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"Then we do this together," I say, my hand moving from her thigh to cup her face, forcing her to hold my gaze. "You'll be in the alcove, yes. You'll lure him in. But I'll be close. Watching. Ready to intervene if anything goes wrong."

"Alexander—"

"This isn't negotiable." My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, feeling the sharp line of bone beneath soft skin. "You want to kill James? Fine. I'll help you. I'll make sure you have everything you need. But I won't let you do it alone. I won't risk losing you just because you're too stubborn to accept backup."

For a moment, I think she'll argue. Her jaw sets in that particular way that usually precedes a fight, her eyes flashing with the same defiance that first caught my attention in that ballroom three months ago.

Then her expression softens. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Together."

"Together," I confirm.

The word hangs between us, weighted with everything it means—partnership, complicity, shared guilt and shared purpose. We're crossing a line tomorrow that we can never uncross, binding ourselves together through blood and violence in a way that makes our legal marriage look quaint by comparison.

And staring at her now, at this fierce, ruthless woman who's planning a man's death with the same focus she'd bring to a dance routine or a research paper, I've never wanted her more.

My hand slides from her face to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the shorter strands of her hair. "You're beautiful like this."

"Like what?" Her voice has gone slightly breathless, her pulse jumping beneath my palm.

"Dangerous." I lean in, my mouth hovering just above hers. "Calculating. Ready to destroy someone who hurt you. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"That's deeply fucked up," she murmurs, but her lips curve into a small smile.

"We're deeply fucked up." I close the distance, kissing her hard enough to bruise, pouring fourteen years of captivity and three months of obsession and tomorrow's violence into the contact. "We're planning a murder, Pet. Normal went out the window a long time ago."

She kisses me back with equal intensity, her hands fisting in my shirt, papers crinkling beneath us as she shifts closer. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, the air between us charged with something dark and electric.

"I need you to understand something," I say, my hand tightening in her hair just enough to make her gasp. "After tomorrow, after you do this—you're mine in a way that goes beyond vows or paperwork or Veritas bonds. You'll be mine because we'll share this secret. This sin. This violence. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The word comes out as barely more than a whisper, her eyes dark with desire and understanding in equal measure.

"Say it." I pull her hair harder, tilting her head back to expose the column of her throat. "Say you understand what tomorrow means."

"I understand." Her voice is stronger now, steadier. "Tomorrow I become a killer. And you become complicit. And we'll be bound by blood instead of just ceremony."

"Good girl." I release her hair and stand, moving to the nightstand where I keep certain items tucked in the bottom drawer. Items I haven't used since before Elara, when this bedroom was just a space I slept in rather than a home. "Take off the robe."

I hear the rustle of silk behind me as I pull out the rope—black, soft enough not to damage skin but strong enough to hold. When I turn back, Elara is naked on the bed, the papers pushed aside, her body displayed like an offering.

"You've been so focused on planning," I say, letting the rope slide through my fingers as I approach. "So careful. So controlled. You need to let go for a little while, Pet. Need to stop thinking and just feel."

"And you're going to make me?" There's challenge in her voice, that bratty edge I love, even as her breathing picks up speed.

"I'm going to help you." I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not touching yet. "But first, you need to tell me your colors."

"Red to stop. Yellow to slow down. Green to continue." She recites them perfectly, the protocol we established weeks ago but haven't had reason to use since the night in the club.

"Good." I run the rope across her collarbone, watching her shiver at the contact. "And right now? What's your color?"

"Green."

“Good girl.”

I don’t waste time. My hands, usually so measured, are quick and sure as I loop the rope around her wrists, binding them together with a series of intricate knots. The black silk is cool against my fingers, a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. She watches me, her pupils blown wide, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s already starting to lose its careful control.

“Stand up.”