InkHeartThe world solidifies around his name. Milla’s voice is a distant echo, her hand on my arm a nuisance. “Aria? What is it?”
I can’t look away. Ronin is moving, carving a path through the festival throng with a purpose that sours the air. Revelers recoil from the cold fury on his face, their laughter dying in their throats. His gaze finds mine across the clearing and locks on, a physical connection that yanks the breath from my lungs.
“We have to go,” Milla whispers, her panic sharp enough to cut through my stupor. She tugs at my arm, trying to pull me back toward the anonymity of the forest’s edge.
My feet won’t obey. A strange current, a hum of dreadful recognition, pulls me toward him, even as my survival instincts claw at my throat. He closes the distance in a few long strides. His hand clamps around my upper arm, a brand of heat and pressure that promises bruises.
“Ronin, what are you doing?” Camille’s protest is sharp, indignant. She’d followed him from the fire, her perfect dress now smudged with dirt.
He doesn’t spare her a glance. He just turns and pulls, dragging me with him. I stumble over roots and loose stones as he hauls me from the ring of firelight into the oppressive dark of the woods. The festival music dies, replaced by the crack of a branch under his boot and the ragged sound of my own breathing.
He doesn’t stop until the trees are a thick, black wall around us, swallowing all light and hope of rescue. He shoves me backward, and my shoulders slam against the rough bark of an oak. The impact jars my teeth. He stands over me, a silhouette of rage, his chest heaving. The night air is thick with the scent of pine and his fury.
“What did you do?” he snarls, the sound more animal than man.
“Nothing,” I manage, my voice a thin tremor.
He leans in, planting his hands on the trunk on either side of my head, caging me. “Don’t lie. I felt it. That… connection. Is this some kind of backwoods blood magic? A spell to trap a mate you could never win on your own?”
I shake my head, a frantic, useless gesture. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A harsh laugh tears from his throat. “The mate bond. The Moon Goddess’s grand fucking plan,” he spits, the words thick with contempt. “She must be going senile, tethering the future Alpha King to some nameless runt from the outer territories.”
Each word is a precisely aimed stone. I try to shrink away, wishing the unyielding oak would simply absorb me. “I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper, the sting of tears blurring his shape in the dark.
“Neither did I!” he roars, his fist slamming into the trunk beside my head. The wood groans; I cry out, flinching. “You have ruined everything,” he continues, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “My future. My bloodline. All of it, tainted by your weakness.”
He pushes off the tree, pacing the small patch of ground before me. “I will not have it. I will not have you.”
“Then reject me,” I plead, the words cracking. “Just sever the bond. Do it.”
He stops, turning to face me. A cruel smile twists his mouth in the gloom. “Oh, the rejection you want? The clean break? You will never have it. I’ll reject your mind, your spirit, your pathetic little hopes. They are nothing. But this bond has a body. My wolf wants what it wants.”
My blood chills. I understand.
“No,” I breathe.
“You don’t have a say,” he says, stepping close again, his warmth a terrifying contrast to his words. “Fate may have dealt the hand, but I decide how the game is played. You are not my queen. You are not my partner. You are a convenience. An outlet for this… condition… until I find a way to sever it for good.”
He sees the defiance hardening in my eyes, feels me gathering my will to fight. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
Then comes the pressure. It isn’t a sound or a touch, but a silent command that bypasses my ears and sinks straight into my spine. It’s his power, his Alpha will, crushing my own. It demands I fold, that I yield, a betrayal rooted in my own biology. I tremble with the strain of resisting it, and a flicker of satisfaction crosses his face as he watches me struggle.
“If you are to be mine at all,” his voice is deceptively soft now, utterly commanding, “you will learn your place.”
His eyes seem to glow with a faint, internal light, holding me captive. He lifts a hand, not to strike me, but to point. He indicates the sodden, leaf-littered ground between his boots.
“Kneel.”