Chapter 17 – The Confession

The door clicked shut behind Kai.

His footsteps faded down the hallway, slow and heavy, each one a small death. I stood in the middle of my room, my hands shaking, my lips still tingling from his kiss.

Nikolai hadn't moved.

He was still standing by the door, his back against the splintered frame, his golden eyes fixed on me. The firelight caught the angles of his face—the sharp jaw, the hollow cheeks, the scar above his eyebrow.

"Kai," I said. "Is he—"

"Gone."

"You shouldn't have—"

"I know."

He pushed off from the door.

Walked toward me.

Slowly. Carefully. Like I was a wounded animal he was trying not to startle.

"Ela." His voice was low. Rough. "Look at me."

I looked up.

He was inches away. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell pine and snow and something darker underneath.

"You let him kiss you," Nikolai said.

"Nikolai—"

"You let him touch you. Hold you. Taste you." His voice cracked. "But you won't let me. Why?"

"Because I'm scared."

"Of me?"

"Of this." I gestured between us. "Of the bond. Of what happens if I give in and it turns out to be nothing but magic and blood and ancient lies."

Nikolai reached out.

Touched my face.

His fingers were cold—colder than Kai's, colder than they should have been. But they didn't tremble.

"The bond is real," he said. "But so am I. So are you. So is this."

He leaned closer.

His forehead touched mine.

"Don't be afraid of me, Ela," he whispered. "Be afraid of everything else. The Council. The Shadowborn. Lukas. But not me. Never me."

"Why?"

"Because I would die before I let anyone hurt you. Including myself."

---

I kissed him.

I don't know who moved first—him or me. Maybe both of us. Maybe neither. Maybe the bond pulled us together like magnets, like gravity, like something older than time.

His lips were cold.

But they warmed against mine.

His hands slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. Deep. Desperate. Hungry.

I moaned.

The sound seemed to break something inside him.

He pressed me backward, walking me across the room until my back hit the wall. The stone was cold against my shoulders, but his body was hot—so hot—pressed against me from chest to hip to thigh.

"Nikolai," I gasped.

"Say it again."

"Nikolai."

His mouth left mine, trailing down my jaw, my throat, the curve of my shoulder. He bit down gently on the junction where my neck met my collarbone, and I arched against him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

"You're mine," he murmured against my skin. "You've always been mine."

---

His hands found the hem of my shirt.

Pulled it over my head.

I stood before him in nothing but my bra, my arms crossed over my stomach, trying to hide the softness I'd always been ashamed of.

Nikolai pulled my arms away.

"Don't," he said.

"I'm—"

"Beautiful." His eyes swept over me—my full breasts, my rounded belly, my thick thighs. "You're beautiful, Ela. Every inch of you."

He kissed me again.

Then he lowered his mouth to my chest.

His lips traced the edge of my bra, and his fingers hooked under the fabric, pulling it down. My breasts spilled free, and he groaned—a deep, animal sound—before taking one nipple into his mouth.

I cried out.

My back arched off the wall. My fingers clenched in his hair. His tongue circled the tight peak, then his teeth grazed it, and I saw stars.

"Nikolai—"

"Shh." He switched to the other breast, sucking hard, then softer, then hard again. "I've dreamed of this. Every night since I met you."

"You have?"

"I've dreamed of the sounds you'd make. The way you'd taste. The way you'd fall apart under my hands." He looked up at me, his golden eyes blazing. "The reality is better."

---

He lifted me.

Easily. Like I weighed nothing.

My legs wrapped around his waist, and he carried me to the bed, laying me down on the furs. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows across his face as he knelt between my thighs.

"Still scared?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good." He kissed my stomach. "So am I."

His hands found the button of my jeans. Popped it open. Dragged the zipper down.

I lifted my hips, and he pulled the denim off, along with my underwear, leaving me naked beneath him.

He sat back.

Looked at me.

All of me.

"Nikolai, please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't make me beg."

He smiled—a real smile, not the cold smirk I'd seen on his face a hundred times. This smile was warm. Hungry. "I would never."

He lowered his head between my legs.

---

His mouth was hot.

So hot.

When his tongue touched me, I thought I might die. Right there. On that bed. In that room. In this impossible place that had become my whole world.

He licked me slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring something he'd been waiting for his whole life.

I moaned.

My hips bucked against his face, but he held me down, his hands pressing my thighs apart.

"Stay still," he murmured.

"I can't—"

"You can." He licked me again, this time circling the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center. "You will. For me."

I bit my lip.

Hard.

My eyes glowed gold—I could feel it, could feel the power rising inside me, winding tighter and tighter like a spring.

"Please," I gasped. "Nikolai, please—"

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He didn't.

His tongue moved faster, harder, deeper. He sucked and licked and devoured me until I was shaking, until I was crying, until I was screaming.

The orgasm crashed over me like a wave.

I came apart beneath him, my whole body convulsing, my fingers tearing at the furs, my mouth open in a silent cry.

He didn't stop.

He kept licking, kept sucking, kept pushing me until I was oversensitive, trembling, begging.

"Please," I sobbed. "I can't—I can't take any more—"

"Yes, you can." He lifted his head. His mouth was wet with me. "You can take everything I give you."

---

He stood up.

Pulled off his shirt.

His body was—God. His body was a work of art. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, muscles that moved under his skin like liquid. A trail of fine blond hair led from his navel down to the waistband of his jeans.

He unbuttoned his pants.

Pushed them down.

And I saw him.

All of him.

He was large. Thick. Hard and ready and mine.

"Still scared?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So am I."

He knelt between my thighs again. Positioned himself at my entrance. Looked into my eyes.

"Ela," he said. "If you want me to stop—"

"Don't stop."

"I won't." He pushed inside me. "Not ever."

---

The stretch was incredible.

Pain and pleasure, fire and ice, everything I'd never known I wanted. He filled me completely, and when he was buried to the hilt, he stopped.

Waited.

Let me adjust.

"Okay?" he asked.

"More than okay."

He moved.

Slowly at first. A gentle rhythm that made my toes curl and my breath catch. His forehead pressed against mine, his eyes closed, his lips parted.

"You feel—" He swallowed. "You feel like home."

I wrapped my legs around his waist.

Pulled him deeper.

He groaned—a broken, desperate sound—and his control shattered.

He thrust harder.

Faster.

Deeper.

The bed creaked beneath us. The headboard banged against the wall. I dug my nails into his back, leaving marks I knew would stay, and he growled—a real growl, animal and raw.

"Mine," he said.

"Yours."

"Say it again."

"Yours, Nikolai. I'm yours."

He came undone.

I felt him pulse inside me, felt the heat of him fill me, felt my own orgasm crash over me like a second wave. We clung to each other, shaking, gasping, alive.

When it was over, he collapsed beside me.

Pulled me against his chest.

Pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"Sen benimsin," he whispered. Turkish. You are mine.

I smiled against his skin.

"Sen de benimsin," I whispered back. You are mine too.

---

I woke to cold sheets.

The fire had died. The room was gray with early morning light. And Nikolai was gone.

I sat up, my body aching in ways I'd never felt before. The furs were tangled around my legs, and my clothes were scattered across the floor.

But something was wrong.

The pillow next to mine—

There was blood on it.

Dark. Thick. Black.

I touched it with my finger.

The blood didn't wipe away. It had soaked into the fabric, staining it like ink, like oil, like something that didn't belong in a human body.

My blood?

But I'm not bleeding—

I looked down at myself.

No cuts. No wounds. Nothing.

But the blood was there.

Black. Spreading. Growing.

And carved into the headboard, in letters that glowed faintly in the dim light, were four words:

THE BOND IS SEALED.