CH- 36

CH- 36
Sebastian POV

Aria is gone.
They say it’s temporary. Just Blood Moon Week. Just a break.

They think I’ll wait.
But I don’t wait well.

Especially not when I can still taste her.
Especially not when someone else is tasting her, too.

The bond between us is wrong.
It started with a flicker.

A stutter in the way her presence usually presses at the edges of my mind—warm, constant, grounding.
Now it pulses in shocks.

Slick and filthy.
Like someone’s running their hands over her skin, and I’m being forced to feel it.

Except it’s not Lorien.
And that makes it worse.

The first time it happened in the vision, I was in the feeding chamber, draining a willing donor when her scent hit me.
Not blood. Not memory.
Arousal.

Hers.
And not for me.

I lost control. Tore the boy’s wrist open. Left him twitching on the floor.
Didn’t even finish.

I left the blood. Left everything. Just ran—to the mirror hall, to her favorite stairwell, to the garden bench where I first told her I wanted her.
She wasn’t there.
But he was.

Not a man.
Not yet.

Just… something watching.
Inside the bond.
Inside her.

I reached for her through the connection, but instead of her thoughts, I got—
Laughter.

Low. Amused. Cold

“She’s not yours.”
“Not fully.”
“Not anymore.”

Since then, I haven’t been the same.

I’ve been spiraling. Fast.

It’s like my body and mind are at war with each other, neither willing to give ground.

Blood doesn’t taste right anymore—it feels foreign on my tongue, almost bitter, as if it knows I’m not whole without her.

Sex? Forget it. The thought of touching anyone else makes me sick—not just because they aren’t her, but because it feels… wrong. Like betrayal. A crime I can’t bring myself to commit.

Because she’s mine.

She’s supposed to be mine.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I see her face so clearly it hurts. Her laugh, her voice, the way she’d look at me like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world—it all haunts me.

And maybe that’s what I am now: a ghost, lingering in the spaces she left behind.

Last night, I broke into her old dorm.

Just to smell her pillow.

Pathetic, right? But I couldn’t help myself. I needed something—anything—to remind me of her.

To feel close to her again, even if it was just for a moment.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, her scent still clinging stubbornly to the fabric despite weeks of absence.

I buried my face in the pillow, breathing her in until my chest ached, until tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

That’s when it happened.

I dreamt of her.
Naked. Sweating. Writhing.
But not under me.

Under him.
His eyes were silver.

His voice sounded like prophecy.
And she moaned his name like it was the only word she knew.

I woke up screaming.
And bleeding.

My sigil cracked—split at the edges—a warning from the bond.
Or maybe a threat.

I leave campus without permission.
Just walk.
Through the wards.

Into the outer woods.
Into town.
Drawn by instinct and fury and fear.

Her hometown is three hours away by glamour speed. I make it in one.
I don’t remember the drive.
Just the sound of her name echoing in my skull.

I find the house she grew up in first—a small, unassuming place with peeling paint and flower boxes that haven’t seen fresh blooms in years.
There’s a FOR SALE sign stuck lopsidedly in the yard, swaying slightly in the breeze.

I find the bookstore she used to work at.

I find the coffee shop where she once wrote in the back corner—mortal things. Stupid, human things.

And I find a man.
Mortal.
Average.
Touching her photograph.

Before I know it, he’s pinned to the wall, blood on my hands.
“I was just—” he stammers. “I was just asking if she still worked here—”
Wrong answer.

My grip tightens, and his feet scrabble uselessly against the floor.

“You don’t get to ask about her,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, vibrating with barely contained rage.

“You don’t get to look at her. You don’t get to think about her.”

“Please,” he wheezes, clawing at my arm. “I didn’t mean anything by it…”

He’s lying. Or maybe he’s telling the truth—it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the red haze clouding my vision, the primal need to protect what’s mine coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Because she’s mine. She’s always been mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Even if she never will.

It takes everything in me not to tear his throat out.

Because even the idea of someone else speaking her name now makes my fangs burn.
I need her back.

I stumble into an alley, collapsing against the wall. My vision blurs.
And then I feel it.

A kiss.
But not on my lips.

On hers.
A memory, not mine.

She’s being kissed—now.
Someone is tasting her.
And my body reacts.

My breath goes ragged.
My claws punch through my fingertips.

And my sigil…
Bleeds.

It’s not a metaphor.
Actual blood.

Dripping down my chest.
The bond is ripping open.

I drop to my knees.

Clawing at my skin. At the pain. At the helpless, soul-shattering truth—
She’s not bonding with a rival.

She’s not choosing Lorien over me.
She’s not even in love.

She’s being claimed.
By something older.

By something not meant to share.

And he’s not taking turns.

The sky cracks.
My sigil rips wide open—burning, bleeding, screaming.

And I hear it—not a voice, but a roar, inside the bond.

Not Lorien.
Not her.
Not me.

Him.

“You were made to drink her blood.
I was made to drink her soul.”

I collapse.
Face in the dirt.
Body shaking.

Sigil pouring blood across my chest.
And through the agony, I finally understand—
She didn’t choose him.

She awakened him.

And now?

He’s not just touching her.

He’s taking her.