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Fucking traitorous snake, I finished in my head as I pursed my lips.

“I did what you wanted. Now tell me how to save him,” I said, softer this time.

“You didn’t think vows alone would be enough, did you?” He chuckled and shook his head as if my nativity astounded him. “This kind of magic is particularly demanding.”

A frustrated noise scraped the back of my throat. I was so tired. My skin felt too tight from the poison and my patience was wearing thin. But I needed to save Rythos.

“Do enlighten me then,” I said, squaring my shoulders against the challenge.

His gaze traced the length of me like a touch, slow and deliberate as he bit his bottom lip. I gasped at the intensity in their depths as they crashed into mine. He still had a cage around his emotions. But the tingling beneath my skin, warm and insistent, betrayed him.

“Don’t make me spell it out,” he said, his voice taking on a huskier rasp.

The words cut open something inside me. Heat crawled beneath my skin, unwelcome and invasive. It pooled low in my stomach like it belonged there.

It didn’t.

I shoved it back, forcing the reaction into the dark where it belonged.

It was the poison, nothing more.

My pulse thundered in my ears, betraying me.

Before I realised what I was doing, my hand was around his throat.

I squeezed, and he tilted his head back, baring it to me like he wanted more.

Blood soaked through the dressing where I had bitten him earlier, and I brought my other hand up, tightening my grip.

He shifted beneath me, and a low, rough sound left him that spread warmth between my thighs.

His hand tightened on my waist and his hips ground beneath me.

I froze.

When had I straddled his lap?

I scrambled back as if his touch burned me, and my body protested.

As if it wanted his touch.

“Why’d you stop?” he asked breathlessly, watching me with a guarded expression, but he didn’t move.

“I can’t—won’t,” I said, my voice trembling as I took another step back.

I needed distance. Space. Anything to quiet the traitorous pull in my body that was obviously the poison.

“Lyra,” he said, quietly with a hint of sadness. “This isn’t about lust. It isn’t even about you wanting me. This is about surviving,” he pleaded, eyes hiding emotions he wouldn’t let me feel.

He is faking, I reminded myself. Manipulating.

I glared at him as something slipped beneath my skin.

Warm sunlight trickled into my chest, pulling me toward him like a tether.

Realisation crept through me.

He was using the bond.