Isadora didn't sleep.
Not because she couldn't.
Because her body refused.
It throbbed with memory—of his touch, of the power that surged between them, of the bond that refused to remain silent. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face.
And worse—she felt him.
Not metaphorically.
Magically.
Dorian Blackwood was a gravitational force, and now that they'd collided, she wasn't sure the laws of reality applied anymore.
At 3:14 a.m., her glyph pulsed again. A searing jolt under her ribs. Not pain. Not quite pleasure. Just… him.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding.
He was dreaming of her.
She knew it.
And somehow, her body reacted like it was being summoned.
No.
She threw the blankets aside and walked straight to the mirror.
"You are not his," she told her reflection. "You are not a creature of instinct. You are not some bonded toy."
But even her voice trembled.
Because the bond wasn't built on choice.
It was awakening.
And awakening bonds were dangerous.
---
Blackwood Industries – Sub-Level 3 – Restricted Wing
Dorian stood in front of the reinforced magical vault, fingers pressed to the biometric scanner.
The lock blinked red, then green.
The vault opened.
Inside, artifacts buzzed with dormant power—dangerous, classified, illegal. His ancestors had collected them like war trophies. Now they were his burden.
But he wasn't here to admire the collection.
He was here for one thing.
The file.
He pulled the folder from the obsidian drawer, fingers brushing the seal of House Blackwood. It vibrated faintly in his hands. Protective magic. Blood-bound.
He broke it anyway.
Inside: images, sketches, glyph records.
Isadora Vale.
But not just her.
Her bloodline.
He skimmed the pages, jaw tight.
"Experimental fusion bonds," he read aloud, voice low. "Witch–shifter pairings. Rare. Forbidden. Unstable."
Of course.
Of course she was part of something the Old Houses had tried to bury.
A witch born with the signature of a wolf—and a wolf Alpha with the mark of a seer.
They were never supposed to meet.
Let alone connect.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached the last page.
A warning.
Should the bond mature unchecked, both parties will lose primary control—of form, of magic, of will. The union will become permanent. Irreversible.
He closed the file slowly.
The air around him crackled.
Unmarked territory, indeed.
And he was already too deep in it.
---
Outside her apartment, the night screamed.
Isadora stepped onto her balcony, eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. The bond vibrated like a tripwire.
Then she saw it.
A pair of eyes in the dark.
Silver. Predatory.
Not Dorian.
Another wolf.
Watching.
Waiting.
A challenge.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she raised her hand—and the glyph beneath her skin lit up like a brand.
A witch who could burn a wolf alive with a whisper.
The eyes disappeared.
But the message remained:
This isn't just about desire anymore.
It's about survival.
She turned back toward her room—
—and froze.
There, sitting on the edge of her bed like he belonged there, was Dorian.
Hair tousled. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Eyes dark with something far older than lust.
"How did you get in here?" she snapped.
"I didn't," he said calmly. "You called me."
She opened her mouth to argue—and stopped.
Because she had.
Not with words.
With the bond.
"I had to see you," he said. "I found your file. I know what you are. What we are."
She hated how his voice felt like heat sliding under her skin.
"We are a mistake," she hissed.
"No," he said, rising. "We're a threat."
"To who?"
He stepped close. Close enough that the air hummed again. "To everyone who thought they could control us."
The bond flared between them, and the air snapped like a live wire.
And somewhere, far away—something ancient woke up.
Drawn by their power.
And it was coming.