Eva's throat worked, dry, the air thick as she forced a whisper past her lips.
"Tell me… what happens."
Lucarion's gaze lingered on her, before he reached for the table at his side. A slender carafe of wine stood waiting, dark red as blood in the firelight. He poured only a measure into a glass.
"First," he said quietly, "the body must be eased. The mind must loosen its grip." He held the glass out toward her, but did not press it into her hand. He waited, patient, until her fingers slid against his, brushing warm skin as she accepted it.
She lifted it to her lips. The wine was rich, heavy, filling her senses as it slid over her tongue. When she swallowed, she was suddenly aware of the line of her throat, of how intently he was watching it move—his gaze tracing the very place where his teeth would one day rest.
A shiver passed through her. She set the glass down with careful precision, as if afraid to break the silence that had thickened around them.
"Then," Lucarion continued, his voice lower now, "there is this."
From a small dish, he plucked a dark brown square of confection between his fingers, a trace of it melted against his skin. He brought it to her mouth—not offering it to her hand, but placing it at her lips. She hesitated, then parted them, the taste of wine still on her tongue as he pressed the morsel past her teeth.
As she bit down, he lifted the thumb that had caught the smear of sweetness, tongue sliding over the pad of it, eyes boring deep into hers.
"Now it is only a sweet," he murmured as she chewed, voice low, intent, "but when refined, concentrated… it stirs the blood. It quickens the body, sets heat beneath the skin." His thumb brushed her jaw lightly, steadying her as though she might falter under the weight of his words.
The square melted slowly on her tongue, sweet cut faint with bitterness. She swallowed, and his hand remained at her throat, thumb resting at the hollow above her clavicle, feeling the faint acceleration of her pulse.
"Do you feel it?" he asked, voice low, pupils wide, predatory.
Before she could answer, his other hand found her hip, firm, guiding, pulling her closer until there was no distance left—her body fitted against the hard, unyielding lines of his. The press of him was everywhere at once—thighs, hips, abdomen, chest—each point of contact overwhelming her senses.
A sound slipped from her, half-breath, half-hum, more confession than word. "Yes…"
His mouth curved faintly, a shadow of satisfaction. "Then the next step would be this."
He lowered his head, brushing his lips to hers—the first touch a question, the second a claim. The kiss deepened swiftly, heat sparking as his hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, urging her closer still. Her lips parted beneath his, and the world narrowed to the press and drag of his tongue, the slow exploration of his hands shaping her form with deliberate intent.
At first her body resisted, a breath caught halfway between tension and surrender. He felt it, and coaxed her deeper, each stroke of his mouth persuasive, each press of his hand along her spine steadying, guiding, inviting trust. His other hand slid from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, cradling rather than restraining. He drew her head back just enough to deepen the kiss, coaxing her to yield. She trembled, then softened, her breath spilling hot against his mouth as she leaned into the grip at her nape. The resistance unraveled—her body melting pliant against his. Little by little, thought frayed; the taste of wine, the lingering sweetness on her tongue, the heat of him pressed to her—all swirled together until her breath came ragged, drawn helplessly to his.
When he finally broke from her mouth, his lips wandered lower, grazing the line of her jaw, down her neck, over her shoulder and along her arm, until he reached her wrist. He caught it gently, turning it palm-up, his mouth brushing the delicate skin there. "After we consummate," he murmured against her pulse, his voice low, roughened, thick with the hunger he no longer tried to hide, "I would bite here—lightly. Only enough to release a trace of venom." His lips pressed a lingering kiss over the spot, heat seeping into her flesh as though he already claimed it.
Then he took her other wrist, repeating the act with equal care—his mouth brushing the skin, his breath warm.
Her voice was hushed, breathless, when she asked, "Would it hurt?"
Lucarion's eyes lifted, his gaze dark and intent as his mouth hovered over her skin. "No," he said, voice smooth, certain. "My venom, when shallowly applied, numbs. The effect is swift. You would feel nothing at all."
Lucarion's lips lingered at her wrist, the ghost of his mouth tracing where his fangs would pierce. He lifted his head only slightly, eyes on hers, his voice velvet-dark. "And after that… I would bite the mark itself."
He guided her hand lower, fingers brushing her collarbone, then the tender hollow of her neck. His lips followed, pressing a kiss to the place where her pulse beat hardest. "Here," he murmured, lips barely grazing skin. "At first, you would feel nothing. But as the bite deepened, the venom would take hold." His thumb pressed lightly at the hollow of her throat. "It does not invent sensation—it magnifies what is already there. Whatever you felt in the moment before—your breath, your pulse, your desire—it recreates it, and sharpens it until it floods every nerve."
His mouth curved, the faintest edge of a smile. "That is why the order matters."
Despite herself, her lips curved in faint reflection of his, though the tremor at their edge betrayed her nerves. "It sounds…almost bearable." Her gaze lingered on him, wary beneath the softness of her words. "Which makes me think—that is not the end of it."
Lucarion's half-smile deepened, a faint glint of approval in his wide, predatory eyes. "Even with all I have shown you… all the coaxing, the distractions, the sweetness," he said, voice low, deliberate, "you return to the question that matters most. I should have expected no less."
Her gaze flicked downward for a heartbeat before lifting back to his. "I would not be here, listening… if you had not some measure of effect," she admitted, her voice low, almost reluctant. "Tell me… before I lose my courage."
"The mark does not last at first. It heals." He drew back slightly, though his hand remained at her wrist, his thumb circling idly, as if to tether her to the words. "To make it permanent, we must repeat the act until it stays. Never allowing the wound to close completely."
Her throat worked. "How many times?"
"There is no fixed number," he said evenly. "It depends on the bond. How your body reacts to it. But with your bloodline—your healing burns swift and fierce—we would need to do it often. Every few hours." His gaze held hers, unyielding. "Three to five days, until the mark sets."
Lucarion's words coiled in her mind, sharp and relentless. Every few hours. For days. Her stomach clenched, bile rising, and for the smallest instant her mouth twisted in a grimace. She forced it down, iron against the tide, smoothing her face into stillness. When she spoke, her voice was flat, even. "And after?"
He inclined his head, the smallest nod, as though delivering judgment. "When the mark holds, you must drink from me. A measure of my blood, to seal it."
Her breath caught, pulse stumbling beneath his touch. "Drink your blood…" she whispered, as though testing the words against her tongue, trying to reconcile them with reason. Her brows drew tight, the line between horror and fascination thin.
Lucarion said nothing at first, watching her with that patient stillness of his, as though he would wait as long as it took for her to gather herself.
Eva drew in a slow breath, exhaled shakily, and pressed her palms flat against the table as though bracing against a tide. "So that is what it requires," she said quietly, each word deliberate. "A bond, sealed by a mark, that is written in blood, taken in the act itself."
For a moment she said nothing, the silence taut, before her gaze lifted back to him.
"Tell me again," she whispered, as though needing the reminder anchored outside of herself. "Why must I do this?"
His reply came stripped of softness, blunt and unflinching—deliberately so.
"Because if the truce fails, war will follow. A war that ends with your family dead."
The words struck like iron, merciless in their clarity. And yet, beneath the severity lay the precision of a blade honed to persuade: the urgency of inevitability, set against the tender place he knew she would bleed.
Her jaw set. The ache in her chest flared, but she drew it into her steadiness, holding fast.
"I will not see them slain for want of my courage."
Lucarion's lips curved, faint and sharp, a smile without warmth. His thumb pressed once more against her pulse, as if testing its strength.
"Then we understand one another."
The air between them thickened—not with peace, but with the weight of what had been bound, and the promise of what was yet to come.