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The memory of calloused hands and another mouth against mine—one that was desperate and urgent—forces its way into my mind. Arlo’s hands. Arlo’s warmth. Arlo’s quiet, patient, devastating devotion that never demanded anything yet asked for everything at the same time.

The guilt doesn’t arrive gently. It crashes through the warmth of the bond and settles in my stomach alongside the pleasure—heavy, cold, and immovable. I hate it because I didn’t ask to be bound to a king who consumes me. I didn’t ask for Arlo to love me, patiently waiting years, looking for the right time to tell me, to claim me. I didn’t choose either of them, yet both of them chose me, and the weight of that double claim threatens to tear me apart.

Kylian’s mouth moves lower, his lips dragging across the sensitive skin below my ear. Then his breath is against my neck, hands tightening on my hips, and his voice comes out rough against my skin.

“I want to mark you.”

My breath catches, not from pleasure this time, but from the sheer weight of what he just said. I don’t fully understand what marking means, but I know enough to understand that it is permanent. That whatever freedom I have left, whatever small piece of myself still belongs only to me, would be signed away to him.

“Slow down,” I say, and my hands find his chest and press against the warmth of him.

Every muscle in his body goes still, and he lifts his head and looks down at me. His vibrant red eyes search mine, and I can feel him reaching through the bond, trying to read what changed, trying to understand the sudden shift from willing to guarded. I close myself off as best I can because the things sitting beneath my hesitation are not things he can know.

“What’s wrong,” he asks, and the words are careful.

“Nothing is wrong.” The lie comes out smoother than it should. “I just need you to slow down.”

His jaw tightens. The muscle pulses once, twice, and his gaze moves across my face in a way that makes me feel transparent, as if everything I am trying to hide is written on my skin for the world to see. He shifts his weight to the side, one arm still braced beside my head, but the inches between our bodies feels like miles.

“Have you read the book?,” he asks. “The one I gave you that belonged to your mother? It was about bonds and what marking means.”

The question catches me off guard, and I blink at him. “No,” I admit, and the guilt that flickers across my face has nothing to do with books and everything to do with the fact that I have been pouring myself into his kingdom and his people and avoiding the one thing that connects me to him on a level I am not ready to confront. “There’s been too much happening.”

“Read it. There were many in that stack you would find helpful,” he says. He isn’t angry, but his voice has hardened with urgency, or perhaps it’s frustration at the distance I maintain, even while lying naked beneath him. “Read them so you understand what I’m asking and why.”

I nod because arguing about books feels absurd when I went to him, or maybe it’s the bond that dragged me to him. “You’re not angry?”

He sighs heavily and climbs off me. “Frustrated, not angry,” he answers, and I sit up, reaching for the blanket. He moves with impossible speed, disappearing into the bathroom and returning before I even manage to drag the drenched duvet to cover myself. He passes me a towel, and I notice he has one already around his waist. I accept it, and he looks away as I stand to wrap it around myself.

As foreign as the bond is to me, I do feel it stronger each day. I’m trying to decipher the feeling of it just as an overwhelming longing smashes against me, followed by desolation. It takes me a moment to realize it’s not the bond or my conflicted feelings. It’s his.

“What would happen to the bond if you don’t mark me?” I ask.

“Nothing. The bond won’t go away, if that’s what you’re wondering. There are ways to suppress it, but the bond is . . . permanent once it’s there. Even if you decide not to let me mark you.”

The words hit me harder than I want to admit. My hands tighten on the edge of the towel, and I have to look away to collect myself—or at least pretend I have any control over how I feel about this. I hate how much power he has in these conversations, how every new piece of information he drops just grabs my already unstable life and shakes it some more.

“So that’s it?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean. “We’re just . . . what? Stuck with each other forever? No matter what we choose?”

His eyes are weirdly sad when he finally says, “You’re not stuck with me unless you want to be. I can exist in your life and not . . . claim you. But I’ll always feel you, if you reject me. That’s just how a bond works.”

I want to scream at him for how unfair that is. I didn’t ask for this. I just wanted to keep my sister safe, maybe find a life where people didn’t hurt us. “What if I don’t want to be marked? What if I don’t want to feel this forever?”

He looks at me like I just said the most obvious thing in the world. “Then you say no.” He rakes a hand through his hair, water still dripping down his shoulders. “You always have a choice, Alessia. I may be king, but the bond won’t let me force you. It’s your choice—not that I would force you to be bound to me for eternity if that’s not what you want.”

I swallow. “And if I say no, what does that mean for you? For your curse?”

His jaw tightens again, so hard I’m worried his teeth might shatter. He doesn’t speak, just stares at the floor, his hands flexing like he needs to break something. “Then I let you go so the bond goes dormant on your side, then I figure out how to keep going as I am.”

“Would your side go dormant if I’m farther away from you?” I ask, wondering what the limitations of this bond are. Instead of answering, he moves to get dressed. “Kye?” he pauses.

“Read the books, Alessia.” The way he uses my name hurts more than if he slapped me. How odd that I could despise my own name coming from his lips. Kylian seems eager to get away from me as we both dress quietly.

As he heads for the door, my impulse overrides reason, and I ask, “Can I get something from you?” I say, and the shift in subject is abrupt enough that his eyes narrow.

“Now you want something from me?”

“It’s fine. I will ask Eagan,” I say quickly.