will take responsibility for a different aspect of Sage's training, while Gideon continues to monitor the council's movements. It's not a perfect solution, but it's a start.

As they file out of my office, Elias lingers behind.

"She came to see you yesterday," he says, voice low enough that the others can't hear.

I keep my expression neutral. "She did."

"What did she want?"

"To understand," I reply simply.

He studies me for a long moment. "Be careful, Malachi. She's not just a weapon for you to wield against the Council."

"I know what she is," I tell him, an edge creeping into my voice despite my efforts to control it.

"Do you?" he challenges, stepping closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I'm not sure any of us truly do. Including her."

There's a tense silence, and then he continues, voice softer but more pointed. "I know your history with the Council, Malachi. You've been planning your revenge ever since. But Sage shouldn't be used for your vengeance."

My jaw tightens. "This isn't about revenge. It's about justice."

Elias shakes his head slowly. "Is it? Or are you risking everything—and everyone—because you can't let go of the past?"

Before I can respond, Elias sighs, a weary acknowledgment passing between us. "She completed the binding ritual with me. And with you, too, I presume."

I nod once, reluctantly. "She did."

He lets out a breath, heavy with implications. "That changes things. Neither of us fully controls this situation anymore. Her power, her fate—it's all intertwined with ours now."

"Then perhaps it's time we start working together, truly," I say, reluctantly conceding the point.

Elias studies me again, a hint of respect returning to his gaze. "Agreed. For her sake—and ours."

With that, he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Chapter

Forty

ELIAS

"Focus on your breath," I instruct, keeping my voice low and steady. "Let it anchor you. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

Sage sits cross-legged on the cushion before me, her eyes closed, hands resting palms-up on her knees. The library is quiet around us, morning light filtering through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the polished floor. I've chosen this space deliberately—surrounded by books, she feels more at ease, more herself.

"Now," I continue, "visualize your power. Not as something external, but as an extension of yourself. A current flowing through your veins, circulating with every heartbeat."

She takes another deep breath, her brow furrowing slightly with concentration. I watch her carefully, noting the subtle changes in her energy signature—the way it pulses and shifts as she attempts to gain control over it.

For three days now, we've been working on the fundamentals—meditation, visualization, the basic principles of magical theory. She's a quick study, absorbing concepts with the natural aptitude of someone born to this work. But controlling her signature, learning to shield it from detection—that's proven more challenging.

"I can feel it," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "It's like... warmth spreading outward from my chest. But I can't seem to contain it."

"Don't think of it as containment," I suggest, leaning forward slightly. "Think of it as redirection. Like water finding a new path downstream."

Her head tilts slightly, considering this. "I'm not sure I understand."

I hesitate, weighing my options. What she needs is direct guidance, a more tangible demonstration. But what I'm considering crosses certain boundaries—boundaries I've been careful to maintain.

Still, with the Magister's surveillance teams watching the estate, time is a luxury we don't have.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing toward her hands.

She opens her eyes, startled by the request, but nods after a moment's consideration.

I move from my chair to kneel before her, our knees almost touching. Carefully, I take her hands in mine, turning them so her palms face upward.

"Close your eyes again," I instruct softly.

She complies, though I note the slight quickening of her pulse where my fingers rest against her wrist.

"Now," I say, "I'm going to guide my energy into your hands. I want you to feel how I direct it, how I shape it."

I close my own eyes, centering myself before allowing a small measure of my power to flow into her. It's an intimate gesture among our kind—sharing energy directly, without ritual or pretense. The fact that she's not pulling away, that she's allowing this connection, speaks volumes about the trust developing between us.

My power meets hers—cool blue against warm gold—and for a moment, they repel each other, like magnets of similar polarity. Then, slowly, they begin to intertwine, creating patterns of light behind my closed eyelids.

"Oh," she breathes, surprise and wonder coloring the single syllable.

"Do you feel that?" I ask, voice low.

"Yes," she whispers. "It's beautiful."

I open my eyes to find her watching me, her expression a mixture of awe and something deeper, more complex. Our power dances between us, visible now as faint luminescence where our hands meet.

"This is how energy should flow," I tell her, deliberately keeping my tone academic despite the intimacy of the moment. "Controlled, directed, purposeful. Now, try to mirror what I'm doing. Pull your signature inward, contain it within your skin rather than allowing it to radiate outward."

She takes a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed again as she concentrates. I feel the immediate effect—her power pulling back, retreating from where it had been mingling with mine. The golden light dims, receding beneath her skin until it's barely perceptible.

"Good," I murmur, genuinely impressed. "Very good."

Her eyes open, bright with success. "Did it work? Am I hidden?"

"Not entirely," I admit. "But it's a significant improvement. With practice, you'll be able to maintain this state without conscious effort."

She smiles, a rare, unguarded expression that transforms her face completely. "It felt... right. Like something I've always known how to do but had forgotten."

I nod, understanding exactly what she means. "The knowledge is in your blood. Your ancestors' memories, awakening within you."

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by thoughtful consideration. "The Seven Mothers. I've been dreaming about them."

This catches my attention immediately. "What do they show you?"

"Their deaths, mostly," she says quietly, her gaze dropping to our still-joined hands. "The betrayal. The burning. But sometimes... sometimes they show me other things. Rituals. Spells. Ways of channeling power that feel... different from what you've been teaching me."

I release her hands reluctantly, sitting back on my heels. "Different how?"

She seems to struggle for words. "Less... structured. More intuitive. Like the magic comes from within rather than being imposed from without."

"That's the fundamental difference between witch magic and warlock magic," I explain. "Warlocks channel existing energy, bending it to our will through discipline and force. Witches... witches are the source. The magic flows from you naturally, like breath or blood."

"Is that why the warlocks hunted them?" she asks. "Because they were jealous?"

A complicated question with an even more complicated answer.

"Partly," I admit. "But it was also fear. Fear of power they couldn't control or fully understand. Fear of what might happen if witches ever united against them."

She absorbs this, her blue-grey eyes thoughtful. "And now? Are you afraid of me?"

The question catches me off guard. "No," I say truthfully. "I'm not afraid of you, Sage."

"But you are afraid of something," she observes, more perceptive than I've given her credit for.

I consider deflecting, changing the subject back to her training. But something in her expression—earnest, open, genuinely curious—deserves honesty.

"I'm afraid of what's coming," I tell her. "The council, the Magister—they won't stop hunting you once they understand what you are. And I'm afraid that when the time comes, we won't be strong enough to protect you."

"Maybe I'll protect myself," she suggests, a hint of defiance in her voice that wasn't there days ago.

I smile despite myself. "Maybe you will."

She stands, moving to the tall windows that overlook the garden. Morning light catches in her hair, illuminating the subtle red undertones I hadn't noticed before.

"There's something else, isn't there?" she asks, not turning around. "Something none of you are telling me."

I remain kneeling on the floor, watching her. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you all look at me sometimes. Like you're waiting for something. Expecting something." She turns to face me now, arms wrapped around herself. "Like I'm a bomb about to go off."

I rise slowly, closing the distance between us. "Not a bomb," I correct gently. "A key."

Her brow furrows. "A key to what?"

"That," I say, "is precisely what we're trying to figure out."

She studies me for a long moment, clearly unsatisfied with my answer but unwilling to push further. "Show me something else," she says instead. "Something more advanced."

"You've already made significant progress today," I caution. "We shouldn't overextend."

"Please," she insists. "I need to know more. I need to be prepared."

I recognize the determination in her eyes—the same determination I saw when she asked about the original Binding Ritual. She's right to push. The more she knows, the better her chances of survival.

"Very well," I concede. "But we'll need to move somewhere more... appropriate."

I lead her from the library, through the winding corridors of the estate, to my quarters.

She moves into the room slowly, her fingers skimming over the spines of books, the surfaces of artifacts. Her curiosity is palpable, her respect for these objects evident in the gentle way she touches them. The last time she was here, she was barely conscious. Now, I can tell she's appreciating everything around her.

"These are all about witch magic," she observes, scanning the titles. "Ancient bindings, elemental conjuring, soul magic..."

"Yes," I acknowledge. "I've spent centuries collecting what little remains of witch knowledge. Most was destroyed during the purges."

She turns to me, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You've been looking for this. For me. For a long time."

"Not you specifically," I clarify. "But yes, I've been searching for evidence that witch bloodlines might have survived. That someday, the balance might be restored."

"Why?" she asks. "What does it matter to you?"

I move to the center of the circular pattern, motioning for her to join me. When she does, I take her hands again, more confidently this time.

"Because magic is broken," I tell her simply. "What we practice now—what warlocks have done for centuries—it's a pale imitation of what magic should be. True magic, complete magic, requires both elements: the witch's creation and the warlock's channeling."

Understanding flickers across her face. "The Binding Ritual. The original one."

"Yes," I confirm. "It was meant to be a partnership. A union of complementary forces."

I release one of her hands, reaching to touch a small lever concealed in the floor pattern. The room darkens as shutters close over the windows, and the silver and gold threads in the floor begin to glow faintly.

"This," I say, "is a recreation of the original ritual space, based on accounts I've gathered over centuries."

Her eyes widen as she looks around, taking in the glowing patterns, the way they seem to pulse in time with our breathing.

"What does it do?" she asks, her voice hushed.

"It amplifies connection," I explain. "Magical, physical, emotional—all forms of energy flow more freely here."

I feel her power responding to the space, unfurling like a flower opening to sunlight. Her signature brightens, golden light emanating from her skin despite her earlier efforts at containment.

"I can feel it," she whispers, wonder in her voice. "It's like... the air is thinner here. Like there's less separating me from everything else."

"Step inside," I invite gently.

As we cross the threshold together, the pattern beneath our feet begins to glow faintly, a soft luminescence rippling outward from our point of contact. Sage gasps softly, clearly feeling the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

"It's responding to us," she whispers, a hint of awe in her voice.

"Yes," I confirm quietly. "It recognizes the potential of our energies to merge."

She holds up her wrist, the sigil that matches mine glowing slightly. "But, I thought we already did that."

"We did, but there is always more connection that can be built between two people. For their entire lives they will learn new things about the other and if they are open to it, they can share that between them."

"It's a beautiful thought," she says.

I nod in agreement.

"It feels overwhelming, but... comforting. Familiar, somehow."

"That's the magic in your blood," I explain softly. "Recognizing a ritual your ancestors once cherished."

After a quiet moment, I step back, breaking our contact. The glow gradually fades, leaving only the lingering sense of connection behind.

I incline my head respectfully. I pause, watching her closely for a moment. "Would you like to stay a bit longer? Perhaps we could spend some time simply getting to know one another better."

She looks up, surprised but pleased. "I'd like that."

I move toward a nearby cabinet, taking out two crystal glasses and a bottle of wine. "I find conversation is always easier with a good vintage."

She smiles softly, stepping closer as I pour the wine, the warm amber liquid catching the gentle glow of the remaining candlelight.

Chapter

Forty-One

ELIAS

"Can I ask you something?" She takes the wine glass from my hand and sits on one of the lounge chairs.

"Ask me anything," I tell her, meaning it completely.

Her fingers trace patterns against the soft velvet. "Why you? Of all the warlocks who've lived through the centuries, why were you the one searching for the truth about witches? About the original binding?"

It's a perceptive question—one that cuts to the heart of who I am, of choices made long ago that set me on this path.

I move to the window, looking out over the estate grounds as the evening mist begins to move in.

"I was born in 1648," I begin, "in northern England during a time of significant upheaval. The Civil War had just ended, but tensions remained high. My family was... modest. My father was a scholar, my mother a healer of sorts—not through magic, but through knowledge of plants and remedies."

Sage moves to stand beside me, listening intently.

"I was fifteen when my power manifested," I continue. "Too young, really. Most warlocks come into their abilities later, when they have more control. But mine emerged during a moment of extreme stress—a group of villagers had accused my mother of witchcraft."

"Was she?" Sage asks quietly.

I shake my head. "No. She had no magic at all. Just knowledge that frightened ignorant men."

The memory is still sharp, even after all these centuries—my mother bound to a post in the village square, kindling piled around her feet, my father restrained by two burly men as he fought to reach her.

"They were going to burn her," I tell Sage, my voice carefully controlled. "I was watching from the edge of the crowd, too afraid to move, too young to understand fully what was happening. And then... something in me broke open."

Through our bond, I feel Sage's empathy, her hand coming to rest lightly on my arm.

"What happened?" she asks.

"I froze time," I say simply. "Not literally, of course, but that's what it seemed like. Everyone in the village square stopped moving—suspended between one moment and the next. Everyone except me."

I can still see it clearly—the unnaturally still tableau, the flames half-risen from the torch the magistrate held, my mother's terrified face frozen in a silent scream.

"I didn't understand what was happening," I continue. "I only knew I had to get her out. I untied her bonds, pulled her away from the pyre. I was trying to wake her, to make her move, when I felt a hand on my shoulder."

I turn from the window to face Sage fully. "It was a warlock—the first I'd ever encountered. He'd sensed the surge of power and come to investigate. He helped me get my parents to safety, explained what I was, what I'd done."

"He saved you," Sage observes.

"In more ways than one," I agree. "He became my teacher, my mentor. Under his guidance, I learned to control my abilities, to channel my power effectively." I pause. "But more importantly, he taught me to question. To look beyond the accepted wisdom of our kind."

"He was... unconventional. While other warlocks sought power for its own sake, he was interested in the nature of magic itself—its origins, its purpose, its true potential."

I move to a small cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocking it with a touch of magic. From inside, I withdraw an old, leather-bound journal.

"This was his," I tell Sage, handling it with reverence. "His research into the relationship between witches and warlocks, conducted decades before the final purge. He was one of the few who opposed what was happening, who tried to warn others of what would be lost."

Sage takes the journal carefully, her fingers tracing the faded symbols embossed on its cover. "What happened to him?"

The familiar pain tightens my chest. "He was killed. By other warlocks who saw his ideas as dangerous, his research as heresy against the established order."

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"It was a long time ago," I reply, though the grief has never fully faded. "But before he died, he entrusted me with his work, made me promise to continue it. To find the truth, to restore what was being lost."

"And you've spent centuries doing just that," she observes.

I nod. "At first, it was about honoring his memory, fulfilling my promise. But as I delved deeper into the research, as I uncovered fragments of the true history between witches and warlocks, it became something more. A mission. A purpose."

"A purpose you've now fulfilled," Sage says, looking down at her hands where faint silver traces of the ritual symbols still shimmer against her skin.

"In part," I acknowledge. "The binding is restored, but much remains to be done. The council still holds power. The Magister still hunts you. And I question Malachi's motives."

"His motives?"

I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal. "He's wanted revenge against the Council for centuries for a wrong they did to his family."

I move to sit next to her, instinctively wanting to feel her against my body. She leans into me and for a moment, neither of us say anything.

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For what?"

"For not giving up. For keeping the knowledge alive. For..." She hesitates. "For being gentle with me."

I turn to face her, lifting her chin with my finger. "Always," I promise.

Chapter

Forty-Two

GIDEON

Idon't knock.

The east wing guest room has been Sage's designated quarters since her arrival, and right now, she's precisely fifteen minutes late for her scheduled training.

I push the door open with more force than necessary, scanning the room quickly. The bed is unmade, curtains still drawn despite the late morning hour. A book lies open on the nightstand. No sign of her.

Then I hear water running in the adjoining bathroom.

"Sage," I call, keeping my voice even. "Your training session began fifteen minutes ago."

The water stops abruptly. After a moment, the bathroom door opens, and she appears, hair damp, dressed in the training clothes I had delivered to her room the previous evening—black leggings and a fitted gray t-shirt. Her face flushes with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she says, tugging self-consciously at the shirt that clings more than she's accustomed to. "I lost track of time."

"Physical discipline isn't optional," I tell her, unmoved by her apology. "Especially now."

She runs a hand through her damp hair, a flash of irritation crossing her features. "I understand that, but⁠—"

"But nothing," I cut her off. "The Magister's surveillance teams have doubled. The council is aware something significant has occurred. And you remain untrained in the most basic elements of self-defense."

She sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. "You're right. I'm sorry."

I turn toward the door. "The training room. Five minutes."

Without waiting for her response, I leave, moving through the corridors of the estate with brisk efficiency. The training room is my domain—a space Malachi had built to my specifications years ago, equipped with everything needed to maintain combat readiness.

When Sage arrives six minutes later (a marked improvement over fifteen, at least), I'm already setting up the mats in the center of the room.

She hovers near the doorway, taking in the space with obvious apprehension—the weapons rack along one wall, the training dummies, the various pieces of equipment whose purpose she likely can't identify.

"I should probably mention," she says hesitantly, "that I'm not exactly... athletic."

I look at her directly. "I know."

Her cheeks flush again. "I mean, at school I was always the last one picked for teams. I have terrible coordination, and the only running I do is when I'm late for work, which isn't often because I'm usually very punctual, except today, obviously⁠—"

"Sage," I interrupt her nervous rambling. "I'm not expecting you to be an expert. That's why this is called training."

She nods, still looking uncertain.

"Come here," I instruct, gesturing to the center of the mat.

She approaches cautiously, stopping a few feet away from me.

"Closer," I say, tone brooking no argument.

She steps forward until we're standing face to face, her head tilted back to meet my gaze. This close, I can see flecks of darker blue in her gray eyes.

"First lesson," I tell her. "Stance."

I move behind her, adjusting her posture with precise, impersonal touches—straightening her spine, repositioning her feet, adjusting the set of her shoulders.

"Your body is your first weapon," I explain, circling her slowly. "Before magic, before strategy, you must understand how to occupy space effectively."

She tries to follow my instructions, but I can see the discomfort in her expression, the unfamiliarity of these movements.

"Have you ever been in a fight?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Not a physical one."

"Then today, you learn how it feels," I tell her. "To be struck. To strike back."

Her eyes widen. "You're going to hit me?"

"No," I correct her. "I'm going to teach you how to be hit. There's a difference."

For the next hour, I run her through basic defensive postures—how to block, how to roll with a strike to minimize impact, how to fall without injury. She's hesitant at first, flinching away from even the slowest, most telegraphed movements.

But she tries. I'll give her that.

By the end of the hour, sweat darkens her shirt, and her breathing comes in sharp bursts. But she hasn't complained once, hasn't asked for a break.

"Water," I say, tossing her a bottle from the small refrigerator in the corner.

She catches it—barely—and drinks gratefully.

"Not bad," I allow. "For a beginner."

She lowers the bottle, a hint of satisfaction in her expression. "Really?"

"You lack strength, speed, and coordination," I say bluntly. "But you're persistent. That counts for something."

Rather than being offended, she smiles slightly. "High praise, coming from you."

I arch an eyebrow. "How would you know?"

"Elias mentioned you don't give compliments easily," she admits.

"Five minute break," I say, turning away. "Then we begin magical defense."

She groans softly but doesn't argue.

During those five minutes, I observe her covertly, noting how she massages her shoulder, the careful way she stretches her back.

"Up," I instruct when the break ends. "Center of the mat."

She complies, moving with a little more confidence now.

"Magical defense is different from physical," I explain, circling her again. "It requires a different kind of awareness, a different kind of response."

"Elias has been teaching me to shield my signature," she offers.

"Shielding is passive," I reply. "I'm teaching you to defend actively."

Before she can respond, I release a small pulse of power—nothing that would harm her, just enough to create pressure against her skin. She flinches, unprepared.

"Again," I say. "This time, push back."

I send another pulse, slightly stronger. She braces herself but still doesn't counter it.

"You're just taking the hit," I observe. "Push back, Sage."

"I don't know how," she admits, frustration evident in her voice.

I step closer. "Yes, you do. You've done it before. With Malachi, in the ballroom. With the dining table. You pushed back then."

"That was different," she argues. "I wasn't trying to. It just... happened."

"Then make it happen again," I challenge. "Find that feeling. That moment when you stopped accepting and started resisting."

She closes her eyes, concentrating. I can see her magical signature shifting, the golden light beneath her skin pulsing as she tries to access the power she's only beginning to understand.

I send a third pulse, stronger still.

This time, something pushes back—tentative, unfocused, but definitely there. A ripple of golden energy that meets my own, dispersing the pressure.

"Better," I nod. "Again."

We continue for another hour, gradually increasing the intensity of the magical exchanges. She improves with each attempt, growing more confident in her responses, learning to direct her power rather than simply releasing it wildly.

By the end, she's sweating profusely, trembling with exertion, but there's a gleam of accomplishment in her eyes that wasn't there before.

"Enough for today," I say, stepping back. "You've made progress."

Sage hesitates, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright and searching. She steps closer, her movements cautious yet deliberate, bridging the gap I've carefully maintained throughout our training session.

I should step back, should create distance, but something in her expression anchors me in place. A vulnerability that I didn't expect—and worse, a vulnerability that resonates deeply within me.

"Gideon," she murmurs softly, lifting her gaze to meet mine directly. The quiet intensity in her voice makes my chest tighten. "Thank you. For today. For everything."

I don't respond immediately, acutely aware of the dwindling space between us. Her eyes flicker downward momentarily before returning to mine, uncertainty giving way to determination.

She takes another small step forward, close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze searches my face, seeking permission, understanding—something I'm not sure I'm capable of giving.

My heart pounds heavily, betraying emotions I've long buried. And then, almost without conscious thought, my hand lifts to gently cup her face, thumb brushing lightly against the soft curve of her cheek. Her breath catches sharply, her eyes widening slightly, but she doesn't pull away.

For a heartbeat, we stand suspended, poised at the edge of something irrevocable.

But reality crashes back into me with brutal clarity, and I step back abruptly, dropping my hand as though burned.

"No," I say firmly, my voice rougher than intended. "We can't do this. Malachi trusts me—I can't betray that trust."

A shadow crosses her expression, embarrassment mingling with genuine remorse. She nods quickly, stepping away, creating the space I lacked the strength to maintain earlier.

"You're right," she says softly, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you in that position."

Without another word, she turns and leaves the training room swiftly, the door closing quietly behind her.

I exhale deeply, feeling a complicated mix of relief and regret.

This can't happen again. It won't.

But even as I reaffirm this decision, I can still feel the ghost of her warmth beneath my fingertips—a haunting reminder of a line I almost crossed.

Chapter

Forty-Three

ASHER

There's nothing quite like walking the halls of Malachi's fortress in the dead of night, when even the shadows hold secrets. It's the only time this place feels remotely interesting — when the proper, pristine daytime veneer gives way to something more honest. More real.

I've always loved the night. Fewer rules. Fewer eyes watching. More possibilities.

I spot Sage descending the grand staircase, hair loose around her shoulders, expression troubled. Something about her seems different tonight — a vulnerability, yes, but also a quiet determination that wasn't there before.

I step out from the shadows, unable to resist. "Well, well. Someone's having trouble sleeping."

She startles slightly, hand tightening on the railing before recognition softens her features.

"So am I," I continue, moving to the foot of the stairs. "Fancy meeting you here, librarian. Care for some company?"

A small smile forms on her lips — she's getting used to me, no longer startled by my sudden appearances or forward manner. Progress.

"Actually," she says, continuing down the stairs, "company sounds nice."

"Excellent. I know just the place."

I lead her through the darkened hallways, occasionally glancing back to make sure she's keeping up. She walks with her arms wrapped around herself, like she's holding something in — or keeping something out.

"So," I begin casually, "what has you wandering the halls at this ungodly hour? Let me guess. Another warlock making inappropriate advances? Or is it just the general existential dread of discovering you're a long-lost witch bound to a stuffy academic and an impossibly broody warlock in a magical ritual that shouldn't exist?"

She lets out a startled laugh. "You really don't pull any punches, do you?"

"Punches, no. Other things, absolutely," I wink, enjoying the blush that immediately colors her cheeks. Too easy. "But seriously, you look troubled. Anything I can help with? I'm an excellent listener when I want to be."

"I doubt that very much," she quips, but there's no bite to it.

"Wound me, why don't you," I clutch my chest dramatically. "And here I was offering my services as both therapist and tour guide."

"Where are we going, anyway?" she asks, glancing around as we pass through a corridor I'm certain she's never explored.

"Technically, we're starting your training early."

She stops abruptly. "Training? Now? I'm not really in the mood for⁠—"

"Perfect!" I interrupt, taking her hand and pulling her forward again. "That's exactly the right mood for what I have in mind."

"Asher," she protests weakly, but continues following me. "It's the middle of the night."

"Best time for it," I assure her, stopping in front of an ornate door inlaid with mother-of-pearl that shimmers in the dim light. "Magic is different at night. Wilder. More honest."

I push the door open to reveal my second-favorite room in the entire estate — a domed observatory with a glass ceiling that opens to the night sky. Stars shine through the clear panels, casting silver light across the circular space. Plush cushions and low divans are scattered around, and in the center sits a small, shallow pool filled with water so still it mirrors the heavens perfectly.

"What is this place?" she breathes, wonder replacing her earlier hesitation.

"The Star Chamber," I announce with a flourish. "Built in the 1700s for astronomical observation, repurposed by yours truly for slightly more entertaining pursuits."

She moves further into the room, turning slowly to take in the dome above. "It's beautiful."

"I know," I agree, watching her rather than the stars. "Now, about that training."

She eyes me suspiciously. "What kind of training happens in a room full of cushions under the stars?"

"The fun kind," I grin, dropping onto one of the divans and patting the space beside me. "The kind Malachi and Gideon would never think to teach you, and Elias is too proper to mention."

She hesitates, then carefully sits beside me, maintaining a respectable distance. "And what's that?"

"How to enjoy your magic," I tell her simply. "Everyone's so focused on control, on purpose, on defense. But no one's teaching you how to have fun with it."

She blinks, surprised. "Is magic supposed to be fun?"

"God, they've really done a number on you," I laugh. "Of course it's meant to be fun. Power coursing through your veins, reshaping reality to your whims? It's the greatest high in existence."

Her lips quirk up. "Doesn't sound very responsible."

"Responsibility is overrated," I wave dismissively. "Besides, joy is an essential component of powerful magic. The old texts call it 'exultation of spirit' — the purest conduit for magical energy."

"Really?" she looks skeptical.

"Really," I nod. "Now, give me your hands."

She extends her hands cautiously, and I take them in mine, immediately noting how soft they are. Librarian's hands, unmarked by physical labor but sensitive from years of turning pages, cataloging stories.

"Close your eyes," I instruct, my voice dropping lower.

She complies, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

"Now," I continue, "I want you to remember a moment of pure joy. Not happiness, not contentment. Joy. The kind that makes you feel like your chest might burst."

Her brow furrows slightly as she concentrates.

"Got one?" I ask.

She nods, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Good. Now, instead of just remembering it, I want you to feel it. Let that feeling spread from your chest to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head."

As she focuses, I feel a subtle shift in the energy between us. The air grows warmer, charged with potential.

"That's it," I encourage. "Now, imagine that feeling taking shape, becoming light."

A soft golden glow begins to emanate from her skin, pulsing gently with her heartbeat. It's beautiful—raw, untamed magic responding to pure emotion rather than practiced technique.

"Open your eyes," I whisper.

She does, and gasps as she sees the golden light surrounding her hands, dancing between our joined fingers.

"I'm doing that?" she asks, wonder in her voice.

"All you," I confirm. "No ritual, no incantation, no mystical mumbo-jumbo. Just you and your joy."

The light brightens, illuminating her face in a warm glow. There's something undeniably lovely about her in this moment—all hesitation stripped away, replaced with genuine delight.

"Now for the fun part," I grin. "Direct it outward, toward the pool."

She bites her lip in concentration, focusing on the still water at the center of the room. The golden light extends from our joined hands, stretching across the space between us and the pool. When it touches the water's surface, ripples of light spread outward, creating patterns that reflect the stars above.

"Oh!" she breathes, delighted. "It's like⁠—"

"Magic?" I supply with a wink.

She laughs, the sound uncomplicated and bright. "I was going to say it's like finger painting with light."

"Even better description," I acknowledge, genuinely impressed by her imagery. "That's exactly what it is—playing with power, creating something beautiful just because you can."

The light continues to dance across the water, responding to her emotions, creating swirls and patterns that shimmer in the darkness.

"Try different emotions," I suggest. "See how the light changes."

She concentrates again, and the golden glow shifts to a cooler blue. The patterns in the pool become more structured, geometric.

"What are you feeling now?" I ask, curious.

"Calm," she says softly. "Peaceful."

"Beautiful," I nod. "Now try something more... intense."

Her eyes flick to mine, questioning.

"Desire," I clarify, holding her gaze. "Want."

A blush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. The light between us shifts again, deepening to a rich, vibrant crimson that pulses with greater intensity. The patterns in the pool become more dynamic, spiraling and reaching.

"Fascinating," I murmur, genuinely impressed. "Your magic responds so naturally to your emotions. Most warlocks spend decades learning to channel like this."

"Is that unusual?" she asks, still maintaining the crimson light.

"For a witch? I don't know," I admit. "You're the first I've encountered. But for magic-users in general? Yes. Most need structure, discipline, focus. Your power seems more... intuitive."

The light flickers, then fades slightly as her concentration breaks. "Sorry," she says. "It's hard to maintain."

"No apologies," I shake my head. "You're doing remarkably well for someone who only discovered their abilities a few days ago."

She lets out a small, incredulous laugh. "Has it only been days? It feels like forever."

"Time moves differently in our world," I explain, still holding her hands. "Magic bends perception as much as it bends reality."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the remnants of her light still dancing faintly across the water. There's an ease between us that feels new—a connection that goes beyond my usual flirtation or her careful reserve.

"Why are you like this?" she asks suddenly.

I arch an eyebrow. "Like what, exactly?"

"So..." she gestures vaguely with our still-joined hands. "Playful. Carefree. Different from the others."

I consider deflecting with humor as I usually would, but something about the night, about her genuine curiosity, makes me reconsider.

"I've seen too much to take existence too seriously," I say instead, surprising myself with the honesty. "When you've lived as long as I have, you realize that joy is rare. Pleasure is fleeting. You learn to grab it when you can."

"But surely there's more to it than that," she presses gently. "You use humor like a shield."

Sharp little thing. I might have underestimated her perceptiveness.

"Maybe I do," I acknowledge. "Or maybe I just prefer laughing to brooding. Have you seen Malachi's forehead wrinkles? Tragic. I'm preserving my youthful good looks."

She doesn't laugh as expected. Instead, she studies me with those thoughtful blue-grey eyes. "You told me a little about your past before. About saving your sisters from a fire. What happened after?"

I sigh dramatically. "Are we really doing deep, meaningful conversation hours under the stars? I had much more entertaining activities planned."

"We could do those too," she suggests, then immediately blushes at her own boldness.

Now that catches my attention. "Well, well. Look who's getting brave."

She shrugs, the movement making the loose collar of her sweater slip further down her shoulder. "The binding with Elias ans Malachi... it changed something in me. Made me more willing to acknowledge what I want."

"And what is it you want, librarian?" I ask, voice dropping lower.

She meets my eyes steadily. "To understand. All of you. Myself."

"Understanding's overrated," I tell her. "Feeling is much more interesting."

"Then tell me," she challenges softly. "Help me understand how you feel. What made you who you are."

I could easily change the subject, distract her with flirtation or magic tricks. But something about her quiet persistence makes me want to offer a piece of truth.

"After the fire," I begin, keeping my tone deliberately light, "after I saved my sisters and the village turned against me, I ran. For decades, I just... ran. From town to town, country to country, never staying long enough to form attachments."

She listens intently, her hands still in mine.

"Magic wasn't something to celebrate back then," I continue. "It was dangerous. A death sentence in most places. So I learned to hide it, to use it only when necessary. But that's no way to live—constantly suppressing an essential part of yourself."

"What changed?" she asks.

I smile, remembering. "I met others like me. Warlocks who had formed their own communities, their own rules. And for the first time, I could be myself. Use my power openly. Experience the full range of what magic offers."

"Including pleasure," she guesses.

"Especially pleasure," I nod. "I discovered that magic and pleasure are intrinsically linked—one amplifies the other. A revelation that forever changed my perspective."

"Is that why you offered to teach me?" she asks, a hint of teasing in her voice. "Your 'lessons' in pleasure?"

I laugh, genuinely pleased by her boldness. "Partly. But also because I meant what I said—you need someone to show you the joyful side of magic. Not just the duty, the responsibility, the burden of being the last witch."

Her expression sobers. "Do you really think I am? The last?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But if there are others, they're hiding well. The Magister and his council were very... thorough... in their purge."

She shivers slightly, and I realize I've dampened the mood.

"But that's enough history for one night," I declare, releasing one of her hands to create a small flame that dances on my palm. "Let's get back to the fun part."

The fire shifts from orange to blue to purple as I manipulate it, forming shapes—a bird that flaps its wings, a flower that blooms and withers, a tiny dancer that pirouettes across my fingers.

"That's beautiful," she says, watching intently.

"Your turn," I challenge, closing my fist to extinguish the flame. "Show me what brings you joy."

She hesitates, then closes her eyes, concentrating. The golden light returns, flowing from her fingertips, taking shape in the air between us. It forms a book that opens, pages turning as if blown by a gentle wind.

"Of course," I laugh softly. "The librarian creates a book."

Her eyes open, a smile playing on her lips. "Books were my first love. My escape when the world was too much."

"And now?" I ask. "What's your escape now that the world has gotten significantly stranger?"

She considers this, the golden book dissolving back into formless light. "I'm not sure I want to escape anymore. I think... I think I want to face it. To understand it. To be part of it."

"Bold," I approve. "The meek librarian is finding her spine."

"I was never meek," she corrects gently. "Just careful."

"And now?" I press, leaning closer.

"Now I'm learning when to stop being careful," she says, meeting my gaze with newfound confidence.

The air between us shifts, charged with something more than just magic. I've flirted with countless women over my centuries of existence, played this game more times than I can count. But something about Sage feels different—she sees through the performance to the truth beneath, and still she's here, looking at me with those clear, intelligent eyes.

It's unsettling. And utterly intriguing.

"These lessons in pleasure," she says softly. "Were you serious about them?"

"I'm always serious about pleasure," I reply, voice dropping to match hers. "It's about the only thing I am serious about."

"Show me," she challenges quietly.

Chapter

Forty-Four

ASHER

Istudy her for a moment, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, I lean forward, one hand coming up to cup her cheek. "Lesson one," I murmur. "Anticipation is the greatest aphrodisiac."

I trace my thumb across her lower lip, deliberately slow, watching as her pupils dilate slightly. "The moments before a kiss," I continue, "can be more exquisite than the kiss itself."

Her breath hitches, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans slightly into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Magic flows through the body like desire," I tell her, my other hand moving to rest lightly on her knee. "Both require surrender. Control. A delicate balance of giving and taking."

"You speak from experience," she observes, her voice slightly unsteady.

"Centuries of it," I confirm. "The physical and the magical are intertwined. Pleasure unlocks power. Power enhances pleasure. An endless cycle."

My hand slides from her knee up her thigh, a gentle, barely-there touch. Her magic responds instantly, golden light pulsing around us in time with her quickening heartbeat.

"See?" I smile. "Your power knows. It responds to your desire."

"And yours?" she asks boldly.

In answer, I let my own magic surface—a warm, crimson energy that mingles with her gold, creating patterns in the air around us. "Very responsive," I assure her.

Her eyes widen at the display. "It's beautiful," she breathes. "The colors together."

"Yes," I agree, watching the interplay of our magic. "Gold and red. Creation and passion. A powerful combination."

I lean closer, my lips now just inches from hers. "Lesson two," I whisper. "Magic, like pleasure, is meant to be shared."

She closes the remaining distance between us, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. Her hands come up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer with unexpected boldness.

I've kissed hundreds—thousands—of women in my long existence. Some skilled, some innocent, some somewhere in between. But something about this kiss, about the way her magic entwines with mine, sends a surge of heat through me that I wasn't prepared for.

When we finally part, both slightly breathless, the magic around us has intensified, creating a swirling dome of gold and crimson that reflects in dazzling patterns across the water.

"Fast learner," I murmur appreciatively.

"Good teacher," she counters with a small smile.

I should stop here. This was meant to be a lesson, a bit of fun, another way to needle Malachi. But as I look at her—flushed and beautiful in the combined light of our magic—I find myself wanting more. Wanting her, specifically, in a way that goes beyond my usual casual conquests.

Dangerous territory.

"I'm confused," she admits quietly, as if reading my thoughts. "About all of this. All of you. I'm bound to Elias and to Malachi, but I feel drawn to you too. Is that... is that wrong?"

"Wrong by whose standards? Human morality? Trust me, librarian, we left those constraints behind long ago."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," I explain, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "that magic exists outside conventional morality. Our lifespans are measured in centuries, not decades. Our connections operate on different principles."

"Like what?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Like resonance," I tell her. "Some magical signatures naturally harmonize with others. It's not about exclusivity—it's about compatibility, about how different energies interact."

"So it's normal?" she presses. "To feel connections with multiple people?"

"In our world? Absolutely," I nod. "The binding with Elias is significant—a restoration of ancient magic. But that doesn't negate other potential connections. Like yours with Malachi."

She considers this, relief evident in her expression. "That makes me feel better. I've been worried that I was somehow betraying them by having feelings for—" She stops abruptly, blushing.

"For?" I prompt, grinning. "Go on, say it. For devastatingly handsome, charming warlocks named Asher?"

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't deny it. "For all of you, in different ways."

"Even Gideon?" I ask, surprised. "Mr. Personality?"

Her blush deepens. "He has... depths."

"If you say so," I shrug. "Personally, I think he's one facial expression away from being a statue, but to each their own."

She laughs, the sound bright and uninhibited. "You're terrible."

"So I've been told," I agree cheerfully. "But you like it."

"Maybe I do," she acknowledges, surprising me again with her honesty. "It's refreshing, after everything else."

I study her, fascinated by the transformation from the shy, uncertain woman I first met to this more confident, direct version. Binding with Malachi and Elias has changed her, certainly, but there's something more—an inner strength that was always there, just waiting for the right circumstances to emerge.

"You're full of surprises, librarian," I tell her.

"So are you," she counters. "There's more to you than the carefree playboy you pretend to be. Thank you," she says quietly. "For showing me this side of magic. For making me feel less afraid."

Something unfamiliar and warm unfurls in my chest—something I don't want to examine too closely. "Don't thank me yet," I deflect. "We've barely started your education."

Her smile turns slightly wicked. "What's the next lesson, then?"

I lean in, deliberately brushing my lips against her ear. "Patience," I murmur. "Some pleasures are worth waiting for."

She shivers, her magic pulsing brighter in response.

"Besides," I continue, pulling back slightly. "Dawn is approaching, and if Malachi or Gideon find us here, things could get... complicated."

"More complicated than they already are?" she asks wryly.

"Much," I assure her, standing and offering my hand to help her up. "Though I do enjoy complications when they're entertaining enough."

She takes my hand, rising gracefully. Our magic still swirls around us, gold and crimson intertwined in patterns that seem almost reluctant to separate.

"Will you teach me more?" she asks. "About enjoying magic, about..." she hesitates, "the other things?"

"Absolutely," I promise. "Consider me your personal guide to magical hedonism."

She laughs again, the sound becoming one of my favorite things about her. "I'm not sure if that's terrifying or exciting."

"The best things are always both," I tell her with a wink, guiding her toward the door. "Same time tomorrow night?"

She nods, a new confidence in her posture. "I'll be here."

Chapter

Forty-Five

SAGE

The next evening, I find myself outside the Star Chamber, heart pounding with anticipation. My hand hovers over the ornate door handle, hesitating.

Last night with Asher had awakened something in me—a hunger for more than just knowledge, a desire to fully embrace this new magical world I'd been thrust into.

I run my fingers absently over the two bands encircling my left wrist—the physical manifestations of my binding with Elias and Malachi. They glimmer faintly in the dim light, a permanent reminder of our connection. Through it, I can sense them both even now—Elias working in his study, calm and focused, Malachi in his quarters, slightly irate, which is normal for him..

Strangely, I feel no conflict, no guilt about seeking Asher out tonight. As he explained, magical connections operate on different principles than human relationships. Resonance, not exclusivity.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open.

Asher lounges in the center of the room, surrounded by floating orbs of light in various colors that cast dancing patterns across the chamber. The glass ceiling reveals a sky full of stars, more brilliant than the previous night, with a waxing moon approaching fullness.

He looks up as I enter, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Right on time, librarian. I was beginning to think you might have changed your mind."

"Not a chance," I reply, more confidently than I feel.

He rises fluidly, the orbs of light following his movement like enchanted fireflies. "Eager for your next lesson?"

"Depends on what you're teaching," I counter, surprising myself with my boldness.

Asher's smile widens, pleasure evident in his eyes. "Oh, I like this version of you, Sage. Less hesitation, more spark."

I move further into the room, drawn to the shimmering pool at its center. The water is still tonight, perfectly reflecting the stars above. "What are these?" I ask, gesturing to the colorful orbs floating around us.

"Captured emotions," he explains, plucking one from the air—a sphere of vibrant pink light. "Each holds the essence of a different feeling. An old trick, but useful for tonight's lesson."

"Which is?"

He approaches slowly, the pink orb balanced on his palm. "Pleasure through magic. Magic through pleasure. The intersection of sensation and power."

My pulse quickens as he stops before me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"May I?" he asks, holding the orb near my face.

I nod, curious.

He gently presses the orb to my forehead, where it bursts in a shower of pink sparks that sink beneath my skin. Instantly, a wave of giddy happiness washes through me—pure joy without context or reason, bubbling up from inside. I laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it.

"That's..." I struggle to find words.

"Just the beginning," Asher promises, his voice dropping lower. "Each color represents a different sensation. We'll work our way through them."

He gestures to a collection of cushions arranged near the pool. "Shall we begin?"

I follow him, settling onto the plush cushions as he sits across from me, his movements deliberately casual yet somehow charged with purpose.

"Last night," he begins, "we explored how emotions affect your magic. Tonight, we explore how magic affects your emotions—your physical sensations."

He selects another orb, this one a deep blue. "Lesson one: Nothing is more intimate than allowing someone to influence how you feel."

The intensity in his eyes makes me shiver. "Is that what you're doing? Influencing how I feel?"

"Only with your permission," he assures me. "At any point, say stop, and we end this immediately."

I consider his words, weighing the vulnerability he's asking for against my curiosity, my growing desire. "I trust you," I say finally, meaning it.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. "You shouldn't," he says softly. "But I'll try to be worthy of it."

He holds out the blue orb. "Your turn to try. Focus on the emotion inside—calmness, tranquility. Then direct it back to me."

I take the orb, feeling its cool energy pulsing against my palm. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on drawing the feeling into myself, letting it fill me with serene tranquility. Then, remembering last night's lesson, I visualize pushing that energy outward, toward Asher.

When I open my eyes, blue light flows from my fingertips to his chest, where it dissolves into his skin. His expression softens immediately, the perpetual mischief in his eyes temporarily replaced by peaceful contentment.

"Well done," he murmurs, his voice mellower than I've ever heard it. "Natural talent."

Pride blooms in my chest at his praise. "What next?"

"This," he says, selecting an amber orb. "Warmth."

Instead of giving it to me, he crushes it between his palms, coating his hands in golden light. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside me. "May I touch you?"

My heart races, but I nod.

His hands settle on my shoulders, and immediately, delicious warmth seeps through my clothing into my skin. Not just physical heat, but a sensation of comfort that travels down my spine, melting tension I didn't know I was carrying. I sigh, leaning into his touch.

"Magic enhances every physical sensation," he explains, his voice a low murmur as his hands move to my upper back, tracing patterns that leave trails of warmth in their wake. "It can transform a simple touch into something transcendent."

His fingers find a knot between my shoulder blades, and as he applies gentle pressure, a pulse of amber magic dissolves the tension instantly. I gasp at the sensation—pleasure without pain, release without struggle.

"That's incredible," I breathe.

"Just getting started," he promises. "Lie back."

I hesitate only briefly before reclining on the cushions. Asher moves to kneel above me, his expression focused as he selects another orb—this one a deep, shimmering purple.

"This," he says softly, "is sensation. Pure, physical awareness."

He crushes it between his palms as before, but this time, when his hands hover above me, not quite touching, I feel it—a phantom caress that somehow reaches beneath clothing, beneath skin, to touch nerves directly.

"Oh," I gasp, unprepared for the intensity.

Asher smiles, clearly enjoying my reaction. "Your senses are already heightened. This just amplifies what's already there."

His hands move above me, never making contact, yet I feel every movement as if he's touching me everywhere at once. It's overwhelming, exhilarating.

"How are you doing this?" I manage to ask, my voice unsteady.

"Magic is intent, focus, and energy," he explains, his own voice deeper now. "I'm directing the sensation where I want it to go. You're receiving it because you're open to it."

His hands hover above my ribs, and I feel a tingling warmth spiral upward. When they pass over my breasts, even though he's not touching me, I feel an exquisite sensitivity that draws a soft moan from my lips.

"That's it," he encourages. "Don't fight the sensation. Let it flow through you."

My magic responds instinctively, golden light emanating from my skin, reaching upward toward his hands like a plant seeking sunlight. Where our energies meet, sparks of pleasure intensify.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "Your magic seeks connection."

He selects another orb—deep crimson—and holds it out to me. "Your turn."

With shaking hands, I take it, feeling heat pulse against my palm.

"This is desire," he explains. "Raw, unfiltered want. Show me what you want, Sage."

I crush the orb as I've seen him do, coating my palms in crimson light. The sensation is immediate—a hungry, aching need that makes my skin hypersensitive, my breath shallow.

Following instinct, I reach up, my glowing hands stopping just short of touching his chest. I push the feeling outward, toward him, watching as the red light sinks beneath his shirt into his skin.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating, breath catching. "Well," he says, voice rougher than before, "you're certainly a quick study."

Emboldened, I move my hands, mimicking his earlier actions, directing the sensation where I want it to go. Though I don't touch him, I see the effect in his expression, the way his body tenses when my hands hover over certain areas.

"Sage," he breathes, my name a question and a warning.

"Yes?" I ask, feigning innocence while moving my hands lower.

He catches my wrists, his grip gentle but firm. "If we keep going this way, we're skipping ahead several lessons."

"Maybe I'm an advanced student," I suggest, surprising myself with my boldness.

His laugh is genuine, though strained. "Clearly." He releases my wrists but doesn't move away. "But there's something you should understand first. About what happens when magic and pleasure combine at their highest intensity."

I sit up, facing him. "You mean the binding."

He nods, expression suddenly serious. "It could happen again. With me. If we take this all the way."

"I know," I admit. "I've been thinking about it since last night."

"And?" he prompts.

"And I want to understand it better. The binding. How it works, what it means." I meet his gaze directly. "You said magical connections aren't exclusive like human relationships. That they're about resonance. Compatibility."

"That's right," he confirms. "But the binding is significant. Permanent. It creates a connection that transcends physical distance, allows emotions and sensations to be shared."

I glance at the bands encircling my wrist. "Like these?"

"Yes. A physical manifestation of the magical bond." He studies my expression. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with implications. Am I sure? Should I bind myself to another warlock?

"I feel drawn to you," I say honestly. "Not just physically. Magically. Like our energies want to connect."

"I feel it too," he admits. "Since that first night at the Ritual. Your signature calls to mine in a way I haven't experienced before."

"Then teach me," I say softly. "The next lesson."

His eyes darken, desire evident in his expression. "Lesson three," he says, voice low as he moves closer. "When magic and pleasure merge completely, transformation occurs."

He selects one final orb—pearlescent white, glimmering with all colors simultaneously. "This," he explains, "is pure magical potential. No defined emotion or sensation. It becomes whatever we channel into it."

I reach for it at the same time he does, our fingers meeting around the glowing sphere. The moment we touch, our combined magic—his crimson, my gold—swirls into the orb, transforming it into a swirling galaxy of color.

"Now," he instructs, "we release it together."

We crush the orb between our joined hands, and the energy explodes outward, surrounding us in a dome of light that cuts us off from the rest of the room, the rest of the world. Inside this magical cocoon, everything is heightened—the air against my skin, the sound of our breathing, the golden-crimson light pulsing in rhythm with our heartbeats.

"Beautiful," I whisper.

"You're beautiful," Asher counters, his expression more open, more vulnerable than I've ever seen it.

He reaches for me, hesitating just short of contact. "May I touch you now? Really touch you?"

"Please," I breathe.

His hands cup my face with unexpected tenderness, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as he studies me. Then he closes the distance between us, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens, charged with the magical energy surrounding us.

Unlike our previous kiss, this one feels deliberate, purposeful. His tongue teases the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, which I grant eagerly. As the kiss intensifies, so does the magic around us, responding to our rising desire.

His hands slide down my neck to my shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of my breasts through my clothing. Even this light touch sends sparks of pleasure coursing through me, amplified by the magical energy we've released.

"The clothes are a problem," he murmurs against my lips. "May I?"

I nod, beyond words now.

With a gesture of his hand, our clothing simply... dissolves, transforming into the same golden-crimson light surrounding us. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel liberated, every nerve ending alive and receptive.

Asher's eyes roam over me, appreciation evident in his gaze. "Perfect," he says softly.

I allow myself to look at him openly—the lean muscle of his chest, the definition of his abdomen, the obvious evidence of his desire. He is beautiful in a way that seems almost unreal, like a statue come to life.

"What happens now?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"Now," he says, guiding me back onto the cushions, "we let instinct take over. Magic knows what it wants."

He lowers himself above me, skin finally meeting skin in a contact that sends magical energy crackling between us. I gasp at the sensation, my back arching to press more fully against him.

"That's it," he encourages, lips tracing a path down my neck. "Let your magic respond naturally."

As his mouth moves lower, pressing kisses along my collarbone, down to the curve of my breast, my magic flares brighter, golden light emanating from wherever he touches. When his lips close around my nipple, a surge of pleasure-magic pulses outward, meeting his own crimson energy in a swirling dance.

"Asher," I gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair.

"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin. "Just feel."

His hands and mouth continue their exploration, each touch sending waves of sensation through me, each wave amplified by the magic surrounding us. He takes his time, learning my body with the same playful attention he brings to everything, finding places I never knew could bring such pleasure.

When his hand finally slides between my thighs, I'm already trembling with need. His fingers move with expert precision, drawing sighs and moans from me that I can't contain.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my reactions closely. "Let go."

But I don't want to let go yet. I want more—want to touch him as he's touching me, want to learn his body as he's learning mine. I reach for him, my hand wrapping around his length, feeling a surge of satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath.

"Sage," he groans, his rhythm faltering slightly.

"Teach me," I whisper. "Show me how to touch you."

His hand covers mine, guiding my movements, showing me what brings him pleasure. The magical energy around us intensifies with each stroke, each caress, building toward something I can feel approaching like a storm on the horizon.

"We need to decide," he says, voice strained with restraint. "If we complete this—if we join completely—the binding will happen. There's no undoing it."

I look up at him, seeing past the playful mask to the man beneath—complex, caring, far more than the carefree facade he presents to the world. And I know my answer.

"I want it," I tell him. "I want you. All of you."

Something shifts in his expression—relief, desire, and something deeper, more vulnerable. He leans down to kiss me again, this one achingly tender.

"Then let me show you," he murmurs.

He positions himself above me, his body aligned with mine, eyes locked on mine as he slowly pushes forward. There's a brief moment of resistance, then he's inside me, filling me completely.

The sensation is overwhelming—not just physically, but magically. The moment we join, our energies fuse, gold and crimson becoming a new color altogether, a shade that has no name in human language.

"Oh," I gasp, unprepared for the intensity.

"I know," he breathes, remaining still to let me adjust. "It's overwhelming at first."

Slowly, he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of physical pleasure and magical energy coursing through me. It's different than my experiences with Malachi and Elias, which were profound and reverent, this is wild, uninhibited, joyful.

"Let me feel you," he encourages, picking up pace. "Don't hold back."

I stop trying to contain the sensations, allowing my magic to flow freely, meeting his with each movement of our bodies. The light around us pulses brighter, faster, matching our rhythm.

His hands grip my hips, adjusting the angle until I cry out with pleasure. He grins, satisfaction evident in his expression. "There we go."

Everything intensifies—the physical sensations, the magical energy, the connection between us growing stronger with each passing second. I can feel him not just physically but mentally, emotionally—his desire, his wonder, his unexpected tenderness.

"Asher," I gasp, feeling something building within me, a crescendo of pleasure and power approaching its peak.

"I know," he says, his movements becoming more urgent. "Together, Sage. Let it happen."

When the wave finally breaks, it's unlike anything I've experienced—pleasure so intense it borders on pain, magic so powerful it seems to rewrite reality around us. I cry out, back arching off the cushions, as golden light explodes from within me, meeting his crimson energy in a blinding flash.

In that moment of perfect union, I feel it form—the binding, a connection that goes beyond physical pleasure, beyond even magic itself. Something ancient and profound, tying my essence to his, his to mine.

As we both come down from the peak, trembling and breathless, I feel a burning sensation around my right wrist. Looking down, I see a crimson band forming, the exact color of Asher's magic, nestled perfectly against the other two.

Asher lifts his own wrist, displaying an identical band in my golden hue. "Well," he says, voice still unsteady, "that was something else."

I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. "Is that your professional assessment?"

He grins, looking younger somehow, the perpetual mask of amusement temporarily replaced by genuine joy. "Absolutely. Very professional."

He rolls to his side, pulling me against him, one hand tracing patterns on my skin. Through our new connection, I can feel his contentment, his lingering pleasure, and beneath that, a sense of wonder he's trying to hide.

"You can feel me now, can't you?" I ask softly. "My emotions."

He nods. "And you can feel mine. It'll be stronger at first, while the binding settles. Eventually, you'll learn to control how much passes between us."

I trace the crimson band on my wrist. "What happens now? With this? With us?"

"Now," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple, "we face Malachi's inevitable fury, Elias's scholarly disapproval, and Gideon's stoic judgment."

Despite his light tone, I sense genuine concern beneath. "Are you worried?"

"About facing them? No." He pulls back slightly to look at me. "About what this means for you? Yes."

"Why?"

His expression grows serious. "Because you're now bound to three warlocks, something that hasn't happened in recorded history. Because the council is still hunting you. Because we still don't fully understand what you are or what you're capable of."

I consider his words, feeling the weight of them. "I don't regret it," I tell him honestly.

"No regrets here either," he assures me, his trademark grin returning. "Though I am looking forward to seeing Malachi's face when he realizes what's happened."

I groan, burying my face against his chest. "He's going to be furious."

"Apocalyptically," Asher agrees cheerfully. "But don't worry. I've been annoying Malachi for centuries. I'm quite good at it."

Through our new connection, I sense his genuine lack of concern, his absolute confidence that he can handle whatever comes next. It's reassuring, in its way.

"So what's the next lesson?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject.

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest against my cheek. "Already eager for more? I've created a monster."

"You've created a student who appreciates your teaching methods," I correct, surprising myself with my boldness.

His hand slides down my back, pulling me closer. "In that case, I think lesson four might be about endurance."

As his lips find mine again, as our magic begins to rise once more, I push all thoughts of consequences from my mind. Tomorrow will bring whatever it brings. For tonight, I'll embrace this new connection, this new aspect of my power.

For tonight, I'll simply enjoy the lesson.

Chapter

Forty-Six

MALACHI

The shadows in my office grow longer as evening approaches, the fading light casting everything in shades of amber and crimson. I stand at the window, watching the grounds below, mind turning over the pieces of this increasingly complex puzzle.

In the reflection of the glass, I see Gideon enter. He doesn't knock—he never does. Centuries of shared history have eliminated such formalities between us.

"Report," I say without turning.

"At least thirty warlocks. Elite." Gideon's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And they're preparing containment spells. The kind designed for high-level magical entities."

The kind designed for witches. The last time those spells were used was during the purge.

I exhale slowly, turning back to the window. "They know."

"They suspect," Gideon corrects. "But suspicion is enough for the Magister and the Council."

I nod, processing this development. We've been anticipating this, but the timeline has accelerated faster than expected. "The surveillance teams?"

"Doubled again. They're not even pretending to be subtle anymore." Gideon moves closer, lowering his voice though we're alone. "We need to move soon, Malachi. Within days, not weeks."

"I know."

I've been preparing for confrontation with the council for longer than any of them realize—gathering allies, stockpiling magical artifacts, researching ancient protections. But I had planned on more time to prepare Sage, to help her understand and control her power before throwing her into direct conflict.

Events are moving beyond my control, a sensation I find profoundly uncomfortable.

"There's more," Gideon says after a moment, something in his tone drawing my attention.

I turn fully to face him now. "Tell me."

He hesitates, unusual for him. "It's about Sage."

"Ah." I move to my desk, picking up the crystal tumbler of whiskey waiting there. "Her binding with Asher. Yes, I know."

Surprise flickers across Gideon's normally impassive features. "You know?"

"I felt it happen," I say simply, taking a measured sip of my drink. "Just as I felt her binding with Elias. The magical signature is... distinctive."

Gideon studies me carefully. "You don't seem angry."

A laugh escapes me, sharp and cold. "What makes you think I'm not?"

"Because your office is still intact," he observes dryly. "And Asher still breathes."

I set down my glass, considering how to explain something I've only recently come to understand myself.

"Do you know why I paid three million dollars for her at the Ritual?" I ask, changing the subject.

Gideon doesn't respond immediately, weighing his words. "You sensed what she was."

"Yes," I nod. "But it was more than that. The moment I saw her—truly saw her—I knew she was different. Important. Not just as a witch, but as something more." I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "She belongs to me, Gideon. She has since the moment I claimed her. That hasn't changed."

"And yet you allow her to bind herself to others," he points out.

I smile, the expression not reaching my eyes. "Who said anything about allowing?"

Gideon's brow furrows slightly. "I don't understand."

I move back to the window, watching as darkness settles over the estate grounds. "What do you know about the original binding ritual? The true one, not the corrupted version that exists now."

"Only what's written in the old texts," he admits. "A joining of power between witch and warlock. A sharing of energy rather than a draining."

"And what do those texts say about multiple bindings?"

Gideon's eyes narrow in understanding. "Nothing."

"Exactly." I turn back to him. "One witch, one warlock. That's how it's always been described. That's what we've always believed." I pause, letting the implication sink in. "And yet, Sage has now bound herself to three warlocks—first me, then Elias, now Asher. With no apparent conflict or negative consequence."

"You think this is significant."

"I think," I say deliberately, "that it confirms what I've suspected from the beginning. She's not just any witch, Gideon. She's something unprecedented. Something powerful beyond our understanding."

Gideon processes this, his expression thoughtful. "And you're not angry about the bindings because they're part of your plan?"

I laugh again, genuinely amused by his perception. "I never said I wasn't angry. Elias and Asher touched what's mine. They claimed a connection I intended solely for myself." I shrug, a casual gesture that belies the cold fury beneath. "But their shortsightedness serves my purpose."

"Which is?"

"To unlock her full potential," I say simply. "Each binding strengthens her, connects her more deeply to our kind of magic. Makes her more powerful." I lift my glass in a mock toast. "They're doing my work for me."

Gideon watches me intently, processing my explanation. "And when the Magister comes for her? When the council moves against us?"

"By then," I say with cold certainty, "she'll be ready."

He nods, accepting my reasoning, but something in his posture tells me there's more.

"What else?" I prompt.

His jaw tightens fractionally. "She approached me. The night before she went to Asher."

This is unexpected. I set my glass down carefully, studying him. "Did she?"

"Yes." His voice remains neutral, but I know him too well to miss the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"And you refused her," I observe.

"My loyalty to you is absolute," he says simply.

I watch him for a long moment. Gideon has been at my side for centuries, unwavering in his dedication despite the paths I've led him down, the things I've asked him to do. His loyalty is beyond question.

And yet.

"You wanted to accept," I say, not a question but a statement of fact.

He doesn't deny it. "She is... compelling."

"Yes," I agree. "She is."

A silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. Finally, I break it.

"Your loyalty is noted, Gideon. And valued." I move toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But it was unnecessary in this case."

He looks at me sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I explain, "that your refusal was based on a misconception. You believed I would see your connection with Sage as betrayal. It isn't."

His expression remains carefully neutral, but I sense his confusion. "You just said she belongs to you."

"She does," I confirm. "Everything about her is mine—including her connections to all of you."

Gideon studies me, understanding slowly dawning in his eyes. "The multiple bindings. You don't just want her to have one—you want her to have all of us."

"I want her to reach her full potential," I correct. "If that requires connections to multiple warlocks, then so be it."

"Even if one of those warlocks is me?" he asks carefully.

I smile, genuine this time. "Especially if one is you." I squeeze his shoulder once before releasing it. "Your loyalty to me is unquestioned, Gideon. If she binds with you, that connection becomes another way she belongs to me."

He nods slowly, processing this revelation. "And the others? Elias and Asher?"

"Less loyal," I acknowledge with a shrug. "But no less useful. Even rebellious connections strengthen her power."

Gideon nods once, accepting the directive without further question. As he turns to leave, I call after him.

"Gideon."

He pauses at the door, looking back.

"When this is over," I tell him, "when the council has been dealt with and her position is secure—don't let misplaced loyalty keep you from claiming what you want."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude. He nods once, then disappears through the door.

Alone again, I move to the far wall of my office where an ancient tapestry hangs, obscuring a hidden compartment. I pull it aside, revealing a small alcove containing a single object—a book bound in black leather, its cover unmarked except for a symbol etched in silver: seven interlocking circles.

I remove it carefully, feeling the pulse of magic beneath my fingers. This text is one of the few surviving accounts of the original Seven Mothers, written in a language so old that most modern warlocks couldn't read it even if they found it.

But I can.

I've spent centuries collecting these fragments, piecing together the true history that the council worked so hard to erase. The prophecy they feared most.

I open the book to a marked page, where an illustration shows a single witch surrounded by multiple warlocks, their energies connected in a complex pattern—not like the simple one-to-one bindings described in most texts, but something more intricate, more powerful.

Beneath it, words in an ancient tongue that translate roughly to: "When the several become one, balance will be restored."

I trace the illustration with my fingertip, a cold smile forming on my lips. Elias believes he's the scholar, the one who's preserved lost knowledge. He has no idea how much I've hidden from him, from all of them.

Sage's ability to form multiple bindings isn't unexpected—it's exactly what I've been waiting for, planning for, longer than any of them realize.

The prophecy speaks of a witch who will bind multiple warlocks to her, combining their powers into something greater than the sum of its parts. A force capable of challenging the council, of reshaping the magical world entirely.

I close the book, returning it to its hiding place. Let Elias play at romance. Let Asher indulge in pleasurable games. They're merely setting the stage for what comes next.

Because when the Magister finally makes his move, when the council brings its full force against us, they'll find more than just a witch and her protectors waiting for them.

They'll find the prophecy fulfilled.

And I will finally have my revenge.

Chapter

Forty-Seven

SAGE

I'm reading in the library when Gideon finds me, his footsteps silent until he deliberately clears his throat to announce his presence. I look up, my heart skipping at the sight of him—tall, stoic, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Malachi wants to see you," he says without preamble.

I close my book slowly, carefully marking my page though I know I won't remember where I left off. "Now?"

"Now."

I rise, smoothing down my dress with suddenly nervous hands. "Is he angry?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with significance. Malachi's temper is legendary among the warlocks, his control rigid and unforgiving. Breaking it is not something done lightly.

Gideon's expression softens fractionally. "Not in the way you think."

An enigmatic answer, but somehow reassuring. I follow him from the library, through the winding corridors of the estate. As we walk, I'm acutely aware of Gideon's presence beside me—his measured stride, the controlled power in his movements, the subtle scent of him that I've come to recognize. Our last encounter lingers between us, unspoken but not forgotten.

"He knows," I say quietly, not a question but a statement.

"About Elias. About Asher." Gideon nods. "Yes."

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the evening.

"What will he do?" I ask, unable to keep the tension from my voice.

Gideon glances at me, something unreadable passing across his features. "He'll train you. As he should have from the beginning."

We stop outside Malachi's office, the heavy oak door more imposing than I remember. Gideon studies me for a moment, then reaches out, his fingers lightly touching the bands on my wrist. The contact sends a shiver through me—not exactly desire, but something adjacent to it, a recognition of potential.

"Your training with Elias focused on control," he says, voice low. "With Asher, pleasure. With me, defense." His fingers linger on my skin. "With Malachi, you'll learn raw power."

He steps back, gesturing to the door. "He's waiting."

Taking a deep breath, I knock. The door swings open immediately, as if Malachi has been standing just on the other side, waiting.

He has.

Malachi fills the doorway, his presence more commanding than I remember. Dressed entirely in black, his dark hair swept back from his face, eyes glittering with something beyond mere interest, he studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

"Sage," he says, my name like silk in his mouth. "Come in."

I step past him into the office, hearing Gideon's retreating footsteps behind me as the door closes. The room is different than before—the furniture pushed against the walls, creating a large open space in the center. Candles burn in iron holders, casting dancing shadows across the floor where an intricate pattern has been drawn in silver.

A ritual circle.

"What is this?" I ask, unable to keep the nervous edge from my voice.

Malachi moves to stand before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Your real training begins tonight."

He reaches for my hands, turning them over to expose my wrists. His thumb traces first our band, then the golden one, finally the crimson one, his touch sending sparks of awareness through my skin.

"Interesting," he murmurs, studying the magical marks. "How do they feel?"

The question catches me off guard. I'd expected anger, possessiveness, perhaps even punishment for binding with others without his permission. Not this calm curiosity.

"They feel... right," I admit, watching his face carefully for any reaction. "Like parts of a whole coming together."

A smile curves his mouth, surprising me further. "Good. That's exactly as it should be."

He releases my wrists, moving to the center of the ritual circle. "Come here, Sage."

I hesitate, wary of whatever magic he has prepared.

His smile widens, revealing a rare flash of genuine amusement. "I won't bite." He pauses, eyes darkening. "Unless you ask nicely."

Heat rushes to my face, but I force myself to move forward until I'm standing before him in the center of the circle. The silver lines begin to glow faintly beneath my feet, responding to my magical signature.

"The others have been teaching you control, pleasure, defense," Malachi says, echoing Gideon's earlier words. "Important lessons, certainly. But insufficient."

"For what?" I ask.

"For survival," he says simply. "The Magister and the council move against us, Sage. Sooner than we expected. When they come—and they will come—elegant control and pleasurable exploration won't save you. Raw power will."

The seriousness in his tone makes me shiver. "You think I have that kind of power?"

"I know you do." His certainty is unwavering. "I've sensed it from the beginning. But you've barely scratched the surface of what you're capable of."

He begins to circle me slowly, his movements predatory, measured. "Tell me what you've learned from the others."

I swallow hard, hyper-aware of his proximity as he moves around me. "Elias taught me focus. How to shield my signature, how to direct energy purposefully."

"And Asher?" he prompts, voice dropping lower.

"How magic responds to emotion," I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady as he completes another circle around me. "How pleasure and power intertwine."

"Hmm." He stops directly behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the whisper of his breath against my neck. "And what would Gideon have taught you, I wonder, had you succeeded in seducing him?"

My breath catches. "I wasn't⁠—"

"Don't lie, Sage," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "It doesn't suit you."

I close my eyes, fighting the wave of sensation his proximity triggers. "Defense," I manage. "Physical and magical."

"All valuable lessons," he acknowledges, still standing behind me, not touching but close enough that every nerve ending in my body hums with awareness. "But incomplete without what I have to teach you."

"Which is?"

"How to reach into the core of your power," he says, his hands finally coming to rest on my shoulders. "How to access the raw, untamed magic that flows through your veins. The kind of power that could level this mansion with a thought. Made stronger through our bond."

His touch sends a jolt through me—not just physical awareness but magical recognition, as if my power responds to his on some fundamental level.

"I don't know if I want that kind of power," I admit quietly.

His grip tightens slightly. "It's not about wanting it, Sage. It's about acknowledging what already exists within you." He turns me to face him, his expression serious. "The council won't hesitate to destroy you. To survive, you need to embrace every weapon at your disposal."

The intensity in his eyes is mesmerizing, his conviction absolute. Despite myself, I feel drawn to that certainty, that unwavering belief in what I might become.

"How?" I ask simply.

His smile returns, a predator pleased with its prey's surrender. "Take off your clothes."

I blink, certain I've misheard him. "What?"

"Your clothes," he repeats calmly. "Remove them."

Heat floods my face. "I don't see how that's necessary for magical training."

"Don't you?" He circles me again, each movement deliberate, controlled. "Magic flows through the body, Sage. Fabric creates barriers, disrupts the natural current. For what I'm about to teach you, we need those currents unimpeded."

His explanation sounds reasonable, logical even. But something in his tone suggests there's more to it—a test, perhaps, or a challenge.

"You could transform them," I point out. "Like Asher did."

"I could," he acknowledges. "But that would deny you an important lesson in vulnerability." He stops in front of me, eyes holding mine. "Power requires surrender first. The willingness to be exposed, physically and magically."

His gaze is unwavering, expectant. This is a threshold, I realize. A moment that will define our relationship moving forward. If I refuse, he'll accept it—but something important will be lost between us, some potential connection broken before it forms.

Decision made, I reach for the top button of my blouse, watching his expression as I slowly undo each one. His eyes darken but remain fixed on mine, not dropping to watch my fingers work. When I shrug the fabric from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, his only reaction is a slight flare of his nostrils.

I continue methodically, removing each piece of clothing with deliberate care. My skirt follows, then my camisole, until I stand before him in only my underwear. Still, his eyes don't leave mine.

"All of it," he says quietly.

Drawing a deep breath for courage, I remove the final pieces, standing naked before him in the center of the glowing ritual circle. I resist the urge to cover myself, instead lifting my chin, meeting his gaze with as much dignity as I can muster.

Only then does he allow his eyes to travel downward, taking in every inch of me with unhurried thoroughness. His inspection isn't lewd or objectifying—it's assessing, almost clinical, yet somehow more intimate for its detachment.

"Beautiful," he says finally, his voice deeper than before. "Just as I remember."

Before I can respond, he steps back, unbuttoning his shirt with efficient movements. "The lesson requires equal vulnerability," he explains, removing the garment to reveal a torso sculpted with lean muscle.

My breath catches as he continues undressing, his movements neither hurried nor deliberately sensual, yet captivating nonetheless. When he stands naked before me, I can't help but stare, taking in the perfect proportion of his body, the controlled power evident in every line and plane.

Unlike Elias's scholarly frame or Asher's lithe grace, Malachi's body speaks of ruthless discipline, of power harnessed and directed with absolute precision. A body created as a weapon, as a tool of his will.

"Now," he says, stepping forward until we're standing close enough that our body heat mingles in the space between us, "we begin."

He reaches out, placing his palm flat against my sternum, directly over my heart. His touch is warm, firm, sending tendrils of awareness radiating outward through my body.

"Close your eyes," he instructs. "Feel my energy. My power."

I comply, senses immediately heightening in the darkness behind my eyelids. His hand on my skin becomes the center of my awareness, the point where his power flows into me. It feels different from Elias's studied precision or Asher's playful energy—heavier, deeper, ancient in a way I can't quite articulate.

"Power begins here," he says, pressing slightly harder against my sternum. "Not in the mind, not in technique, but in the core of your being. In the place where you exist most purely."

I feel it then—a pulse of magic from his hand, traveling inward, seeking something buried deep inside me. My own power responds instinctively, rising to meet his, golden light emerging from beneath my skin to twine with his darker energy.

"Good," he murmurs, his voice closer now, breath warm against my face. "Don't direct it. Don't control it. Just let it rise naturally."

The sensation intensifies as our powers mingle, creating a circuit between us that strengthens with each heartbeat. Unlike the gentle exploration with Elias or the playful exchange with Asher, this feels primal, elemental—magic in its purest form, raw and untamed.

"Now," he says, his other hand coming up to curl around the back of my neck, "reach deeper. Below conscious thought. Below intention. Find the place where your power exists without form, without purpose."

I try to follow his guidance, mentally descending through layers of awareness, seeking that core he describes. It's difficult—my instincts keep trying to shape the magic, to direct it as I've been taught.

"You're still trying to control it," he observes, his grip on my neck tightening slightly. "Let go, Sage. Completely."

"I don't know how," I admit, frustrated.

His thumb strokes along my jaw, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. "Yes, you do. You've done it before, in moments of extreme emotion. When you felt threatened. When you were pushed beyond your limits."

Images flash through my mind—flipping the dining table, throwing Malachi backward with a surge of uncontrolled power, the explosive release during my bindings with Elias and Asher.

"Those moments were accidents," I argue, eyes still closed. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Exactly," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "That's precisely what I want you to recapture. That unconscious clarity. That instinctive release."

His hand slides from my sternum to my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies are nearly touching. The heat between us intensifies, both magical and physical, creating a tension that makes my skin hyper-sensitive.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple, "you need the right motivation."

Without warning, he releases a surge of power directly into me—not gentle or controlled, but raw and overwhelming. I gasp, eyes flying open as the magical energy courses through me, too intense to process all at once.

"Push back," he commands, flooding me with another wave of power. "Don't think. React."

Instinctively, my magic rises to meet his, golden light exploding outward from my skin. The force of it pushes him back a step, and something like satisfaction flashes in his eyes.

"Again," he demands, unleashing another surge, stronger this time.

I respond without conscious thought, my power erupting to counter his, the collision creating a shockwave that rattles the windows and sends the candle flames dancing wildly.

"More," he urges, stepping closer again, one hand gripping my waist, the other tangling in my hair. "Deeper, Sage. Find the source."

His proximity is overwhelming—the heat of his skin, the intensity of his gaze, the raw power flowing between us. With each exchange, I feel something inside me opening, unfurling, a wellspring of magic I've only touched the surface of before.

"There," he says, voice rough with satisfaction as a particularly strong surge emanates from me. "That's it. Don't shape it. Don't direct it. Just release it."

The magic builds between us, gold and obsidian intertwining, creating patterns of light that swirl around our bodies like living art. Each pulse grows stronger than the last, the ritual circle beneath our feet glowing brighter in response.

Malachi's grip tightens, pulling me fully against him, our bodies pressing together skin to skin. The contact sends a shock of awareness through me—not just magical but intensely physical, every nerve ending suddenly alive and responsive.

"This is power, Sage," he growls, his mouth now at my throat, breath hot against my skin. "Raw. Primal. Dangerous."

His lips brush my pulse point, and my magic responds with a surge that makes the entire room vibrate. I clutch at his shoulders, suddenly needing an anchor as the power threatens to overwhelm me.

"Don't fight it," he murmurs against my skin. "Surrender to it. Let it consume you."

My head falls back as another wave crashes through me, stronger than anything I've experienced before. It's terrifying and exhilarating, this loss of control, this pure expression of magic without technique or restraint.

Malachi's hands slide down my back, pulling me more firmly against him, and I can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against me. The realization that this affects him too—that power and desire are as intertwined for him as they are becoming for me—sends another surge of magic rippling outward.

"Yes," he hisses, his control slipping just slightly, revealing the hunger beneath. "That's it. Feel everything. Hold nothing back."

The ritual circle beneath us pulses in time with our exchange, the silver lines now so bright they're almost blinding. The air in the room grows heavy, charged with magical energy so dense it's nearly visible, swirling around us in currents of gold and black.

"Malachi," I gasp, overwhelmed by the sensations, magical and physical, cascading through me. "It's too much⁠—"

"It's not," he counters, one hand sliding to grip my hip, fingers digging into my flesh just shy of painful. "You can take more. You will take more."

His certainty is hypnotic, his belief in my capacity unwavering. I surrender to it, letting the magic flow through me without resistance, feeling it build to levels that should be impossible to contain.

When the wave finally crests, it's like nothing I've experienced before—a pure release of power that radiates outward in all directions, lifting us momentarily from the floor, suspending us in a cocoon of intertwined energy.

For an instant, I see Malachi's control shatter completely—his eyes wide with something like wonder, lips parted on a harsh breath, expression transformed by naked desire and something deeper, more vulnerable.

The energy dissipates and we're lowered back to the ground. Malachi separates himself from me and I feel the loss instantly. "Get dressed," he says and I'm momentarily taken aback.

"Did I do something wrong?"

His clothing materializes around him and he frowns at me. "No," but that's all the answer he gives to me.

Chapter

Forty-Eight

MALACHI

Iwait for her in the east wing, in a room I've kept sealed for centuries.

The setting sun casts long shadows through the tall windows, painting everything in shades of blood and ash. Fitting, I suppose, for what I'm about to reveal.

I've shown this room to no one. Not Gideon, with his unwavering loyalty. Not Elias, despite his scholarly curiosity. Certainly not Asher, who would find some way to trivialize even this.

But Sage... Sage needs to understand. If she's to fulfill the prophecy, if she's to stand against the council with me, she must know what drives me. What has driven me for over four hundred years. And yesterday's training showed me that she is capable of fulfilling the prophecy.

The door opens precisely at sunset. She's punctual—I appreciate that.

She steps inside, eyes widening as she takes in the space. Unlike the rest of the estate with its dark woods and rich fabrics, this room is stark, almost monastic. White walls, bare floors, no furniture save for a single wooden chair. And covering every surface—paintings.

Hundreds of them, ranging from small sketches to life-sized portraits. All of the same woman.

"Malachi?" Her voice is soft, uncertain.

I don't turn, continuing to stare at the central portrait—a woman with copper hair and eyes the color of summer storms, her expression both gentle and resolute.

"Her name was Elinor," I say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "She was my wife."

Sage moves closer, her footsteps hesitant on the wooden floor. "I didn't know you were married."

"Few do." I reach up, fingers hovering near the painted face without touching it. "It was a very long time ago."

"She was beautiful," Sage observes quietly.

"Yes," I agree. "But that was the least remarkable thing about her."

I turn, finally facing Sage. Her expression is open, curious, without the pity I've dreaded seeing. Good. I couldn't bear pity, not for this.

"You deserve to know my history with the Council," I say. "Why I've spent centuries planning their downfall. It begins with her."

I gesture for Sage to sit in the single chair, then begin pacing slowly before the portraits. The movement helps—keeps the memories at bay, allows me to tell this story with some semblance of control.

"I was born in 1593, in what is now northern Italy," I begin. "The son of a wealthy merchant and a mother who died giving birth to me. My father was distant, occupied with his business and his grief. I was raised primarily by servants."

Sage listens silently, watching me with those perceptive eyes.

"My power manifested early—at twelve, during a confrontation with a local bully. I killed him without meaning to, without understanding what I'd done." I pause, the memory still sharp despite the centuries between then and now. "My father found me a tutor after that. A warlock who taught me control, who introduced me to our world."

I stop before a small sketch of Elinor laughing, her head thrown back in uninhibited joy. A rare moment I'd captured in charcoal one summer afternoon.

"I was twenty-six when I met Elinor. She was the daughter of an English diplomat, in Italy with her father on some political errand." A smile touches my lips at the memory. "She was utterly unimpressed by my wealth, my status, my careful charm. She called me pretentious to my face within minutes of our introduction."

Sage's lips curve slightly. "I can see why you liked her."

I nod. "She was fearless. Brilliant. Stubborn. Everything I never knew I wanted until I found it." I move to another portrait, this one showing Elinor in profile, lost in thought. "We were married within six months, against her father's wishes. He thought me unsuitable—too intense, too controlling. He wasn't wrong."

The next part is harder. The weight of it still sits in my chest, a stone that never lightens.

"For three years, we were happy. Truly happy, in a way I've never been before or since. We had a small villa in the countryside, away from both our families. I continued my magical training, and she..." I pause. "She wrote poetry. Beautiful, insightful work that captured the essence of things in ways I never could."

I turn to another portrait, where Elinor sits at a desk, pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.

"I knew nothing of her lineage, of her mother's family. Neither did she." My voice hardens. "Until the spring of 1622, when her power manifested."

Sage straightens, understanding dawning in her eyes. "She was a witch."

"Yes." The word comes out rough, edged with old pain. "It happened suddenly—we were in the garden, arguing about something trivial. She became angry, and flowers began blooming around her feet, responding to her emotions. Neither of us understood what was happening."

I move to the largest portrait, the one that dominates the center wall. Elinor in a blue dress, standing in a garden, her hands outstretched as if summoning something from the earth itself.

"Her magic was beautiful," I say softly. "Wild, intuitive, connected to living things in a way warlock magic never is. I was fascinated. Enchanted. And foolishly, naively, I believed we could explore it together, that I could help her understand and control it."

Sage watches me carefully. "What happened?"

My hands clench at my sides, the familiar rage rising as it always does when I reach this part of the story.

"I made inquiries among other warlocks, seeking guidance, information, anything that might help us understand her sudden abilities." My voice turns bitter. "Word reached the council. They sent representatives to 'assist' us."

I turn away from the portraits, unable to look at Elinor's face for what comes next.

"They arrived on a summer evening. Three warlocks, led by a man named Thaddeus Blackwell, the Magister of that time." The name tastes like poison in my mouth. "They were courteous at first, expressing interest in Elinor's abilities, offering to guide her. I was relieved—grateful, even. I thought they genuinely wanted to help."

The rage builds, familiar and poisonous. "They waited until I left the house. I had business in the city, would be gone three days. They assured me they would watch over Elinor, teach her basics of magical control until I returned."

I turn back to Sage, no longer bothering to hide the cold fury that has been my companion for centuries.

"When I returned, the villa was in ashes. Elinor was gone. In her place, a formal notice from the council—the eradication of a witch, sanctioned and executed under council authority."

Sage's hand flies to her mouth, horror in her eyes. "They killed her? Just like that?"

"Not just like that," I say, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "They tortured her first. Extracted every bit of her power they could before ending her life. I learned later that they bound her, drained her slowly over two days, keeping her conscious throughout. Then they burned what remained, leaving nothing for me to bury."

The silence that follows is heavy, charged with my rage and Sage's stunned comprehension.

"I went mad," I continue after a moment. "Grief and rage consumed me. I hunted down one of the warlocks who had been there, tortured him until he revealed every detail. Then I tried to attack the council directly."

I move to the window, looking out at the darkening grounds. "I failed, of course. I was young, untrained in combat magic, blinded by grief. They could have killed me easily."

"Why didn't they?" Sage asks softly.

"Because Thaddeus Blackwell had a better idea." I turn back to her. "He saw potential in me. In my rage, my power, my determination. He offered me a place among them, a chance to 'understand the necessity' of their actions, to join their ranks and help maintain the order they had established."

"And you accepted?" She sounds incredulous.

I smile coldly. "I appeared to. I knelt before him, swore the oath of loyalty, joined their ranks. And for the next century, I learned everything about them—their structures, their weaknesses, their deepest secrets. I became indispensable. Trusted. All while planning their destruction."

I move to a small side table, the only piece of furniture besides the chair. On it sits a wooden box, intricately carved. I open it, removing a small vial of ash.

"All I have left of her," I say, holding it up to the fading light. "I recovered it from the ashes of our home. A few grams of what was once the woman I loved."

Sage rises from the chair, moving toward me with an expression of such genuine compassion that I almost can't bear to look at her.

"I'm so sorry, Malachi," she says, voice thick with emotion. "What they did was monstrous."

"Yes," I agree, replacing the vial in its box. "And they've continued to do monstrous things for centuries. The purge of the witches wasn't about protection or safety. It was about power. Control. They couldn't bear the existence of magic they couldn't dominate."

I close the box, securing it carefully. "That's why the prophecy of the Seven matters so much. A witch binding multiple warlocks to her, creating connections based on mutual exchange rather than domination—it's everything the council fears. The magic they've worked so hard to corrupt, returning in its purest form."

"And you've been waiting for this," Sage says. "For me."

"For centuries," I confirm. "Searching, watching, gathering allies and resources. Waiting for the witch who would fulfill the prophecy."

I turn to face her fully. "When I saw you at the ritual, I knew immediately. Your power signature—it's identical to Elinor's. Not similar. Identical."

Sage stills, processing this revelation. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Reincarnation, perhaps. Or something the Seven Mothers engineered when they cast their final spell. But I knew, in that moment, that you were the one the prophecy spoke of. The witch who would bind multiple warlocks and challenge the council."

"And restore balance," she says slowly, echoing my words from yesterday.

"Yes." I step closer to her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "That's why I claimed you. Why I paid whatever price was necessary. Not just for revenge—though I won't deny that motivation—but for restoration. For redemption of what magic was meant to be."

She studies me, those blue-grey eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable revealing. "And Elinor? Is that why you wanted to bind with me? Because I remind you of her?"

The question cuts deeper than she knows. "No," I say firmly. "Elinor is gone. Has been gone for centuries. My desire to bind with you was about who you are, Sage. Not who you might have been."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she nods. "Thank you for showing me this. For telling me."

I move past her to the door, suddenly needing space, air, distance from the memories this room contains. "Now you understand what drives me. Why I've devoted centuries to this cause."

She follows me, pausing at the threshold. "The other warlocks—do they know? About Elinor?"

"Gideon knows parts of it," I reply. "Enough to understand my hatred for the council. Elias knows I lost someone. Asher knows nothing. He'd find some way to make it a joke."

She nods again, absorbing this. "And the bindings? Do they know about the prophecy, that you expected me to bind with all of them?"

"No," I admit. "Elias has his own research, his own understanding of the original binding ritual. He believes he's restored something ancient and sacred, which is true enough. But he doesn't know the full prophecy."

"Don't you think they deserve to know?" she asks, a challenge in her voice.

I consider this, studying her face in the dim light of the corridor. "Perhaps. When the time is right."

We walk in silence through the east wing, returning to the more frequently used parts of the estate. As we reach the main hall, I stop, turning to face her.

"Tomorrow," I say, "we continue your training. Now that you understand what we're fighting for, perhaps you'll be more willing to embrace your full potential."

She meets my gaze steadily. "I understand your pain, Malachi. What the council did to Elinor was unforgivable. But revenge won't bring her back."

"This isn't just about revenge," I counter, though the words ring slightly hollow even to my own ears. "It's about justice. About preventing the council from doing to others what they did to her."

"And the bindings?" she asks. "Are they just tools for your vengeance too?"

The question stings more than it should. "No," I say firmly. "The bindings are sacred. Meaningful. I would never trivialize them that way."

She studies me for a long moment, as if trying to read the truth behind my words. Then, surprising me completely, she reaches out, her fingers lightly touching my cheek.

"I believe you," she says softly. "Not about everything. But about that."

The simple contact sends a shock through me—not just physical awareness, but something deeper, a recognition that echoes in my chest. Without thinking, I catch her hand, pressing it more firmly against my face.

For a moment, we stand frozen in this unexpected intimacy, her palm warm against my skin, my fingers wrapped around her wrist where I can feel her pulse beating steadily.

"Sage," I begin, not entirely sure what I intend to say.

She shakes her head slightly. "Not tonight," she whispers. "I need time to process all of this."

I release her hand reluctantly, nodding once. "Of course."

She steps back, putting proper distance between us. "Goodnight, Malachi."

"Goodnight, Sage."

Chapter

Forty-Nine

MALACHI

"Again," I command, circling Sage as she stands in the center of the ritual space, her skin gleaming with perspiration, golden light pulsing beneath the surface. "Deeper this time. Find the core of it."

Three days since I showed her Elinor's room. Three days of increasingly demanding training sessions, pushing her to access levels of power she never knew she possessed. And she's responding—magnificently.

Gone is the hesitant librarian who flinched at loud noises and averted her eyes when addressed directly. In her place stands a woman growing into her power with remarkable speed, her natural affinity for magic blossoming under the right guidance.

My guidance.

She closes her eyes, centering herself as I've taught her. The ritual circle beneath her feet glows in response to her concentration, silver lines pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She's naked, her hair is pulled back in a simple braid, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the delicate curve of her jaw.

I push away the distraction, focusing on the task at hand. Today's lesson is critical—teaching her to project her power beyond her physical form, to extend her will across distance.

"Visualize the target," I instruct, gesturing to the far end of the room where I've placed a series of crystal spheres on pedestals of varying heights. "Feel it, even though you can't touch it. Connect to it with your magic, then exert your will."

She extends her hands, golden light flowing from her fingertips like liquid sunshine. The energy reaches toward the nearest crystal, wrapping around it in tendrils of pure magic. The sphere begins to vibrate, responding to her power.

"Good," I encourage, moving to stand behind her. "Now lift it. Not with your magic as a tool, but as an extension of yourself."

Her brow furrows in concentration. The sphere wobbles, rises an inch from its pedestal, then clatters back down.

"You're still thinking of your magic as separate from you," I observe, stepping closer. "As something you use rather than something you are."

She exhales in frustration, the golden light flickering. "I'm trying."

"Don't try," I say, my voice softening slightly. "Be."

I place my hands on her shoulders, feeling the heat of her skin. She stiffens momentarily at the contact, then relaxes as I channel a small measure of my own power into her through our fragile bond—not to overwhelm or control, but to guide.

"Feel how I do it," I murmur, my mouth close to her ear. "My magic isn't a tool I pick up and put down. It's my breath, my blood, as much a part of me as my heartbeat."

She leans back slightly, allowing more contact between us. I sense her magic responding to mine, the two energies intertwining like old friends reuniting after a long absence.

"That's it," I encourage as the golden light steadies, grows more focused. "Now, try again. But don't reach for the crystal. Extend yourself to it."

This time, when she releases her power, it flows differently—not as separate tendrils but as a unified extension of her being. The crystal rises smoothly from its pedestal, hovering in the air with perfect stability.

"Yes," I murmur approvingly. "Now the next one."

One by one, she lifts the remaining crystals, her confidence growing with each success. By the fifth sphere, she's not just lifting them but arranging them in complex patterns, rotating them in mid-air like planets around a sun.

"Excellent," I say, genuine pride coloring my voice. "Now, the final test."

I move from behind her, walking to the far wall where a cabinet stands. From inside, I remove a black velvet pouch, its contents heavy in my palm. When I return to stand before her, her eyes are bright with curiosity and the exhilaration of newfound ability.

"This," I say, opening the pouch to reveal a crystal unlike the others—obsidian rather than clear, its surface etched with ancient symbols, "is a soul stone. Created in the 14th century by warlocks attempting to capture and contain magical energy in its purest form."

She eyes it warily. "What does it do?"

"When activated properly, it resonates with raw magical power, amplifying and reflecting it back to its source." I extend the stone toward her on my open palm. "I want you to fill it with your power, then control the reflection."

Her eyes widen. "Is that safe?"

"No," I admit. "Which is why you need to learn it. The council possesses similar artifacts. They won't hesitate to use them against you."

She hesitates, then nods, accepting the challenge. I place the stone on the floor at the center of the ritual circle, then step back to give her space.

"Begin slowly," I caution. "Too much power too quickly, and it could shatter—with explosive consequences."

She positions herself before the stone, hands extended. Golden light flows from her fingertips in a carefully controlled stream, touching the obsidian surface with delicate precision. The stone absorbs her magic, its black surface beginning to glow with an inner fire, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

"Good," I encourage. "Now gradually increase the flow. The stone can handle more than you might think."

She complies, her power streaming more forcefully into the crystal. The obsidian drinks it in greedily, glowing brighter with each passing second, the ancient symbols etched on its surface beginning to shimmer with golden light.

"It's working," she says, a note of wonder in her voice.

"Keep going," I urge. "Fill it completely."

Her magic intensifies, pouring into the stone in waves of pure energy. The obsidian now blazes like a captive sun, its light so bright it casts our shadows against the distant wall. The ritual circle beneath our feet responds in kind, the silver lines glowing white-hot with shared power.

Then, without warning, the stone reaches capacity. A high-pitched hum fills the air, vibrating through the floor, the walls, our bodies.

"Prepare yourself," I warn, stepping closer. "It's about to reflect."

The moment the words leave my lips, the stone releases its stored energy in a blinding surge of power. Golden light explodes outward, directly toward Sage, carrying with it the amplified force of her own magic—doubled, tripled, magnified beyond measure.

She gasps, instinctively throwing up her hands to shield herself. But rather than deflecting the energy, she needs to accept it, to reabsorb what she's created.

Without thinking, I move behind her, my body pressing against hers, my arms encircling her waist. "Don't block it," I command urgently. "Take it back. All of it."

The wave of power crashes into us, and I feel her body tense against mine. For a moment, I fear she'll be overwhelmed, unable to contain the sheer magnitude of energy reflecting back at her.

Then, remarkably, she relaxes into my embrace, her body yielding to the inevitable. Her arms lower, hands opening to receive rather than repel. The golden light surrounds us, seeps into her skin, into mine where we touch, creating a circuit of shared magic that grows more intense with each passing heartbeat.

"That's it," I murmur against her ear, holding her steady as the power flows through us both. "Perfect."

What happens next is entirely unexpected.

As the last of the reflected energy returns to us, something shifts—a boundary dissolving, a barrier breaking down. My power, which I've kept carefully controlled, surges forward of its own accord, reaching for hers like a plant seeking sunlight. Her magic responds in kind, golden light intertwining with my darker energy in patterns too complex to follow.

I can feel her—not just physically but magically, emotionally, the edges of her consciousness brushing against mine like silk against skin. Her surprise, her wonder, her lingering fear all wash over me in waves of sensation.

And she can feel me too—I know it by the way she stiffens in my arms, by the small gasp that escapes her lips as my carefully constructed barriers weaken, allowing her glimpses of what I keep hidden from everyone.

"Malachi," she whispers, voice thick with emotion. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," I admit, the honesty unfamiliar on my tongue. "This is... unexpected."

Our merged magic continues to swirl around us, through us, creating a feedback loop of escalating sensation. Each of her breaths draws my power deeper into her body; each of mine pulls her golden light further into my soul.

With growing alarm, I realize I'm losing control—not just of the situation but of myself, of the carefully constructed walls I've maintained for centuries. Emotions I've kept safely buried rise to the surface—grief for Elinor, rage at the council, loneliness so profound it threatens to consume me.

And something else, something new and fragile and terrifying: desire for the woman in my arms. Not just physical want, but a deeper yearning for connection, for understanding, for something I'd convinced myself I would never seek again.

I should pull away. Should end this unexpected merging before it goes too far, reveals too much.

But I don't.

Instead, I tighten my hold on her waist, pressing her more firmly against me, surrendering to the magic that binds us in this moment.

Is this what a true binding feels like? The markings glow beneath our feet as do the sigils on our wrists.

"I feel you," she whispers, her voice filled with wonder. "Your pain. Your rage. Your—" She stops, as if uncertain how to name what else she senses in me.

"Yes," I acknowledge, beyond the point of denial. "And I feel you. Your fear. Your confusion. Your growing strength."

She turns in my arms, facing me directly, her blue-grey eyes wide with a newfound understanding. "You're not what I thought," she says softly. "Not entirely."

I should feel exposed, vulnerable—emotions I've spent centuries avoiding. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to relief.

"What did you think I was?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"Cold," she answers honestly. "Calculating. Using me as a weapon for your revenge without caring about me as a person."

The assessment stings, more than it should. "And now?"

She lifts a hand to my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with unexpected tenderness. Through our magically-enhanced connection, I feel her confusion, her conflicting emotions—wariness and fascination, fear and desire all tangled together.

"Now I see more," she says simply. "The pain beneath the control. The purpose beyond the revenge." Her fingers still against my skin. "You want to keep me safe."

The words—so simple, so stark in their truth—penetrate defenses I didn't know I still had. Yes, I want revenge against the council. Yes, I need Sage to fulfill the prophecy, to complete my centuries-long plan.

But beneath that, driving it all, is a far more primal need: to protect her from sharing Elinor's fate. To ensure that no witch ever again suffers what my wife endured.

"Yes," I admit, the confession pulled from somewhere deep inside me. "I want you safe."

Her eyes widen slightly at my honesty. Then, before I can react, she rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine.

The kiss is gentle, tentative, a question rather than a demand. But the effect is immediate and overwhelming. Where our lips meet, our merged magic intensifies, creating a surge of power that rushes through both of us, drawing a gasp from her and a low groan from me.

I remain motionless for a heartbeat, two, struggling against the rising tide of desire. Then, with a sense of inevitability, of surrender to something I've been fighting since the moment I first saw her, I respond.

My hands slide up her back, one tangling in her braid, the other pressing against her spine to draw her closer. The kiss deepens, transforms from gentle question to hungry demand. She meets me without hesitation, her body arching into mine, her magic pulsing in rhythm with her quickening heartbeat.

Through our magical connection, each sensation is doubled, shared—I feel her desire as well as my own, her pleasure amplifying mine in an endless feedback loop of escalating need.

My control, maintained for centuries with iron discipline, frays at the edges, then shatters completely. I lift her, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist as I carry her to the wall, pressing her against it, my mouth never leaving hers.

"Is this what you want?" I murmur against her lips, needing to hear her say it, needing the certainty of her consent.

"Yes," she breathes, fingers digging into my shoulders.

The words unleash something in me—a hunger held in check for too long, a need too powerful to deny. I capture her mouth again, the kiss deeper, more demanding. Her response is immediate, eager, her body pressing against mine with a desperation that matches my own.

Our merged magic continues to build, golden light and dark energy swirling around us in increasingly complex patterns. The ritual circle beneath our feet pulses in response, the silver lines glowing so brightly they're almost blinding.

When I finally break the kiss, we're both breathing hard, our bodies humming with shared magic and rising desire. Her eyes are dark, pupils dilated, lips swollen from the force of our exchange.

"The others," she says hesitantly. "Elias, Asher⁠—"

"Are not here," I finish for her, my voice rough with want. "This is between us. Only us."

Something like relief flashes across her face. Through our connection, I sense her confusion about the multiple bindings, her uncertainty about what she's meant to feel for each of us.

"I won't share you in this moment," I tell her, my hands tightening possessively on her hips. "Whatever comes after, whatever the prophecy demands, right now you are mine alone."

Rather than bristling at the possessiveness as I half-expect, she nods, her gaze steady on mine. "And you are mine," she counters, a newfound confidence in her voice. "Not just me belonging to you, but mutual. Equal."

The assertion should anger me—I've never considered anyone my equal, not in centuries of existence. But instead, I find myself nodding, accepting her terms without resistance.

"Equal," I agree, surprising myself.

I carry her from the wall to the center of the ritual circle, where the glowing silver lines will amplify whatever magic transpires between us. As I lower her to her feet, our bodies still pressed together, I feel the last of my reservations dissolving.

This was not part of my plan. This connection, this unexpected merging of magic and desire, was never what I intended when I claimed her at the Ritual. She was meant to be a tool, a weapon, the key to fulfilling an ancient prophecy and exacting my revenge.

Now, as her hands move to the hem of my shirt, as her magic pulses in time with mine, I'm forced to acknowledge a simple, undeniable truth: she has become something more. Something essential. Something I cannot bear to lose, not for revenge, not for power, not for anything.

My clothing falls away, removed with impatient hands and whispered magic. Standing naked within the ritual circle, our bodies illuminated by the golden-obsidian light of our merged power, we pause for a heartbeat, taking in the sight of each other with unguarded appreciation.

She is beautiful—not in the delicate, fragile way of mortal women, but with the fierce loveliness of a storm gathering strength, of magic taking form. Her body bears the marks of her training—lean muscle beneath soft curves, skin glowing with vitality and power.

Her gaze travels over me with equal intensity, lingering on the ancient scars that mark my torso, testament to centuries of magical combat, of survival against the odds. When her fingers trace one that curves along my ribs, I feel her curiosity, her silent question.

"Council enforcers," I explain, voice rough with remembered pain. "From my first attempt at revenge. I was young, reckless."

"And now?" she asks, her hand stilling over my heart.

"Now I am patient," I reply. "Methodical. But no less determined."

Her eyes meet mine, searching, seeing more than I'm entirely comfortable revealing. "And I am part of that determination."

"You are essential to it," I correct, drawing her closer. "Without you, there is no prophecy, no restoration of balance, no justice for what was stolen."

She nods, accepting this truth without resentment. Then, with deliberate purpose, she rises to kiss me again, her body pressing fully against mine, skin to skin, magic to magic.

What follows transcends mere physical passion. As our bodies join, as I push my cock into her with a careful restraint that costs me dearly, our magic merges completely, creating a circuit of power that flows between us without beginning or end.

Through this enhanced connection, each sensation is shared, magnified—I feel her pleasure as she feels mine, creating an escalating spiral of physical and magical ecstasy. The silver lines of the ritual circle respond to our union, pulsing in perfect rhythm with our movements, amplifying the power that surrounds us, flows through us, binds us together.

My hands grip her hips with bruising force; her nails score my back, leaving marks that will linger for days. Each thrust drives us both higher, the shared pleasure building toward something beyond ordinary release.

When the peak finally approaches, I feel it building not just physically but magically—a gathering storm of power that will forever alter the connection between us. The true binding forms, gold and obsidian threads weaving together into something unbreakable, eternal.

"Malachi," she gasps, sensing it too, her eyes wide with mingled wonder and alarm. "It's happening⁠—"

"Let it," I growl, beyond the point of caution or restraint. "Be mine, Sage. As I am yours."

Her back arches, her body tightening around mine, and then we're both falling, soaring, the physical release inseparable from the magical binding that completes itself in that moment of perfect union.

The band of obsidian that was already around her left wrist grows, now encompassing the gold and crimson from the others. On my own wrist, her golden energy materializes fully, burning slightly as it settles into my skin.

In the aftermath, we lie tangled together at the center of the ritual circle, the silver lines still pulsing with residual energy, our breathing gradually slowing to normal rhythm. Her head rests on my chest, my fingers absently stroking the length of her spine, neither of us quite ready to break the intimate contact.

Chapter

Fifty

MALACHI

Three days since we reinforced our binding in the ritual circle, and the connection between us has only intensified. The initial link had been powerful enough—an undeniable presence in my mind—but now it's deeper, richer. A golden warmth nestled alongside my consciousness, a constant awareness of her emotions, her location within the estate, even glimpses into her dreams as she sleeps.

It's distracting. Unsettling. Exhilarating.

I feel her clearly now as I stand at the window of my study, gazing out at the morning mist clinging to the gardens. She's in the library, reviewing one of Elias' lessons in magical theory. Even from this distance, I sense her fascination, her quick mind absorbing knowledge like parched earth drinks rain.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration. "Enter," I call, not turning from the window.

Asher strolls in, his usual irreverent energy barely contained. "Summoned to the principal's office," he quips, dropping into a chair without waiting for invitation. "What have I done this time?"

I turn to face him, my gaze immediately drawn to the crimson band visible on his wrist where his sleeve has ridden up—a match to the one Sage bears. Beside it is the delicate golden mark she shares with Elias. Both, however, are contained within the wider, darker obsidian band that encircles them, my own binding clearly dominant, encompassing them both.

Three bindings. Three warlocks. One witch with untapped potential.

"We need to talk," I say simply. "All of us."

Asher's expression shifts, the perpetual amusement giving way to something more serious. "About Sage?"

"About everything."

The door opens again, admitting Elias. Unlike Asher's casual slouch, he stands straight, composed, ever the academic even in times of crisis.

"Gideon is on his way," he informs me, taking a seat across from Asher. "He was checking the perimeter."

I nod, moving to my desk but remaining standing. I prefer the advantage of height, of movement, especially for difficult conversations.

"The Magister has recalled all council enforcers to the capital," I begin without preamble. "According to our sources, they're preparing for a major operation. Timeline estimated at three days."

"They're coming for her," Elias states, not a question but a certainty.

"Yes." I tap my fingers against the polished surface of my desk. "The surveillance teams around the estate have tripled. They're mapping our defenses, identifying weaknesses."

Asher stretches, a calculated show of nonchalance that doesn't mask the tension in his shoulders. "So we move first. Hit them before they hit us."

"It's not that simple," I counter. "The council has resources we can't match in direct confrontation. Centuries of accumulated power, artifacts, bound entities. We need an advantage they can't anticipate."

The door opens once more, and Gideon slips in silently, taking up his usual position against the wall, watchful and alert. Our eyes meet briefly, understanding passing between us without words. The perimeter is secure. For now.

"The bindings," Elias says, leaning forward. "That's the advantage you're counting on."

I incline my head slightly. "Yes, but in their current state, they're not enough."

Asher sits up straighter, his usual mask of indifference slipping further. "What do you mean? We're already bound to her—you, me, and Elias."

"Bound, yes," I acknowledge. "But not at full capacity."

"Full capacity?" Elias repeats, brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

I pause, weighing how much to reveal. These are my closest allies, but there are secrets I've kept even from them. Ancient knowledge, passed down through centuries, guarded and preserved while the council systematically destroyed every trace of it.

"What you know as the binding ritual is only the first stage," I explain carefully. "The true binding—the original one, before the council's corruption—goes deeper. It creates a channel between witch and warlock that amplifies both powers exponentially."

Elias leans forward, scholarly curiosity piqued. "I've never encountered any texts that mention this."

"You wouldn't have," I reply. "The council destroyed all record of it. What remains exists only in fragments, hidden in code, preserved by those few who recognized what was being lost."

From his position against the wall, Gideon speaks for the first time. "How long have you known about this?"

I meet his steady gaze. "Centuries. I've been collecting the fragments, reconstructing the original ritual, preparing for when it might be needed."

"And now it's needed," Asher concludes, uncharacteristically serious.

"Yes," I confirm. "The bind that you both share with Sage is powerful, but incomplete. To have any chance against the council, we need to strengthen your connections, bring them to their full potential."

Elias processes this, his academic mind working through implications. "Is it dangerous? This... amplification?"

"All power comes with risk," I acknowledge. "But the greater risk is facing the council with anything less than our full strength."

Through my bond with Sage, I feel a flicker of awareness—she's sensed the gathering, the tension, the focus of all four of us on her. She's curious, slightly concerned, but continuing her studies for now.

"There's something else," I say, meeting Elias's gaze directly. "Something I've kept from you."

Asher raises an eyebrow. "More secrets? I'm shocked, truly."

I ignore him, focusing on Elias. "The texts you've studied speak of the binding ritual as exclusive—one witch, one warlock. That's what the council wanted everyone to believe."

"And the truth?" Elias asks quietly.

"The truth is that certain witches—rare, powerful bloodlines—could form bindings with multiple warlocks." I let that sink in before continuing. "The council feared these witches above all others, hunted them most relentlessly. A witch bound to multiple warlocks represented their greatest threat."

"Because their power would be multiplied," Elias realizes, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Not just amplified through a single binding, but compounded through several."

"Exactly," I nod. "Sage is such a witch. Her ability to bind with the three of us proves it."

"And Gideon?" Elias asks, glancing toward the stoic figure by the wall. "He hasn't bound with her at all yet. If it's true what you say, that the binding amplifies power, then shouldn't he also bind with her?"

All eyes turn to Gideon, whose expression remains carefully neutral. Through my connection to Sage, I feel a flutter of something complex—she's thinking of Gideon now, remembering their almost-encounter, the way he pulled back out of loyalty to me. It must be my own thoughts that are causing those in her.

"That's his choice," I say, though I know what his answer will be. Gideon's loyalty has never wavered, not in centuries. If I ask this of him, he will comply.

Gideon straightens slightly, his gaze direct. "If this is what's needed to protect her, to defeat the council, I'll do my part."

"How generous," Asher drawls, but there's no real mockery in his tone.

"So what's the plan?" Elias asks, leaning forward.

"Sage and I have already completed the true binding ritual," I admit to them. "But, I believe that by completing it together, it will strengthen each connection to its full potential, creating a network of power the council can't match."

"All of us at once?" Asher questions, brow raised. "That's quite the... intimate gathering."

"The ritual requires presence, not participation," I clarify, though the line between the two might blur in practice. "The combined energy of all bound pairs amplifies the overall effect."

Elias nods thoughtfully. "Unorthodox, but conceptually sound. The magical theory supports it."

"I'm in," Asher declares with a grin. "Though I imagine the real challenge will be convincing our little librarian to welcome Gideon into the fold, then engage in some group ritual magic."

I feel a surge of protectiveness at his phrasing, even knowing he means no disrespect. Through our bond, I sense Sage's awareness sharpening—she knows we're discussing her, making decisions that will affect her future.

"We approach her together," I decide. "Present the option with complete transparency. No manipulation, no pressure."

Asher raises an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like you, Malachi."

"Perhaps I'm evolving," I reply dryly.

Gideon pushes away from the wall. "She's coming."

Sure enough, I feel her approaching through our connection, her determination mixed with apprehension. She's felt the focus of our attention and decided to confront it directly—another sign of how much she's changed in the short time she's been with us.

The door opens without a knock, and she stands there, framed in the doorway, power shimmering visibly beneath her skin. The bands around her wrists—gold for Elias, crimson for Asher, and my own obsidian—gleam in the morning light, physical manifestations of the connections that bind her to us.

Her eyes scan the room, taking in our positions, our expressions, before settling on me.

"You're planning something," she says without preamble. "All of you."

"Yes," I acknowledge, seeing no reason to deny it. "Something that concerns you directly."

She steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. "Then shouldn't I be part of the discussion?"

I smile slightly, approval warming my voice. "Absolutely. In fact, we were just about to send for you."

She moves to the center of the room, not taking a seat but standing her ground, a position of equality rather than supplication. My respect for her grows even as I note the subtle ways she's adopted my own mannerisms—the straight posture, the direct gaze, the quiet assertion of authority.

"The council is coming," she says, not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes," I confirm. "Sooner than we anticipated. We need to accelerate our preparations."

She nods, unsurprised. "And these preparations involve me."

I feel her uncertainty through our connection, her concern about what will be asked of her, even as she's determined to face whatever comes.

"We have a plan," I tell her. "One that would maximize our collective power against the council."

Her gaze sharpens with interest. "I'm listening."

I meet her eyes directly, aware that what I'm about to propose will shape not just our immediate future but centuries to come.

"First," I begin, "Gideon would bind with you, establishing the connection that already links you to the rest of us." I gesture to the stoic warlock still standing by the wall.

She glances at Gideon, something unreadable passing between them. "And then?"

"Then we perform the true binding ritual," I continue. "The original one, before the council corrupted it. It's designed to amplify the connection between witch and warlock, to bring it to its full potential."

"All of you?" she asks, quick to understand the implication. "At once?"

"Each binding would be strengthened individually," Elias explains, stepping in with his academic precision. "But the presence of all bound pairs within the ritual circle creates a network effect, amplifying the overall power."

She absorbs this, her quick mind working through implications. Through our bond, I feel her uncertainty, but also her growing resolve.

"And if I refuse?" she asks, though I can sense she's already inclining toward acceptance.

"Then we find another way," I tell her, meaning it. "This must be your choice, Sage. Entirely yours."

Through our connection, I feel her surprise at this assurance, her awareness that I'm treating her as a true equal rather than a tool to be wielded.

"When would we begin?" she asks finally.

"Tonight," I reply. "If you're willing. The council moves against us in three days. We need to be at full strength before then."

She takes a deep breath, decision crystallizing in her mind. I feel it form, feel her certainty solidify even before she speaks.

"I consent," she says simply. "To all of it."

The words settle over us like a spell, binding us to a course of action that will change everything. Through my connection to her, I sense her fear, her determination, and beneath it all, a growing affection for each of us that both complicates and clarifies what lies ahead.

Four warlocks. Four bindings. One witch at the center of it all.

My centuries of planning, of carefully laid groundwork, have shifted into something new, something unexpected.

Because of her.

As we begin discussing the specifics—Gideon's binding, the preparations for the true ritual, the tactics for confronting the council—I find myself watching her. The quiet librarian I claimed at the ritual has transformed into someone stronger, more confident, more powerful than I could have anticipated.

And through our bond, warm and steady as a heartbeat, I feel her watching me in return, seeing past the mask I've worn for centuries to the man beneath.

The man I'm becoming, because of her.

Chapter

Fifty-One

SAGE

The ritual chamber glows with candlelight, hundreds of flames painting the stone walls in shades of gold and amber. Silver lines trace an intricate pattern across the floor—four interlocking circles forming a larger whole, each marked with ancient symbols that pulse gently in response to the magic gathering in the air.

I stand at the center, heart racing beneath the thin silk robe draped over my bare skin. Around me, the four warlocks complete the final preparations, each moving with deliberate purpose, the air growing heavy with anticipation and power.

"The council moves tomorrow," Malachi had announced earlier, his expression grim as he received reports from his network of informants. "We no longer have the luxury of time."

"Then we must act now," Elias had advised, his scholarly mind quickly adapting to the changing circumstances. "First, Gideon must establish his binding with Sage, and then immediately, all of us must perform the true binding ritual. All magical currents unified."

"Is that possible?" I had asked. "To complete both in a single night?"

Asher's grin had been wicked with anticipation. "Only one way to find out."

Now we stand on the precipice of something unprecedented—not just a new binding, but the immediate amplification of all connections through the true ritual, a merging of five magical signatures into something greater than the sum of its parts.

Gideon approaches me first, his movements precise and economical as always. But his eyes, usually so guarded, reveal a depth of emotion I'm still learning to recognize.

"Are you certain?" he asks quietly, for my ears alone. "This will be... intense. Possibly dangerous."

I meet his gaze steadily. "I'm certain."

He nods once, acceptance and respect in the gesture. Then, with unexpected gentleness, he reaches for the sash of my robe, waiting for my nod before slowly untying it.

The silk parts, sliding from my shoulders to pool at my feet. I stand naked before them, no longer embarrassed or uncertain as I might have been days ago. My body has become an instrument of power, a channel for magic ancient and raw.

"Beautiful," Elias murmurs, appreciation in his gaze as he completes the ritual circle, adding the final lines of silver that connect the four smaller circles.

Asher says nothing, but his eyes darken with desire and something deeper—a reverence I've rarely seen from him.

Malachi stands slightly apart, watching with that intense focus that still makes my pulse quicken. Through our binding, I feel his anticipation, his determination, the banked fire of his desire held carefully in check.

"First, the initial binding," Elias explains, his voice taking on the cadence of ritual. "Gideon and Sage must form their connection, while we stand as witnesses and anchors."

The three bound warlocks step back to the edge of the ritual circle, forming a protective triangle around us. Gideon remains before me, his usual stoicism softened by something I hadn't seen in him before—vulnerability, anticipation, need.

"I've waited for this," he admits quietly, his voice meant only for me. "Even when I stepped back, out of loyalty to Malachi. I wanted this connection."

My heart races at his confession. Of all the warlocks, Gideon has been the most reserved, the most difficult to read. To hear him express desire so openly stirs something deep within me.

"I've wanted it too," I whisper back.

He moves forward then, one hand rising to cup my face with surprising tenderness. His other hand traces the bands already marking my wrists—gold for Elias, crimson for Asher, obsidian for Malachi. Three bindings, three warlocks. Now it's time for the fourth.

"With this binding, I offer my strength," Gideon says, his voice gaining the formal cadence of ritual. "My protection. My loyalty. Not just to the cause, but to you, Sage."

His lips find mine in a kiss that begins gentle but quickly deepens with restrained passion. I respond instinctively, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer as our bodies press together.

Unlike my bindings with the others, this one forms quickly, urgently—there's no time for extended exploration, no leisurely discovery of each other's bodies. The council approaches, and we must complete both rituals before they arrive.

Gideon guides me down onto the plush, silken cushions at the heart of the ritual circle, his gaze fierce and possessive. His muscular body covers mine, skin hot and tantalizing against my own, igniting a craving deep in my core. With deliberate yet commanding precision, he presses the thick length of his cock inside me, stretching me exquisitely, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling outward from the center of my being.

A breathless cry escapes me as sensation consumes me completely, every nerve ending set ablaze by the delicious friction of his slow, controlled entry. My nails dig lightly into his powerful shoulders, urging him deeper, inviting him to claim every inch of me.

"Yes," I gasp, arching beneath him, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him impossibly closer, until there is nothing but the intoxicating blend of our heated bodies pressed intimately together.

His magic rises, shimmering silver threads swirling around us, through us, intertwining our bodies and souls in a profound, unbreakable bond. The cool, precise touch of his power amplifies the blazing heat between us, merging with my own golden essence, settling into a seamless union that I feel deep within my very bones.

Gideon groans softly, the sound primal and raw against my neck, his thrusts growing urgent and commanding, each stroke hitting deeper, driving me towards the edge of a blissful oblivion. His breath comes fast and ragged, whispering promises of pleasure, protection, and possession.

"Gideon," I whisper his name desperately, my body arching sharply into his, surrendering to the overwhelming wave of ecstasy building relentlessly between us.

His mouth claims mine fiercely, our tongues tangling passionately as the tension snaps, exploding into waves of blinding, white-hot release. I cry out, my body trembling beneath him, my inner walls pulsing around his cock as he shudders, burying himself deeply inside me, spilling his release with a hoarse groan of my name.

The silver light flares brilliantly, spiraling tighter around us until it solidifies into a luminous band encircling my right wrist, elegant and distinctly his. On Gideon's wrist, a matching band of my golden energy glows vividly, branding him as irrevocably mine.

"The fourth binding is complete," Elias's voice calls clearly from the edge of the circle, gently but firmly pulling us from our heated reverie. "Now, without delay, we must perform the true ritual."

Gideon helps me to my feet, his touch lingering with newfound intimacy. I feel his presence clearly now through our fresh bond—his steady strength, his unwavering resolve, his carefully hidden depth of feeling.

"The veil between worlds thins," Elias continues as the other warlocks step forward to join us in the center of the circle. "The many become one, the one becomes many. As it was in the beginning, so shall it be again."

The warlocks move as one, forming a ring around me. They've already removed their clothing—a necessity for the ritual, where skin must touch skin, where power must flow without barrier or hindrance.

"The bindings form the foundation," Malachi intones, reaching first for my left hand.

They each join in turn, forming an unbroken circuit of connection. Malachi’s grip is firm and grounding, Elias clasps my right hand with a thoughtful, precise touch, while Gideon and Asher place their hands atop ours—Gideon’s strong and steady, Asher’s playful yet reverent."Let the true binding begin," Elias says softly.

As one, they channel their power toward me—gold from Elias, obsidian from Malachi, silver from Gideon, crimson from Asher. The energies flow into me, through me, around me, creating currents of magic that lift my hair, make my skin glow with inner light.

The sensation is overwhelming—four distinct magical signatures converging within me, seeking deeper connection, fuller resonance. My own power rises to meet them, golden light emanating from beneath my skin, reaching out to touch each of them in turn.

Then Malachi is before me, his hands cupping my face with surprising tenderness. "Let me begin," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine as he lowers his mouth to mine.

The kiss deepens quickly, our binding allowing him to sense exactly what I need, what I want. His hands move with deliberate purpose, caressing, exploring, igniting sensations that make me gasp against his lips.

Behind me, Elias presses close, his chest warm against my back, hands sliding around my waist. His lips find the sensitive curve where my neck meets my shoulder, sending shivers down my spine.

Gideon kneels beside us, his usual reserve transformed into focused intensity as his hands trace patterns up my legs, his touch leaving trails of silver light against my skin.

Asher completes the circle, positioning himself so his hands can reach where the others cannot, his crimson energy pulsing in time with my racing heart.

"Surrender," Malachi whispers against my lips. "Let us worship you as you deserve."

And I do.

I surrender to their combined touch, to the magic flowing between us in ever-strengthening currents. Each caress amplifies the next, each kiss deepens the connection, until it becomes impossible to distinguish where one warlock's touch ends and another's begins.

They move in perfect coordination, as if they've rehearsed this dance for centuries rather than mere moments. Malachi claims my mouth while Elias traces patterns down my spine. Gideon's hands explore with reverent precision while Asher's touch teases and tantalizes.

The ritual circle beneath us pulses brighter with each passing moment, the silver lines now glowing white-hot, responding to the building magical energy.

"The convergence begins," Elias murmurs against my skin, his scholarly precision evident even in this most intimate of moments.

They guide me down onto the plush cushions placed at the center of the ritual circle, their bodies forming a living temple around me. Malachi positions himself above me, his dark eyes locked on mine as he slowly, deliberately, presses his thick cock into my body.

The connection is immediate and overwhelming—not just physical but magical, emotional, our binding flaring with renewed intensity as he moves within me with careful restraint.

"Yes," I breathe, arching into him as pleasure and power build in equal measure.

Elias settles beside us, his hands never leaving my skin, his golden energy flowing into me with each caress. Gideon kneels near my head, his silver magic forming protective patterns around us all. Asher completes the circuit, his crimson power dancing playfully among the other energies.

"Feel us," Malachi commands, his voice rough with desire and magic. "All of us. Together."

I open myself—not just physically but magically, lowering barriers I didn't know I had, allowing their energies to flow freely into me, through me, around me. The sensation is beyond description—four distinct magical signatures merging with my own, creating something entirely new, entirely unprecedented.

The pleasure spirals out of control as the four warlocks claim me, their bodies moving in perfect sync with the strengthening magical bonds. Malachi flips us over, so that his thick shaft drives into my dripping core with brutal intensity from below. Each powerful thrust sends waves of ecstasy crashing through me.

Elias takes position behind me now, his cock sliding into my tight rear entrance with ease. "I'm going to make this easier for you," he says and I don't feel pain for the first time, all I feel is pleasure. He sets a measured pace, his scholarly focus evident in the deliberate strokes. "So responsive, little one, he praises," his voice low and husky.

Asher, ever the wit, grins mischievously as he positions himself beside the bed.

"Time for a taste, don't you think?"

He wraps a hand around my throat, applying just enough pressure to heighten sensation, before leaning down to capture my mouth in a searing kiss.

Asher's tongue dominates mine, a sensual duel that leaves me breathless and aching for more. At the same time, Gideon kneels in front of me, his silver gaze locked on mine as he slowly pumps his impressive length. "Look at me," he commands softly.

Malachi's grip on my hips tightens as he pounds into me harder, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Elias mirrors his rhythm from behind, the dual penetration sending me hurtling towards climax.

Just as I'm teetering on the edge, Asher breaks the kiss and moves to kneel in front of me. He takes Gideon's cock in hand, guiding it towards my mouth. "Feed her, Gid," Asher urges with a wink.

Gideon nods, his expression tender as he offers his cock to me. I wrap my lips around the engorged head, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum. He begins to thrust slowly, allowing me to adjust to the size and shape of him.

Meanwhile, Asher's fingers find my clit once more, circling the sensitive nub in time with Elias's steady rhythm in my ass. The combined stimulation pushes me over the brink, my orgasm building with the force of a tidal wave.

"Together," Malachi says. I can feel my walls begin to shudder around his pistoning cock, Elias deep inside of me, Gideon's movements erratic as he nears his own peak, and I suck harder. I reach for Asher with my hand, stroking him to completion as we all crest together.

"The many become one," Elias intones.

"The one becomes many," Gideon continues.

"As above, so below," Asher adds.

"As within, so without," Malachi finishes.

The ritual words cascade through the chamber, each of us somehow knowing them, each syllable charged with ancient power. The silver lines beneath us pulse in perfect rhythm with our heartbeats, now synchronized into a single cadence.

Pleasure and magic spiral together, inseparable, indistinguishable. I feel myself approaching the precipice, my body and soul balanced on the edge of something transformative.

"Let go," Malachi whispers, his obsidian eyes holding mine. "Surrender completely."

And I do.

The release when it comes is cataclysmic—not just physical pleasure but magical transcendence. My consciousness expands beyond my body, beyond the room, touching something ancient and vast and perfect.

The warlocks follow immediately, their combined release sending a shockwave of power through the ritual circle, through the chamber, through the entire estate. For one transcendent moment, we exist as a single entity—five souls merged into one perfect union, our bindings fully activated and amplified to their true potential.

Colors explode around us—gold and obsidian, silver and crimson, merging into a pure white light so bright it should blind, yet somehow doesn't. The bands around my wrists flare with matching radiance, fusing together into an intricate pattern of interlocking circles—the symbol of the ancient witch covens made manifest.

On each warlock's wrist, a matching pattern forms—the final proof of our completed true binding, our unified purpose.

As the light slowly fades, as our breathing gradually steadies, I find myself cradled among them, their bodies forming a protective circle around mine. Through our amplified connections, I feel their awe, their satisfaction, their lingering pleasure—and beneath it all, a new determination, a readiness for what comes next.

"It's done," Elias murmurs, wonder in his voice as he examines the intricate pattern now encircling his wrist.

"The true binding," Gideon confirms, his usual stoicism softened by lingering wonder.

"Quite the party," Asher quips, but his voice lacks its usual flippancy, replaced by genuine reverence.

Malachi says nothing, but his obsidian eyes hold mine, a thousand unspoken emotions passing between us through our deepened connection.

I close my eyes, focusing inward, feeling the profound change that has occurred within me. My magic feels different—stronger, clearer, more focused. I can sense each of the warlocks through our bindings, can feel their distinct energies now permanently intertwined with my own.

But there's something else, something unexpected. A new awareness, a new understanding that seems to have been downloaded directly into my consciousness during the moment of convergence.

"I remember," I whisper, eyes flying open. "I remember everything."

Four pairs of eyes focus on me with sudden intensity.

"What do you remember?" Malachi asks, voice carefully controlled.

I sit up slowly, marveling at the memories now flowing through my mind—not my own, not exactly, but belonging to me nonetheless. Centuries of knowledge, of history, of purpose.

"The ancient witches," I say, wonder coloring my voice. "Their final spell, their sacrifice, their plan spanning centuries."

Elias leans forward, scholarly curiosity overtaking post-ritual languor. "You have their memories?"

"Not memories exactly," I try to explain. "More like... understanding. Knowledge they embedded in the magical bloodline, meant to awaken when the true binding was complete."

I look at each of them in turn, seeing them now with new clarity, with purpose sharpened by ancient wisdom suddenly made accessible.

"The council never understood what they were truly fighting," I continue. "The purge of the witches wasn't just about power or control. It was about preventing this—the true binding, the restoration, the rebalancing of magic itself."

Malachi's eyes narrow with sudden comprehension. "They knew. All this time, they knew what would happen if a witch completed the true binding with multiple warlocks."

I nod. "They knew it would end them. Not just their authority, but the entire corrupt structure they've built. When the true binding is complete, when a witch and her bound warlocks stand together at the height of their power⁠—"

"The balance shifts," Elias finishes, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Not just symbolically but literally. The magical current that has flowed in one direction for centuries reverses."

"Which means?" Asher prompts, uncharacteristically serious.

"Which means," I say, certainty filling me, "that the council's power—all that stolen witch magic, all that corrupted energy they've hoarded for centuries—it's about to return to its rightful place."

"To you," Gideon states, watching me with new intensity.

"To us," I correct. "Through me, but belonging to all of us. The true binding creates a circuit, a perfect conduit for power to flow as it was always meant to. To return it to those from which it was stolen."

Outside the windows, lightning flashes across the night sky, though no storm was forecast. The estate trembles slightly, as if in response to the magic we've unleashed.

"They're coming," Malachi says, rising to his feet, power already gathering around him like a cloak. "They'll have felt what we just did—the completion of the true binding, the shift beginning. They'll strike now, before the full effect takes hold."

The others stand as well, their naked bodies gleaming with residual magic, with purpose, with readiness. No longer four separate warlocks with individual agendas, but a unified force bound to a single witch, a single purpose.

I rise last, feeling strength flowing through me—not just my own, but theirs as well, multiplied and amplified through our fully realized connections. The ancient knowledge guides me now, showing me exactly what needs to be done.

"Let them come," I say, power dancing along my skin, my voice resonating with certainty and ancient purpose. "We're ready."

Chapter

Fifty-Two

MALACHI

The council arrives with thunder.

A storm of their creation rolls across the estate, black clouds boiling overhead as lightning strikes the perimeter wards in rapid succession. The protective barriers I've maintained for centuries flare and shudder but hold firm—reinforced now by the power flowing through the five of us, a circuit of magic unlike anything the world has seen in centuries.

I stand on the front steps of the mansion, Sage at my side, the others flanking us in perfect formation. Through our amplified connection, I feel her—steady, resolute, no longer the frightened librarian but something far more formidable. The ancient knowledge awakened during our binding ritual burns bright within her, guiding her, transforming her.

Transforming all of us.

The interlocking pattern on my wrist pulses with golden light—her light—mirroring the matching marks on Elias, Asher, and Gideon. Four warlocks, one witch, bound in the true ritual that the council has spent centuries trying to erase from history.

"Impressive entrance," Asher remarks beside me. "Very theatrical."

"They always did prefer style over substance," I reply, watching as the first wave of council enforcers materializes beyond the gates.

Twenty of them, perhaps thirty, each cloaked in dark robes emblazoned with the council's insignia—a hand clutching a star. Elite warlocks, trained specifically to eliminate threats to the established order. Under normal circumstances, even one would present a significant challenge.

But circumstances are far from normal.

Through our connection, I feel Sage's curiosity as she studies the approaching forces. "They're afraid," she observes, surprise coloring her voice.

"They should be," Gideon says from her other side, his silver magic already gathering around his hands.

The council forces halt at the edge of the property, forming a semicircle just beyond the gates. A figure steps forward from their midst—tall, regal, draped in robes of deep crimson rather than black. The current Magister, Thaddeus Blackwell's successor, a warlock nearly as old as I am.

"Malachi Black," he calls, voice magically amplified to carry across the distance. "By order of the High Council of Warlocks, you and your associates are charged with forbidden magical practices, harboring a witch, and treason against our kind."

I cannot help but smile. After centuries of hiding my intentions, of infiltrating their ranks, of plotting their downfall while pretending loyalty—it's almost refreshing to stand openly as their enemy.

"And what penalty does the council propose for these supposed crimes?" I ask, my own voice carrying without magical assistance.

The Magister's face hardens. "Surrender the witch and you may be granted mercy. Refuse, and you will all be destroyed."

Beside me, Sage steps forward. Through our connection, I feel not fear but a calm certainty, a purpose that matches my own.

"I am Sage Holloway," she calls, her voice strong and clear. "Last of the witch bloodlines you tried to exterminate. I will not be surrendered, and we will not be destroyed."

The Magister's expression darkens with rage. "How dare you speak to me, girl. The council's power has been accumulated over centuries. You are nothing but an aberration, a mistake that should never have existed."

I feel the ripple of anger that passes through Sage at his words, but it's quickly subsumed by something cooler, more calculating. She glances at me, a silent question in her eyes. Are you ready?

I nod once, decision made four hundred years ago when I knelt in the ashes of my home, clutching all that remained of my wife. Always.

"The true binding is complete," she announces, her voice carrying across the grounds. "The balance shifts tonight. This is your only warning: leave now, or face the consequences."

The Magister laughs, the sound harsh and dismissive. "Kill them all," he commands. "Bring me the witch's heart."

The council forces surge forward as one, magic crackling around them in waves of dark energy. They strike the outer wards with concentrated force, shattering the first layer of protections in a cascade of golden sparks.

I expected to feel something resembling fear, or at least concern. These are the most powerful warlocks in existence, after all, the elite enforcers of a regime that has ruled unchallenged for centuries.

Instead, I feel oddly calm.

Sage reaches out, taking my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine. Through the contact, her power flows into me, through me, a current of pure energy that connects not just us but all five of us in an unbroken circuit.

"Together," she says simply.

We move as one, guided by her intuition and the ancient knowledge now flowing through her. Elias raises his hands, golden light streaming from his fingertips to reinforce the crumbling wards. Asher steps forward, his crimson magic forming a secondary barrier that ripples like liquid fire. Gideon takes a defensive stance, silver energy pooling around his feet, ready to counter any direct assault.

And I—I channel power unlike anything I've ever wielded, obsidian darkness shot through with veins of Sage's golden light. It should be exhausting, should drain me to my core. Instead, it flows endlessly, replenishing as quickly as I expend it through our shared connection.

The council forces hit the second barrier and stagger backward, clearly surprised by its resilience. They regroup quickly, more methodical now, coordinating their attacks on what they perceive as weak points.

"They're attempting to isolate us," Elias observes, his academic tone at odds with the fierce concentration on his face. "Standard council tactics—divide and conquer."

Sage nods. "They don't understand. They can't divide what's truly bound."

Through our connection, I feel what she intends. Not just resistance, not just defense, but something far more radical. She reaches deeper into the well of power flowing between us, drawing on knowledge buried for centuries.

"They've taken what isn't theirs for too long," she says, her voice carrying to all of us through the magical link. "It's time for restoration."

I feel her power surge, not just her innate magic but something larger, more fundamental—the current that underlies all magical energy, the flow that the council has been diverting and hoarding for centuries. She's not just accessing her own power; she's tapping into the source itself.

"Now," she commands.

As one, we channel her intent, five points of a perfect star, focusing the energy she's gathering. The pattern on our wrists flares blindingly bright as we become true conduits, not just for our own magic but for something far more ancient and powerful.

The effect is immediate and astonishing.

A pulse of pure energy radiates outward from our circle, washing over the council forces like a tsunami. I watch in stunned amazement as their attacks falter, as their magic simply... stops. Not deflected, not countered, but drained—pulled from them and into Sage, through her, through all of us.

The council enforcers stagger backward, confusion and fear replacing their earlier confidence. Some drop to their knees, their magic deserting them entirely. Others try to flee, only to find themselves rooted in place, unable to access the power needed for teleportation.

"What is this?" the Magister demands, rage contorting his features as he struggles against the invisible pull. "What have you done?"

Sage steps forward, still holding my hand, power radiating from her in waves. "I'm taking back what you stole," she says simply. "All of it."

The Magister's face drains of color as understanding dawns. "Impossible. You can't⁠—"

"I can," she interrupts. "I am."

Through our connection, I feel what's happening—Sage is drawing in the corrupted energy, the stolen power that the council has been hoarding for centuries. It flows into her, a torrent of magic so vast it would destroy any warlock. But Sage isn't, and she's not alone. The energy spreads through our circuit, cleansed and transformed by our combined purpose.

The council forces collapse one by one, their stolen power deserting them, returning to its rightful place in the natural order. Some scream, some weep, some simply stare in disbelief as centuries of artificial enhancement evaporate.

Only the Magister remains standing, though barely. His crimson robes hang limply on his frame, his imposing presence diminished to something pathetic, almost pitiable.

Almost.

I step forward, Sage's hand still in mine, advancing until I stand face to face with the man who represents everything I've hated for four centuries.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask quietly, voice for his ears alone.

He stares at me, hatred burning in his rheumy eyes. "Traitor. Oath-breaker."

"My name is Malachi Black," I continue, "husband of Elinor Black, who was tortured and murdered by the council in 1622."

A flicker of recognition crosses his face. Not personal—he's not old enough to have been there himself—but historical. The council keeps meticulous records of its atrocities.

"One witch," he spits. "One insignificant witch, four hundred years ago. And for that, you would destroy everything we've built?"

"Not just for her," I reply. "For all of them. For every witch burned, every bloodline extinguished, every natural balance corrupted. Elinor was simply the beginning of my understanding."

Through Sage, I feel something unexpected—a presence, a warmth, a sense of recognition that isn't my own. It flows into me, fills me, a ghost of the connection I once shared with my wife.

Elinor?

Not quite. Not her consciousness, not her soul, but an echo, a memory preserved in the magical current that Sage has reclaimed. A fragment of what once was, carried through centuries, waiting to be found.

Let go, it seems to whisper. Complete the circle.

I understand suddenly what must be done. Not revenge, not destruction, but restoration. The final piece of the puzzle that Sage has already begun to solve.

I look into the Magister's eyes and see not just one man but all of them—every council member who ever sanctioned murder in the name of power, every warlock who twisted magic for personal gain, every perpetrator of a system built on theft and corruption.

"I could kill you," I tell him, and it's true. Even without magic, I could end his life with my bare hands, could finally claim the vengeance I've sought for centuries.

But that's not why I'm here. Not anymore.

"Instead," I say, "I'm going to let you live. Live as what you truly are, without stolen power, without artificial enhancement. Live with the knowledge that everything you built has crumbled, everything you valued has been reclaimed."

The Magister's face contorts with impotent rage. "You think this is mercy? This is worse than death!"

"Yes," I agree. "It is."

I step back, returning to Sage's side. She looks at me, understanding in her eyes, approval flowing through our connection.

"What now?" she asks, her voice carrying to all four of us.

I feel the presence again, the echo of Elinor, guiding my response. "Now we complete the restoration."

Sage nods, already understanding what I mean. She turns to face the fallen council forces, raising her hands, our combined power gathering around her like a radiant cloak.

"This power doesn't belong to me," she announces, her voice ringing with authority. "It doesn't belong to any one person. It belongs to all of magic, to the natural order, to the balance that was broken centuries ago."

With a gesture like releasing a bird to flight, she sends the accumulated energy outward—not in destruction, but in dispersion. The magic flows from our circle in golden streams, spreading across the estate, beyond the boundaries, into the world at large.

Through our connection, I sense where it's going—seeking its original sources, its rightful places. Some returns to the earth, healing wounds in the natural world. Some finds descendents of those it was stolen from, awakening dormant abilities, restoring what was lost. And some simply re-enters the great current of magical energy that flows through all things, replenishing what the council had drained nearly to extinction.

The fallen warlocks watch in disbelief as their stolen power abandons them completely, returning to the natural order. The Magister's knees finally give way, and he collapses to the ground, a hollow shell of what he once was.

"It's done," Sage says quietly.

And it is. Centuries of imbalance corrected in a single night. The council's power broken not through destruction but through restoration.

I feel something shift within me—a weight lifting, a burden I've carried so long I'd forgotten it wasn't part of me. The rage that has driven me for four hundred years ebbs away, leaving in its place a quiet certainty, a sense of completion.

Rest now, the echo of Elinor seems to whisper. It's finished.

I close my eyes briefly, allowing myself to say goodbye at last. Not to her memory—I'll carry that always—but to the pain, the blind fury, the single-minded thirst for vengeance that has defined me for centuries.

When I open my eyes, Sage is watching me, understanding in her gaze.

"She would be proud," she says softly.

"Yes," I agree. "I think she would."

Chapter

Fifty-Three

SAGE

Morning sunlight streams through the tall windows of Malachi's bedroom, casting warm patterns across the tangled sheets. I wake slowly, consciousness gradually returning as I register the weight of arms around me, the steady rhythm of breathing, the gentle hum of magical energy that somehow feels as natural as my own heartbeat.

We'd collapsed into bed after the confrontation with the council, all five of us too exhausted for anything but sleep. The release of so much magical energy, the restoration of balance to the world—it had drained us completely, leaving us just enough strength to stumble into the mansion and fall into the nearest bed.

Which happened to be Malachi's enormous four-poster, easily large enough to accommodate all of us.

I blink sleepily, taking inventory of our positions. Malachi lies beside me, one arm draped possessively across my waist, his face peaceful in sleep in a way it never is when he's awake. Elias is on my other side, his back pressed against mine, golden hair tousled across the pillow. Asher is sprawled at the foot of the bed, one leg thrown over Elias's, the other dangling off the edge. And Gideon—ever the sentinel—has somehow maintained the most dignified sleeping position, lying on his back near the headboard, one hand resting protectively near my head.

Through our amplified connections, I can feel them all even in sleep—Malachi's satisfied contentment, Elias's organized dreams, Asher's restless energy, Gideon's watchful peace. Four distinct presences nestled alongside my consciousness, as familiar now as my own thoughts.

I stretch carefully, trying not to disturb them, but the movement is enough to make Malachi stir. His dark eyes open, focusing immediately on my face with that intense awareness that still sends a shiver through me.

"Good morning," I whisper.

His lips curve into a rare, genuine smile. "Indeed it is." His fingers trace the pattern on my wrist, the interlocked symbols that bind us all together. "How do you feel?"

I consider the question, taking stock of my body, my magic, my mind. "Whole," I answer simply. "Complete."

He nods, understanding without further explanation. His hand moves from my wrist to my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a caress that sends warmth spreading through me.

"The others are waking," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.

Sure enough, I feel the shift in energies as consciousness returns to our companions. Elias rolls over, blinking owlishly without his glasses, his scholarly demeanor softened by sleep and tousled hair. Asher stretches dramatically, catlike and shameless in his nakedness. Gideon sits up, immediately alert, though his expression is more relaxed than I've ever seen it.

"Well," Asher drawls, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "this is cozy."

Elias rolls his eyes, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table. "Trust you to state the obvious, Asher."

"Someone has to," Asher retorts cheerfully. "The rest of you are far too serious for your own good."

Gideon makes a sound that might actually be a chuckle—an unprecedented event that draws surprised looks from the others.

"Did you just... laugh?" Asher asks, clutching his chest in mock shock. "The apocalypse truly is upon us."

"Perhaps I'm simply in a good mood," Gideon replies, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"And why wouldn't you be?" Asher winks. "The council is defeated, magic is restored to balance, and you're in bed with four extremely attractive people. I'd say life is pretty good."

I can't help but laugh at his irrepressible spirit. The sound seems to break something loose in all of us—tension we didn't know we were still carrying, uncertainty about what comes next.

Malachi's hand slides down my side, his touch no longer restrained by duty or purpose or revenge. "There are no more obligations," he says quietly. "No prophecies to fulfill, no enemies at the gate." His eyes meet mine, a question in them. "What happens now is entirely of our choosing."

The implication sends heat coursing through me. For the first time since I entered this world of magic and ritual, there's no external pressure driving us together. No binding to complete, no council to defeat, no ancient prophecy to fulfill.

Just us. Just desire. Just choice.

I reach for him, my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my touch. Through our connection, I sense his restraint—still giving me the power to choose, even now.

"I choose this," I whisper, leaning forward to press my lips against his.

He responds immediately, his kiss deep and thorough, hands sliding into my hair to hold me close. Through our amplified connection, I feel his desire, his possessiveness, his genuine joy at having me here of my own free will.

"Don't hog her," Asher complains good-naturedly, moving up the bed to press against my back, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind my ear. "Some of us have been waiting very patiently."

Elias chuckles, his hand finding mine, fingers intertwining. "I wouldn't describe you as patient, Asher."

"Fine, impatiently, then," Asher concedes, his hands sliding around my waist, warm and playful. "The point still stands."

I break the kiss with Malachi, turning to find Gideon watching us, his silver eyes intent. Unlike the others, he maintains a slight distance, still uncertain of his place in this newfound intimacy.

I reach for him, drawing him closer. "All of you," I clarify. "I choose all of you."

Something shifts in his expression—a barrier dropping, a final reservation released. He moves with surprising grace, closing the distance between us, his kiss unexpectedly gentle for a man of such controlled strength.

What follows is nothing like the ritual—no pressure, no purpose beyond pleasure, no ancient magic to channel. Just five bodies learning each other anew, exploring without hurry or obligation.

Asher's fingers dance along my inner thighs, teasing and probing until they find their way inside me. I gasp at the sudden intrusion, but it's not painful - just unfamiliar. Then he withdraws and presses his cock forward.

Malachi's hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples as he leans down to whisper in my ear. "Look at you, taking all of us so well," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. His words send shivers through me even as Asher's movements grow more confident.

Elias watches intently from where he kneels beside us, his eyes never leaving the sight of our joining. Gideon stands guard, ready to protect us all if needed, though his gaze seems more focused on the erotic display than potential threats.

As Asher continues to pump into me, I glance up at Gideon, silently urging him closer. He doesn't hesitate, stepping around to press his body against mine. One large hand comes to rest on my stomach, the other reaching up to tangle in my hair.

The dual sensations of Asher's cock stroking within me and Gideon's touch on my scalp make my head spin. I arch back against Asher, meeting each of his thrusts as he picks up speed. At the same time, I look up at Malachi, my lips parting in invitation.

He takes the cue, stroking his thick cock. With a low growl, he steps forward, guiding his cock to my mouth. I open wide, wrapping my lips around the head and sucking gently.

Asher's pace quickens, his hips snapping forward as he drives deeper into my core. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, punctuated by my moans around Malachi's shaft. I hollow my cheeks, trying to take more of him into my mouth as I bob my head.

Gideon's fingers tighten in my hair, a gentle tug that sends a thrill through me. His other hand roams over my curves, tracing the lines of my body before coming to rest on my clit. He rubs the sensitive nub in slow circles, adding to the overwhelming stimulation.

Asher grunts, his grip on my hips tightening as he nears his climax. "Fuck, Sage... gonna fill you up," he warns, his voice strained. Malachi responds by thrusting harder into my mouth, his balls drawing up tight.

Asher lets out a loud groan as he reaches his peak, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he spills his seed. Malachi follows suit, holding my head steady as he empties himself down my throat. I swallow around him, savoring the taste and texture of their releases.

As they both pull back, panting, Gideon and Elias move in to claim their turns. Gideon's fingers move to my clit, while Elias leans in to capture my lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into my mouth, tangling with mine as he explores every inch.

The combined stimuli prove too much, and I feel the coil of tension within me snap. But before I can crest over the edge, Elias enters me, his cock pushing deep inside my pussy as Gideon switches to push into my ass. Malachi watches, his eyes never leaving mine, hunger for me always there and Asher lays lazily nearby, twisting my nipples, heightening the pleasure.

Elias sets a steady rhythm, his hips rolling against mine as he buries himself to the hilt. Gideon's girth stretches me in a different way, filling me completely from behind. The double penetration is intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body with each movement.

Elias breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin. His hands roam my torso, squeezing and kneading as he builds towards his own release. Gideon's fingers return to my clit, rubbing firm circles that have me teetering on the brink.

I'm lost in the sensation, unable to focus on anything but the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my veins. My walls clench around Elias and Gideon, milking them for all they're worth. It's too much, yet somehow not enough.

The final push proves to be Elias' touch on my nipple, tweaking it just right. I scream out as the orgasm crashes over me, waves of ecstasy washing through my entire being. My pussy clenches hard around Elias' cock, while my ass spasms around Gideon's thickness.

Their reactions are immediate. Elias thrusts deep one last time before stilling, his seed pumping into me as he groans my name. Gideon follows suit, grinding against my prostate as he finds his release, painting my insides with his warmth.

The three of us remain locked together for long moments, riding out the aftershocks of our climaxes. Eventually, Elias pulls out first, followed by Gideon. They help me to my feet, supporting my trembling body as I catch my breath, all of us moving to the lavish bath that is connected to Malachi's quarters.

None of us speak as we all clean ourselves, each of them caring for me in their own way. And finally, we find ourselves back in Malachi's quarters. I'm nestled in the bed, Malachi's strong arm around me. Gideon stands near one post, Elias sits on a nearby chair, and Asher sits at the foot of the bed.

"So," Asher says finally, propping himself up on one elbow, "about that new magical order we're supposed to be establishing..."

Elias groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Must you bring up politics now?"

"I'm just saying," Asher continues, undeterred, "if our leadership meetings are going to be like this, I'm fully on board."

"Asher," Gideon says with exaggerated patience, "focus."

"I am focused," Asher protests. "On the important things. Like how we're going to run the magical world while also maintaining... whatever this is." He gestures vaguely at the bed.

"We have time," Malachi says, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. "For the first time in centuries, we have time."

I feel the truth of his words. The urgency that has driven us from the moment of my arrival at the ritual has finally dissipated. The council is neutralized. The magical balance is restored. The prophecy—or whatever version of it actually existed—has been fulfilled.

What comes next is unwritten.

"And what about us?" I ask quietly, the question I've been avoiding. "What happens to... this?" I gesture at the five of us, at the connections that bind us together.

Malachi's expression softens as he looks at me. "Whatever we choose, Sage. That's the gift we've given ourselves—choice. True choice, not coercion disguised as destiny."

"I know what I choose," Asher says, unexpectedly serious. "I choose all of you. Not because of prophecy or magical necessity, but because the past weeks have been the most alive I've felt in centuries."

"I concur," Elias says formally, though his eyes are warm. "Our arrangement may be unorthodox, but it offers unique advantages, both personally and magically."

Gideon simply nods, but through our connection, I feel his certainty, his commitment.

"And you?" I ask Malachi, the one whose opinion has always mattered most, whose approval I've sought from the beginning.

He studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes intense. "For four hundred years, I lived for vengeance, for the past. Now, for the first time, I find myself looking forward." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "I choose the future. I choose this. I choose you."

The simple honesty of his declaration brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them away, smiling through the emotion that threatens to overwhelm me.

"Then it's settled," I say, voice stronger than I expected. "We build something new. Together."

Asher flops back dramatically, throwing an arm across his forehead. "Wonderful. Now can we please go back to the fun part? All this serious talk is ruining my afterglow."

Elias throws a pillow at him, which Asher dodges with practiced ease.

"Some things never change," Gideon observes dryly.

"And thank goodness for that," I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in my whole life.

The (almost) End.

Psst. I know this was supposed to be the end but I couldn’t help myself. I wrote an extra NSFW scene (Sage x Malachi).

Click here to read it

Or scan the QR code

And then turn the page for their epilogue!

Epilogue

SAGE

It has been six weeks since the fall of the Council, six weeks of rebuilding and rediscovering a world where magic flows in its natural patterns again. The estate feels different now—lighter somehow, as if centuries of dark purpose have finally lifted from its walls.

I sit in Malachi's extensive library, surrounded by ancient texts we've recovered from hidden Council vaults. Many are fragmentary at best, deliberate gaps where the Council tried to erase witch history. But piece by piece, we are reconstructing the truth.

My fingers trace the delicate binding of Morgana's journal, the leather worn smooth from my constant handling. The knowledge within guided us through the final confrontation, but I sense there is more—sections where the text seems to swim before my eyes, as if waiting for something to unlock their true meaning.

The door opens, and Malachi appears in the entryway, his tall frame filling the space with commanding presence. Even after these weeks together, my heart still quickens at the sight of him.

"Sage," he says, his voice low and measured as always. "There are visitors. For you."

I raise an eyebrow, setting the journal aside. "For me? Who would be looking for me here?"

A shadow of something—concern, perhaps, or curiosity—passes across his face. "Two women. They say they have something important to discuss with you. Something about... others like you."

That gets my attention. I rise from my chair, instinctively checking the bonds at my wrists—gold, crimson, silver, and obsidian, connecting me to my four warlocks. "Did they give their names?"

"Selene and Isadora," he answers, watching my reaction carefully.

The name Isadora tugs at my memory, a fragment from the texts I've been studying. "Isadora... I've seen that name in the old records. From the Council of Mothers."

Malachi nods. "I've had them wait in the main hall. Gideon is with them."

Of course he is. Gideon wouldn't allow strangers near any of us without observation, especially not after everything that's happened.

"I'll meet them," I decide, gathering Morgana's journal. Something tells me I might need it. "But I want you with me."

"I had no intention of leaving your side," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in that rare almost-smile that still makes my stomach flutter.

We walk together through the winding corridors of the estate, Malachi matching his pace to mine. Through our bond, I feel his alertness, his readiness to protect if necessary. Always the guardian, even in times of peace.

As we enter the main hall, I see them immediately. Two women stand near the grand fireplace, talking quietly with Gideon, whose posture remains vigilant despite his seemingly casual stance. Elias sits in a nearby armchair, clearly observing the visitors with scholarly interest, while Asher lounges against a pillar, feigning indifference though his eyes miss nothing.

The taller woman turns as we enter, her gaze finding mine instantly. Something passes between us—a recognition that goes beyond the physical. She stands tall and commanding, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders.

The other woman is slightly older, with an air of quiet strength and wisdom about her. Silver strands weave through her dark hair, and she carries herself with the dignity of someone who has seen much and survived more.

"Sage Holloway," the taller woman says, not a question but a statement of certainty.

"Yes," I answer, stepping forward. "I'm told you're looking for me."

"I am Selene," she says. "And this is Isadora. We've come a long way to find you."

Power gathers at my fingertips instinctively—a habit I've developed during our weeks of preparation for the Council's attack. Through my bonds, I feel my warlocks' protective instincts flaring, ready to defend if necessary.

"Why?" I ask simply.

"Because of what you did," Isadora says, her voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "The magical disturbance six weeks ago—it changed everything, sent ripples through the magical world that we couldn't ignore."

"We've been tracking the source ever since," Selene adds. "And it led us here. To you."

I study them more carefully now, sensing something familiar in their energy signatures. Not identical to mine, but harmonious—like different notes in the same chord.

"You're witches," I say with sudden certainty.

Selene nods. "Yes. Like you."

Her gaze drops to my wrists, where the bindings from my warlocks form intricate, interwoven patterns. "You've bound with multiple warlocks," she states.

"Four," I confirm, feeling no need to hide this fact. The Council that would have hunted me for such bonds is no more.

Selene extends her arm, pushing back her sleeve to reveal markings similar to mine—different symbols, different energies, but unmistakably the same type of binding.

"Four," she says. "Adrian, Damien, Ronan, and Lucien."

Isadora steps forward as well, revealing her own marks. "Three for me. Rowan, Emrys, and Caelan."

My mind races, connecting pieces of information I've gathered from Morgana's journal. "That shouldn't be possible," I say, though the evidence stands before me. "The texts all say one witch, one warlock. That's what we thought made me... unique."

"Not unique," Isadora says gently. "Rare, yes. But not alone."

Malachi moves closer to me, his presence reassuring through our bond. "How many others?" he asks, always focused on the strategic implications.

"One more that we know of," Selene answers. "A young woman named Sable. She's still learning to control her abilities, but she's powerful—perhaps the most naturally gifted of us all."

"Four witches who can bind with multiple warlocks," Elias says, rising from his chair to join our conversation. "Fascinating. And statistically improbable to the point of impossibility—unless there's a connecting factor."

"There is," I say, looking down at the journal in my hands. "I think... I think I may have found something in here that could explain it."

I move to the large table in the center of the hall, placing Morgana's journal carefully on its polished surface. The others gather around as I open it to the pages that have been troubling me for weeks.

"The Seven Mothers each had their own element, their own domain of power," I explain. "Stone, Fire, Wind, Sea, Blood, Shadow, and Time. I know I'm connected to Stone—the journal revealed that much during the binding ritual. But some sections remain unreadable to me, as if... as if they're waiting for specific eyes."

Selene and Isadora exchange meaningful glances.

"May I?" Selene asks, her hand hovering above the journal.

I nod, stepping back to allow her access.

She leans over the book, her finger tracing the lines of text. As she does, the words begin to shimmer, rearranging themselves before our eyes.

"What's happening?" Asher asks, moving closer with uncharacteristic caution.

"The book is responding to her," Elias observes, scholarly fascination overriding his wariness. "Just as it did with Sage."

Selene gasps softly. "Fire," she whispers. "I am fire."

The text glows briefly with orange-red light, confirming her words. When the light fades, new text remains—passages that had been invisible before.

Isadora steps forward next, her hands hovering above the pages. The same transformation occurs, words shifting and rearranging beneath her touch.

"Wind," she says, her voice filled with wonder. "I am the descendant of the Mother of Wind."

The pages flutter as if caught in a gentle breeze, and more text reveals itself.

I look down at the journal, understanding now why certain sections have remained opaque to me despite my best efforts. "And what about Sable?" I ask.

"We don't know yet," Isadora admits. "We haven't shown her the journal. We came here first, hoping to find answers before bringing her fully into this."

"Three elements," Malachi says thoughtfully. "Stone, Fire, and Wind. If Sable represents a fourth..."

"Then there could be three more witches," I finish, the pieces falling into place. "Seven elements, seven witches."

"The Seven reborn," Isadora says softly. "When the Council hunted the original Mothers, they cast one final spell—hiding their power in bloodlines that would someday reawaken."

"And that time is now," Selene adds. "Beginning with you, Sage. What you did, challenging the Council, restoring balance to magic—it was the first step. But there's more to be done."

"Which is why we're here," Isadora continues. "We're establishing an academy, a safe place where witches can learn to control their powers, where they can be protected while they discover their true potential."

"An academy?" The librarian in me can't help but be intrigued. "For witches?"

"And their bound warlocks," Selene clarifies. "We're creating a new system, one based on cooperation rather than domination. The natural order as it was meant to be."

I glance at my warlocks, feeling their varied reactions through our bonds—Malachi's strategic assessment, Elias's academic interest, Asher's excitement at anything new, Gideon's careful consideration.

"We'd like you to join us," Isadora says. "Help us find the others. Help us teach what you've learned."

I feel a smile spread across my face, the first real sense of purpose I've had since our confrontation with the Council. The battle has been won, but the work of rebuilding, of truly restoring what was lost—that is just beginning.

"A library of lost knowledge," I say, already imagining the possibilities. "Texts recovered, histories restored, the true origins of magic documented..."

Asher laughs. "Of course that's what excites you most about a magical academy."

I shoot him a look, but can't help smiling. "Knowledge is power, especially knowledge that's been deliberately suppressed."

"She's right," Elias says, stepping forward to examine the journal more closely. "What the Council feared most wasn't just witch power, but witch knowledge—the understanding of how magic was meant to work."

Malachi has been quiet, contemplating. Now he fixes his dark gaze on Selene and Isadora. "Where is this academy to be established?"

"In conjunction with the Thorne Academy," Selene answers.

"Bold choice," Malachi states.

I look up at him. "You know of it."

He nods. "The Thorne's are an ancient bloodline and have long maintained dominion over the education of warlocks. I would have expected some resistance to altering the academy in any way."

Selene smiles. "Adrian is one of my warlocks." She says it with a fondness.

I feel Malachi's decision form before he speaks it. "We will accompany you," he says, not bothering to consult the others—though I can feel their agreement through our bonds. "Sage will need protection, even with the Council neutralized."

"Always so commanding," I murmur, but there is no real irritation in it. After everything we've been through, I understand the instinct to protect what is precious. And somehow, against all odds, I have become precious to these four very different, very powerful warlocks.

"And when all seven are united?" Elias asks.

Selene and Isadora exchange glances. "We don't know exactly," Selene admits. "But the fragments we've pieced together suggest that when all seven descendants of the Mothers are united, with their bound warlocks, the full restoration of witch magic will be possible."

I look down at Morgana's journal, then back up at the women who have already changed everything I thought I knew about myself. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as you're ready," Isadora says. "There's much to do, and time may not be on our side. The magical world is in flux—what we've begun here is only the beginning."

I close Morgana's journal carefully, feeling the weight of history, of destiny, of choice. Six weeks ago, I was a quiet librarian, hiding in books and shadows. Now I stand at the center of a magical revolution, bound to four powerful warlocks, part of an ancient prophecy only beginning to unfold.

"Then let's not waste any more time," I say, embracing the path before us. "We have witches to find, history to restore, and a better world to build."

As if in response, the marks on my wrists glow briefly—gold, crimson, silver, and obsidian—my warlocks' power united with mine, ready for whatever comes next.

Three elements found, four more to seek. The Seven will be whole again.

And this time, no one will be able to break us apart.

The End.

You want more warlocks, don’t you?

Well, guess what? So do I! Which is why I’m continuing this series! Keep reading for a special sneak peek at

Book 5: The Blood Moon Oracle

THE BLOOD MOON ORACLE

Chapter One

Seraphina Morgan

Chapter One

Seraphina Morgan

The smell of fish tacos and sunscreen hangs in the air as I balance four plates along my arms. La Jolla Cove Grill is packed today, tourists and locals alike seeking refuge from the afternoon heat. I weave between tables with practiced ease, dodging children and beach bags scattered across the floor.

"Order up for table seven, Sera!" Marco calls from the kitchen window.

"On it," I call back, dropping off the last plate at table twelve—a family of five with three sunburned children who've already managed to spill two sodas.

Marco's the only cook who doesn't treat the wait staff like glorified food transporters. Most of the kitchen crew barely make eye contact, but Marco saves his rare smiles for me. Probably because I'm the only one who brings him coffee exactly how he likes it—black as night with two raw sugar cubes on the side.

I grab the new order and make my way to table seven.

"Let me guess," I say to the couple as I set down their plates. "First time in La Jolla?"

The woman looks up, surprised. "How did you know?"

I tap my temple with my free hand. "The map sticking out of your bag, the fresh Cove Grill hats you just bought, and the fact that you ordered our tourist special that no local would touch."

They laugh, relaxing into their chairs.

"Psychic waitress strikes again," says Leila, appearing beside me to refill their water glasses. She winks at me, her mass of curls bouncing as she moves.

As I turn to head back to the kitchen, she nudges me. "Speaking of which, that lady who got a reading from you last week is at the bar. She's been asking for you."

I glance over at the woman perched on a barstool, clutching a fruity cocktail and scanning the restaurant. When she spots me, her face lights up.

"Later," I tell Leila, already moving away. The last thing I need is my boss catching me talking about palm readings during the lunch rush.

"Sera!" Leila calls after me. "Table fourteen needs menus!"

I grab menus and head to fourteen, a two-top by the window with a perfect view of the cove. The tourists seated there are already snapping photos of the sea lions lounging on the rocks below.

This is my life: darting between tables, memorizing orders, and performing the delicate dance of customer service for eight hours a day. Smiling when I want to scream. Making small talk when I'd rather be silent. All for tips that barely cover my rent in this overpriced coastal town.

But it pays the bills—most of them, anyway. The rest I cover with my side hustle, reading tarot and palms for curious tourists and desperate locals.

The lunch rush finally slows around two, and I take my break, stepping out the back door to breathe in the salt air. The woman from the bar follows me out.

"Seraphina," she says, clutching her purse with white knuckles. "I had to come see you."

I recognize her now—Angela something. Mid-forties, divorce pending, came in for a reading last week at my apartment.

"Hey there." I lean against the wall, already calculating how much of my break this will consume. "Everything okay?"

"You told me my husband was hiding money." Her voice trembles. "You said to check a safe deposit box at Pacific Coast Bank. That I should bring my divorce lawyer."

I vaguely remember saying something like that. I'd seen darkness around money in her cards, sensed deception when I held her palm.

"We found it yesterday," she continues. "Three hundred thousand dollars and ownership documents for a condo in Phoenix. His lawyer nearly had a heart attack." She reaches for my hands. "How did you know? It wasn't just vague advice—you named the exact bank."

A chill runs down my spine despite the warm day. This keeps happening. For years, my readings were just educated guesses, cold reading techniques I'd picked up from books and YouTube. Vague enough to fit whatever situation my clients projected onto them.

But lately, they've been specific. Accurate. Undeniable.

Last month, I told a college kid to check her car's brake lines before driving home for spring break. She found them cut. The month before, I warned a businessman against boarding a specific flight. The plane had to make an emergency landing when an engine failed.

"Just intuition," I tell Angela, pulling my hands away. "I'm glad it helped."

"It was more than intuition." She searches my face. "Do you realize how specific your prediction was? You're the real deal, Seraphina."

The real deal. The words make my stomach twist. What if I am? What does that even mean?

"I need to get back to work," I say, reaching for the door.

She grabs my arm. "I told my sister about you. She's going through something—she needs your help. Here's her number." She presses a business card into my palm.

I pocket it with a nod, knowing I'll call later. Not for the money, but because the urge to help is becoming as undeniable as the accuracy of my predictions.

Back inside, Leila corners me by the drink station.

"Another satisfied customer?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "You know, you could charge way more than fifty bucks a reading."

"I'm not in it for the money."

"Then you're the only person in La Jolla who isn't." She fills a glass with ice. "By the way, Marco saved you a plate of his special ceviche. It's in the back fridge."

Marco's ceviche is legendary—he only makes it when the fishermen bring in the perfect catch, and he definitely doesn't serve it to just anyone.

"Tell him thanks," I say, already moving toward my next table.

"Oh, and Sera?" Leila calls after me. "Your section's full again. Table twenty-two just sat down."

I glance over at twenty-two, a small table tucked in the corner with a partial ocean view. And I freeze.

The man sitting there doesn't belong in our casual beachside restaurant. His charcoal suit looks custom-made, expensive in a way that doesn't announce itself but is unmistakable. Dark hair cut precisely, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He's reading the menu with such focused attention you'd think it contained state secrets.

But it's not his appearance that stops me cold. It's the feeling—like walking into an air-conditioned room after being in the sun too long. A sudden, inexplicable shift in atmosphere.

"Hellloooo? Earth to Sera?" Leila waves her hand in front of my face. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." I snap back to attention. "Just tired."

"Well, wake up. That guy looks like he tips well."

I smooth down my apron and approach table twenty-two. Each step feels heavier than the last, like walking underwater.

"Welcome to La Jolla Cove Grill," I say, the rehearsed greeting automatic. "Can I start you with something to drink?"

He looks up, and the full force of his attention hits me like a physical blow. His eyes are the exact color of the ocean during a storm—deep gray-blue with flecks of something darker. They're beautiful, yes, but it's the intensity behind them that makes me take an instinctive step back.

He studies me for a long moment, long enough that it should be uncomfortable. Strangely, it's not. It feels... familiar.

"Seraphina," he says. Not a question.

My name in his mouth sounds different. Older somehow. More significant.

"How do you know my name?" My voice comes out steady despite the sudden racing of my heart.

He gestures to my name tag, lips curving into the barest suggestion of a smile. "It's right there."

Heat rushes to my face. Of course. My name tag. What was I thinking?

"Everyone calls me Sera," I say, trying to recover.

"I'm not everyone." He closes the menu and sets it down with deliberate precision. "And I'm not here for the food."

The restaurant fades around us—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of conversations, all receding like a tide pulling away from shore.

"What are you here for, then?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes never leave mine as he says, "I'll have you, Seraphina."

The menu slides from my suddenly numb fingers and hits the floor with a soft thud.

Chapter Two

Sera

Chapter Two

I blink, trying to process what he just said.

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out higher than normal.

The stranger leans back in his chair, perfectly at ease while I'm standing here like an idiot, menu still on the floor between us. Something about him feels magnetic—like gravity has shifted slightly in his direction.

"I'm not here to eat," he clarifies, though his tone suggests I should have understood the first time. "I'm here for you."

I glance around, wondering if anyone else can feel how weird this is. But the restaurant continues its normal chaos—Leila arguing with the bartender, tourists snapping photos of their overpriced seafood.

"And you are?" I ask, finally bending to retrieve the fallen menu.

"Someone with an opportunity." He slides long fingers into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. Heavy black paper, sealed with what looks like actual wax. The kind of thing you'd see in a period drama, not a beach restaurant in Southern California.

I don't take it. "I don't even know your name."

His mouth curves into something not quite a smile. "Names have power, Seraphina. You, of all people, should know that."

There it is again—the way he says my full name, like he's savoring each syllable.

"Well, I need something to call you." I cross my arms, menu clutched to my chest like a shield.

"You can call me whatever you'd like." He sets the envelope on the table, pushing it toward me with one finger. "But first, I'd like you to consider our invitation."

"Invitation to what?" My curiosity betrays me.

"The Silver Tide Retreat. One month, all expenses paid, at our exclusive coastal property north of Big Sur." His voice drops lower. "We're seeking someone with your particular... talents."

"My talents," I repeat flatly. "You mean waiting tables?"

This time, his smile is real—a flash of perfect teeth that transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating. "Your other talents. The ones you practice in your apartment on Willow Street. The ones that are becoming increasingly difficult to explain away."

My blood runs cold. How does he know where I live? How does he know about my readings?

"I'm not interested," I say automatically.

"You haven't even opened it." He nods at the envelope. "We're prepared to compensate you quite generously. Ten thousand dollars for the month, plus accommodations in your own private cottage."

Ten thousand dollars. That's more than three months' rent. Enough to fix my car, pay off my credit card, maybe even start saving for something better than my shoebox apartment.

"Why me?"

"Because you're authentic." His eyes lock onto mine. "In a world of charlatans and pretenders, you actually see."

I should be flattered, but something in his tone makes my skin prickle with warning. Like I'm being sized up, assessed.

"What exactly would I be doing at this retreat?"

"Readings. Guidance. Helping our guests connect with their intuition." He shrugs one perfect shoulder. "The details are all in the invitation."

Before I can respond, he stands in one fluid motion. He's taller than I realized, towering over me.

"Think about it, Seraphina." He gestures to the envelope. "This is just the beginning."

Without ordering anything, without even saying goodbye, he walks past me and through the restaurant. Everyone turns to watch him go—his presence demanding attention without trying.

The moment the door closes behind him, Leila materializes at my side.

"What. Was. That." She grabs my arm. "Who is he? What did he want? Why am I suddenly questioning my five-year relationship?"

I look down at the black envelope on the table. "I honestly have no idea."

"Well?" She nudges me. "Are you going to open it?"

I slip the envelope into my apron pocket. "Later. Table nine needs their check."

"Sera!" Leila stares at me in disbelief. "A god in human form just handed you what looks like an invitation to the Met Gala, and you're worried about table nine?"

"I'd be more worried about Rob," I nod toward our manager, who's glaring in our direction. "He's about to have an aneurysm if we don't get back to work."

Leila sighs dramatically but moves away. I spend the rest of my shift in a daze, the envelope burning a hole in my pocket. Every time I reach for it, someone needs something—a refill, a dessert menu, change for a fifty.

By the time I clock out, the sun is setting over the ocean, painting the water in shades of gold and crimson. I walk to my apartment, just six blocks from the restaurant, my shadow stretching long behind me on the sidewalk.

My routine is automatic: keys in the dish by the door, shoes off, workout clothes on. I roll out my yoga mat in the small space between my bed and the kitchenette, trying to focus on my breath rather than the stranger's piercing eyes.

Down dog. Warrior one. Warrior two. My body moves through the poses while my mind replays the encounter on an endless loop. Who was he? What did he really want? Ten thousand dollars seems excessive for a month of tarot readings.

I give up after twenty minutes, my concentration shattered. Even my meditation session is useless—five minutes in and I'm fidgeting like a child.

Finally, I retrieve the envelope from my work bag. It's heavier than it looks, the paper thick and textured. The seal is deep gold, embossed with what appears to be a wave pattern. It breaks with a satisfying crack when I run my thumb along it.

Inside is a single card, the same black paper with gold lettering that seems to shimmer under my apartment lights:

THE SURFCASTERS

CORDIALLY INVITE

SERAPHINA ELISE MORGAN

TO PARTICIPATE IN THE ANNUAL SILVER TIDE RETREAT

As our honored Oracle-in-Residence

May 1 - May 31

Moonstone Bay Estate

Big Sur, California

Where the hunters become the guided And the seekers become the found

Under the buck moon's revealing tide

New bonds are forged and ancient powers renewed

Full compensation details enclosed

RSVP REQUIRED by June 20

Transportation will be arranged

A smaller card falls out—a business card with just a phone number printed in the same gold lettering. No name. The back of the invitation includes details about the ten thousand dollar payment, half to be provided upon arrival, half upon completion.

I turn the invitation over in my hands, reading it again. The Surfcasters. The name feels significant somehow, though I can't place why. And "Oracle-in-Residence" sounds a lot more prestigious than "tarot card reader who works out of her apartment."

Where the hunters become the guided...

Something about that line makes me uneasy, though I can't put my finger on why. It's probably just poetic nonsense, the kind of vague spiritual language these wellness retreats always use.

I grab my phone and search "The Surfcasters retreat Big Sur." Surprisingly little comes up—just a sleek website with minimal information. Exclusive wellness experiences. Transformational journeys. By invitation only. The photos show a stunning coastal property with modern glass buildings perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific.

Ten thousand dollars. A month away from double shifts and tourist demands. A private cottage in Big Sur.

It sounds too good to be true, which usually means it is.

But as I set the invitation on my nightstand and crawl into bed, I can't help but wonder. What if this is the opportunity I've been waiting for? What if these people can help me understand what's happening with my abilities?

What if I'm meant to go?

The stranger's eyes flash in my memory—that stormy blue-gray, looking at me like he already knew my answer.

I roll over, pulling the blanket tight around me. The invitation catches the moonlight streaming through my window, the gold lettering gleaming in the darkness.

Where the hunters become the guided...

Sleep eludes me for a long time.

Chapter Three

Ryder Calloway

Chapter Three

Ryder

The camera clicks again. Then again. And again. A slow, deliberate rhythm like Dante's drawing pleasure from every frame.

He's in the zone now. Shirtless, barefoot, his hands guiding the lens like it's an extension of his body. The model's nude, sprawled across a velvet chaise in a posture that screams submission. Her lips are parted, eyes glazed over, skin slick with the light sweat of anticipation.

"Raise your hips," Dante murmurs, voice low and dark. "Good. Now touch your breast—no, slower. Like it's for you."

She moans. Actually moans.

I stand near the open glass wall of his studio, the ocean air sliding in around us, thick with salt and incense. Sandalwood—Dante's signature. Mixed with heat, flesh, the soft hum of seduction. It smells like distraction.

Kai lounges behind me on a leather settee, tapping at his phone like this is just another Tuesday. "Bitcoin's up," he mutters absently. "Also, we just got three new RSVPs. All verified blue checkmarks. Very grateful. Very desperate."

"Perfect," I say, but my eyes stay locked on the model. I'm not impressed.

Dante circles her now, crouching down to adjust her wrist. His voice is practically a growl. "Look at me like you want me. There it is. That's it."

"Dante," I snap.

He doesn't stop.

"Dante."

Finally, he glances at me over his shoulder. "What?"

"Enough."

He smirks. "Getting shy all of a sudden?"

"I'm getting bored."

The model pouts, clearly enjoying the attention. Her body is trembling under the weight of it, under the heat of his gaze.

I step forward, boots echoing on the polished concrete.

"What did you come here for?" I ask the girl.

She blinks at me, breathless. "What?"

"You heard me." I fold my arms. "Why are you here? For the photos? For the attention?" I lean in, stare right into her eyes. "Or did you come here because you wanted to be fucked?"

Her cheeks flush a deeper red. She nods.

"Yes," she whispers.

I step back, shake my head once. "Dante. Will you do the honors for this eager little thing so we can focus on something that matters?"

Dante doesn't even pause. "Gladly."

He sets the camera down, eyes already darkening.

"I'll join," Kai says lazily, slipping his phone into his pocket. He's already unbuttoning his shirt, fingers moving with practiced ease.

The model spreads her legs like she's being gifted the fucking sun.

I turn my back to the scene, walking slowly toward the open glass wall, but I don't leave just yet. I need to get through this conversation while their minds are still lucid.

"She got the invitation," I say flatly.

Kai groans—pleasure-laced and distracted—but manages, "Seraphina?"

"Yes."

"About time," Dante mutters, voice thick and low as I hear fabric rustle behind me.

"She's been searching for us already," I continue. "The digital trail's faint but there. And something's waking up in her."

Kai lets out a low breath—probably not from the topic. "What kind of wake-up are we talking about?"

"Witch blood," I say. "Untrained. Unaware. But it's there. Her predictions? Too consistent. Too clean."

A moan cuts through the air. Wet, needy. I keep talking.

"She's not like the others we've drained. This one's got teeth under the silk."

"I'll give her something to bite down on," Dante grunts, and the sound of skin meeting skin echoes like punctuation.

I ignore him.

"The retreat gives us the window," I say. "We'll have her for a month. Close contact. Proximity to power. And if we play it right…"

"We bind her," Kai finishes, his voice low and sharp behind me.

"That's the plan," I say. "But it has to be willing. Force corrupts the link. We need her to come to us."

There's a sudden sharp gasp from the model—high-pitched, drowning in pleasure. The slap of flesh gets faster.

"And if she doesn't?" Dante pants.

"Then we take what we need the old way," I answer coldly.

A choked cry behind me. Climax. One of them. Maybe both.

"Fuck," Kai exhales, sounding wrecked. "You always know how to pick them, Ryder."

I say nothing.

The woman I care about isn't here. Not yet.

But she will be soon.

Seraphina.

She's not going to spread for the camera.

She's going to burn us all down if we're not careful.

And I intend to be very, very careful.

While the others chase tail, I'm chasing the future.

I step out onto the balcony, leaving them to their distractions. The ocean stretches before me—dark, endless, powerful. Like the magic we seek to control. The air tastes of salt and possibility. A storm is coming. I can feel it in my bones, in the old blood that runs through my veins.

The Surfcasters have been hunting for centuries, taking what we need to maintain our power. One soul per year, carefully chosen, meticulously drained. Enough to sustain, but never enough to transcend. The elders are content with this arrangement—stability over ambition. Safety over true power.

I am not the elders.

Behind me, the sounds from the studio have quieted. I hear footsteps, then Kai joins me at the railing, buttoning his shirt with one hand, phone in the other.

"You really think she's the one?" he asks.

I don't look at him. "I know she is."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I've been tracking her for months. Every prediction, every reading. At first, it was just intuition—basic cold reading techniques. But lately..." I turn to face him. "She told a client about a hidden bank account. The exact bank, the exact amount. She warned another about a mechanical failure that would have killed them. She's not guessing anymore, Kai. She's seeing."

Kai whistles low. "She doesn't know what she is, does she?"

"No. And that's our advantage."

Dante appears behind us, still shirtless, hair mussed. The model is nowhere to be seen. "We talking about the witch?"

"Potential witch," Kai corrects. "We still need to confirm."

I shake my head. "Trust me. She's awakening. And if we can bind her during the blood moon..."

"We won't need to hunt anymore," Dante finishes, eyes gleaming with understanding. "A constant source."

"More than that," I say. "A willing source strengthens the bond. Multiplies the power. We wouldn't just maintain—we'd grow. Evolve."

"The elders will never approve," Kai says, always the pragmatist.

"The elders don't need to know until it's done."

Dante laughs, deep and dark. "Breaking all the rules, Ryder? Not like you."

I turn back to the ocean. "Some rules are meant to be broken."

"And if she resists?" Dante asks. "If your seduction fails?"

"Then we resort to tradition," I say simply. "Either way, she feeds us. I'd just prefer the binding."

"We all would," Kai nods. "Binding would be... unprecedented in our lifetime."

"That's why we need to be careful," I warn. "No distractions. No impulsivity." I give Dante a pointed look.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'll be on my best behavior."

"Your best behavior still gets you arrested in most states," Kai mutters.

Dante just grins.

I push away from the railing. "I need you both focused. The retreat starts in two weeks. Kai, I want everything on her—work schedule, apartment layout, digital footprint, the works."

Kai nods, already tapping at his phone. "On it."

"Dante, you're on retreat preparations. Make sure the ritual chamber is ready. We'll need specific elements for a binding—not just a draining."

"I know what to do," Dante says, suddenly serious. Despite his impulses, he's meticulous when it comes to ritual magic. "I'll review the old texts."

"Good." I check my watch. "The others will be arriving soon. Last year's donors are always eager to return."

Kai smirks. "They never remember being drained. Just the euphoria before it."

"Keep it that way," I say sharply. "We can't afford exposure, especially with what we're planning."

"Relax, Ryder," Dante claps me on the shoulder. "We've been doing this for decades."

"And we'll be doing it for centuries more if we succeed with the witch."

The sun is setting now, painting the horizon in deep crimson. Blood moon colors. An omen, perhaps. Or just wishful thinking.

I pull out my phone, opening the private surveillance feed I'd set up weeks ago. Seraphina's apartment comes into view—small, cluttered with books and crystals. She sits cross-legged on a yoga mat, eyes closed in meditation. The black envelope of our invitation rests on the table beside her, unopened.

"Will she come?" Dante asks, peering over my shoulder.

"She'll come," I say with certainty. "Curiosity is written into her DNA. And money—ten thousand will be hard to resist for a waitress."

"Ten thousand?" Kai raises his eyebrows. "Generous."

"An investment," I correct him.

On the screen, Seraphina opens her eyes, reaching for the invitation. Her fingers trace the golden seal before breaking it.

"There," I whisper. "She's reading it now."

We watch in silence as her expression shifts—confusion, intrigue, temptation. She reads it twice, then sets it down, biting her lip.

"She's considering it," Dante says.

"She'll do more than consider," I reply. "She'll accept."

"You seem very confident," Kai observes.

I close the app, pocketing my phone. "I am."

Because I've seen it—the hunger in her eyes when I sat in her section at that beachside restaurant. Not lust, like the model's. Something deeper. A yearning for understanding, for answers about what's happening to her. We can provide those answers, shaped to serve our purpose.

"Gentlemen," I say, straightening my jacket. "Let's prepare for our guests. The journey begins now."

As I walk back into the studio, I feel it—the pull of ancient magic, the promise of transformation. The hunt is changing this year.

And Seraphina Elise Morgan has no idea she's already being pursued.

Keep reading

The Blood Moon Oracle

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About the Author

Morgan Mercy is a lover of all things dark, mysterious, and forbidden. With a penchant for weaving intense, emotional narratives, Morgan transports readers into worlds filled with dangerous desires and unforgettable characters.

When she’s not writing, Morgan is dreaming up new stories of forbidden romance and dark fantasy, with many more to come. Prepare for masked men, shadowy realms, and heroines who discover their true strength. If you’re drawn to the thrill of dark, forbidden love stories, Morgan’s books are exactly where you want to be.

Follow her for updates on her upcoming novels and dive into a world where love and danger go hand in hand.