“Hands,” said the priest.
Layla hesitated, then lifted hers. Dominic met her halfway, his palms rough, warm. The contact was electric, a sudden rush of something that stole her balance, a warmth thattraveled up her arms and into her chest, sinking deep into her very being.
The priest began to speak in the old language, a rough mix of old Norse and Latin. Each syllable vibrated through her.
Dominic’s hand was a warm weight in hers. She thought she could feel every flutter of his pulse, every strong beat of his heart. She didn’t know if the sound she could hear was the roar of blood rushing in her ears or the howling of his wolf within him.
His hand flexed against hers, hot and strong. Unbidden, her nipples tightened, her thighs trembled. She told herself it was the cold, the fear.
But when she dared look up, dared to meet his fathomless ice-blue gaze, she knew it was something more. Something deeper.
“Repeat,” the priest murmured, and her eyes snapped back to his wizened form.
Swallowing, she scrambled for the words. Dominic’s face was carefully neutral, giving nothing away. But there…a jump in his throat. A tightness at his jaw. The hand not holding hers was gripped into a fist.
He was so strong. So overwhelming. A storm she didn’t know whether she’d be able to withstand. She’d fallen into the tempest of Dominic Volkhov once before, been churned up and spat right back out again. She’d vowed to herself never again.
And yet here she was.
She nearly choked on the words as spoke.
“I see you.”
Dominic’s reply was lower, the sound catching somewhere deep in his chest, “I see you.”
It felt like a reckoning.
The priest drew a knife from his belt. The blade caught the candlelight, sparking molten gold.
Layla’s pulse tripped. Dominic didn’t look at her; he simply offered his hand. The priest cut first, a clean, practiced motion. A thin bead of red welled in his palm. When the knife turned to her, she lifted her hand without thinking. The sting was quick and bright, and she hissed as her skin split.
Dominic’s scent spiked.
She chose not to read into it.
“Together,” the priest said.
Their palms met.
The warmth between them became heat, immediate and consuming. Her breath hitched, her body instinctively leaning toward his even as she tried to fight it. The moment their blood mingled, the mating bond awoke, alive, wild, impatient.
Her knees nearly gave out. Dominic’s grip tightened reflexively, steadying her. Their mingled blood dripped to the floor.
The priest’s voice deepened, “Under Lunarion’s gaze, you will be mated. Bound and kept. Protected and strengthened.”
The light climbed higher, coiling around their arms. It wasn’t pain that made her gasp; it was too much feeling. Every nerve hummed, every breath a tremor. Her vision was turning blurry, her heart racing in her chest. She was building towards something, something bright and unnamed.
“Do you consent?” the priest asked, his voice muted and faraway.
Layla opened her mouth, but no sound came. The pull was a living thing, drawing her toward Dominic, toward the heat and the heartbeat and the impossible safety of it. She wanted to step forward, to surrender. She wanted to run.
He looked at her then, really looked, and what she saw in his eyes was not arrogance or anger. It was restraint, iron-willed.If you don’t want this,that look saidI will stop.
The choice steadied her.
“I consent,” she whispered.
The priest spoke a prayer.
