The first thing Violet registered was the smell of singed rose petals and cosmic shame.
The second was that her dress was mostly ash.
She blinked into the early morning fog, nose buried in something warm, solid, and suspiciously leather-scented.
Her cheek was pressed against a chest.
A bare chest.
"Okay," she muttered to herself, voice hoarse. "This is fine. This is probably fine."
The chest groaned.
"Less fine," she added.
Violet sat up—slowly—and immediately regretted it. Her head throbbed like she'd hosted a poltergeist rave inside her skull. Her legs were tangled in someone else's. Her hand was clasped around something large, warm, and pulsing faintly with magical energy.
She looked down.
Lucien Drake.
Half-naked. Glowing slightly. Smoldering even while unconscious, because of course he was.
And her hand was still in his.
Which wouldn't have been a problem—except for the glowing silver thread spiraling up their wrists, linking them palm to palm like fate had gotten drunk and overly sentimental.
"Oh," she said flatly. "Oh, great. Magical friendship bracelets. Super normal."
Lucien blinked awake. His voice came out gravelly, British, and 75% confusion.
"...Did we have sex or summon a small god?"
"Unclear," she said. "But something definitely climaxed."
They both looked around.
The altar? Gone.
The grass? Charred.
The ground? Oh, just a casual crater, ten feet wide, filled with glitter and what looked like the haunted remains of the champagne bottle.
Lucien groaned and sat up. The thread between their wrists pulsed once, then tightened. He froze.
"What the hell is this?" he asked, lifting their joined hands.
Violet examined it like a mildly inconvenient parasite. "Looks like an ancient Moonbind thread. Soulbonding magic. Should dissolve in twenty-four hours... unless—"
"Unless what?"
She squinted. "Unless it's real."
Lucien just stared at her.
"I thought you said the ritual was fake."
"It was fake!" she snapped. "I made it up on the spot!"
"I added nothing magical," he said.
"You added you! You're practically a walking arcane hazard!"
"Oh, that's rich, coming from the woman who glamoured a lipstick sigil out of spite!"
They glared at each other. The thread pulsed again—angrily.
Violet looked up.
The moon hadn't moved.
Not set.
Not faded.
Still huge. Still watching.
And—this was new—it winked.
She narrowed her eyes at the sky. "That's just rude."
---
A distant screech echoed through the trees.
Lucien tensed. "What was that?"
Violet stood, brushing soot from her thighs. "That, wolf-boy, was a banshee alarm."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning magical law enforcement's on the way."
Lucien paled.
"You mean like... the Council?"
"No," she said. "Worse."
A pause.
"The HOA."
---
Lucien tried to vanish into the fog.
It didn't work. Fog wasn't that kind of fog.
Especially not when it was magically enchanted to smell faintly like shame and eucalyptus.
"We should go," he muttered, already scanning the tree line.
"We can't leave the scene of the ritual," Violet said, brushing ash off her shoulder. "That's like... magical felony 101."
"I was never briefed on magical crime etiquette."
"Obviously. You showed up to a supernatural party without protection magic—what are you, new?"
"I'm 732."
"That explains so much."
They were still arguing when the magical sirens started.
Not flashing lights—no, that would be too easy. Instead, it was a chorus of tiny floating harps playing The Girl from Ipanema at increasing volume as a glowing clipboard descended from the sky.
And with it came him.
"Oh gods," Violet groaned. "Not him."
Out of the fog emerged a man in a charcoal robe, shiny loafers, and an aura of smug regulation. He was bald except for a single enchanted quill that floated beside his head, constantly scribbling.
"Violet Amari," he said in a voice that sounded like a tax audit. "Lucien Drake. Congratulations on your unsanctioned magical entanglement. I'm Gerald. I represent the Magical Homeowners Association."
Lucien squinted. "The HOA?"
"Correct. We maintain order in mixed-magical residential zones," Gerald said, flipping through pages on his clipboard with one precise tap of his wand-stylus. "Your neighborhood falls under Binding Clause 47-C: No disruptive soulbonds within city limits without proper registration and prophylactic charms."
Violet raised her hand. "Hi, yes, I'd like to file a complaint."
"You are the complaint."
Gerald circled them with the professionalism of a man who'd once filed a noise violation against a banshee funeral.
"Do you feel any of the following symptoms: inability to separate, spontaneous arousal-induced weather anomalies, glowing extremities, or the moon behaving sentiently?"
The moon winked again.
All three looked up.
Gerald scribbled something furiously. "Right. That's a confirmed Class 3 Moonbind."
Violet threw up her hands. "We didn't mean to soulbond! It was a prank ritual!"
"Intent is irrelevant," Gerald said. "Consent was implied by mutual eye contact and simultaneous verbal activation."
Lucien glanced at her. "Wait… you made eye contact?"
"You licked your lips! That counts as magical foreplay!"
"Oh for the love of—"
"—And now you're bickering in sync," Gerald cut in. "Classic symptom of early-stage emotional tethering."
Lucien stepped forward, towering. "Can you break it?"
"Of course," Gerald said with a tight smile. "You'll just need to abstain from all forms of sexual and romantic engagement for thirty days while living together under monitored magical probation. If you fail, the bond becomes permanent, and you may inadvertently cause tidal shifts during... climactic activity."
He flipped the clipboard toward them and pointed.
STATUS: Moonbound (Temporary, Extremely Volatile)
CONDITIONS: Cohabitation, No Physical Intimacy, Regular Magical Check-Ins
VIOLATION PENALTIES: Earthquakes. Possibly volcanoes. Social embarrassment.
Lucien exhaled. "You've got to be kidding."
Violet stared at the paper. "I don't even like cohabitation. I have plants."
"Too late," Gerald said brightly, tapping the page. A magical GPS rune flared on both their wrists.
"Congratulations," he added, stepping back. "You're now legally Moonbound."
And then he vanished in a puff of lavender smoke and what smelled suspiciously like smugness.
---
Lucien turned to Violet, voice flat.
"So. Want to tell me what kind of wine pairs best with sexual frustration and mutual loathing?"
Violet rubbed her temples. "Red. The kind that stains."
------
Violet's apartment was a third-floor walk-up above a cursed gelato shop that only served heartbreak flavors—her idea of emotional realism.
As she unlocked the door, Lucien loomed behind her, his massive presence as subtle as a thundercloud in a yoga studio.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked.
"No," she muttered. "But the HOA tracker on my wrist just shocked me for thinking about ditching you at a Motel Six, so…"
Click.
The door creaked open.
They stepped into her magically warded one-bedroom, and all hell broke loose.
---
Her apartment—normally full of controlled, witchy charm—had feelings now.
The chandelier above the kitchen table dimmed dramatically as Lucien entered, like it had detected a tall, broody energy and wanted to set the mood.
The enchanted teacups rattled in their cupboard.
Her floating scarf—affectionately named Trevor—fluttered off the coat rack and attempted to wrap itself around Lucien's neck like an overenthusiastic ex.
Lucien peeled it off gently and handed it back to her.
"Is everything in here... sentient?"
Violet caught Trevor mid-flirt and hissed at him. He hissed back.
"Only the accessories," she said. "And the couch. Don't sit on the couch unless you want to be aggressively spooned."
"Noted."
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the chaos. "It's cozy. In a 'please don't hex me in my sleep' sort of way."
She tossed her coat onto the cursed armchair, which growled and ate it.
Then they both turned toward the bedroom.
The silence stretched.
"I sleep like a corpse," Lucien said quickly. "No snoring. Very respectful of boundaries."
"That's great," Violet said. "Because you're sleeping on the couch."
He looked at the couch. It purred.
"I'm not sure it won't... crawl inside me."
"Deal with it. You've got big werewolf energy. You'll survive."
But then the door to the bedroom creaked open by itself.
And from within: a soft whisper.
"There's only one bed..." it said, with unholy delight.
Lucien blinked.
"Did your bed just talk?"
Violet stared into the bedroom with the look of someone being taunted by their own home.
"That spell was not supposed to gain sentience."
The bed, a massive four-poster lined with protective sigils and too many pillows, wiggled its mattress suggestively.
"Room for two," it purred.
Lucien coughed into his fist. "Is this a sex-positive haunted mattress situation?"
"It's enchanted for dreams, intimacy, and occasional revenge," Violet muttered. "I didn't ask it to flirt."
"Do you have anything less... committed?"
She turned to him, exasperated. "Look. We have one bed. We have to stay within thirty feet of each other. And if either of us even thinks about kissing, the moon might shoot lightning through the ceiling."
He shrugged. "So we don't kiss."
"Oh sure. That's easy."
The bed vibrated.
Lucien raised his hands. "I can sleep on the floor."
"You can sleep on the very edge, with a magical chastity rune between us."
"Wouldn't be my first time."
She blinked. "Why do I believe you?"
They both stood there.
The silence filled with lingering attraction, joint misery, and a shared sense of rapidly escalating absurdity.
Then the bed spoke again, smug as hell.
"Snuggle or suffer..."