Chapter 49 Marcella paced the length of her chamber for the third time in under an hour. Outside, darkness clung to the windows. She stopped near the window and pressed her palm to the glass, the chill biting into her skin. She had glanced it for hours, expecting a messenger to appear. She'd imagined hearing the kestrel's cry in the distance, the flutter of wings. But nothing came. Sister Evelyne hadn't responded. The letter had vanished into the cold air. Anthony hadn't come with the emberroot or the forged sigils. No tools for the false Rite. No help. No time left. Marcella turned from the window, fingers curling tightly at her sides. She walked to the desk, where her ink-stained ritual notes sat - half-planned symbols, failed diagrams, incomplete chant lines, all useless now. She swept her hand over them, scattering them all over the floor. "Option two was gone." Marcella muttered under her breath. She had waited too long. "So that leaves me with two choices." she plopped on the chair. Option One: consummate the bond and bind herself to Berith, completely. Seal the Flame the way the gods intended, with body and soul. She let the idea settle in her bones. Isn't that what they all want? The Church. The Montclairs. Even the Flame. Let the Duchess submit. Let the Vessel fall into place. But that's what she had clawed her way out of. That's why she sealed the Flame herself in the first place. Marcella leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, fingers steepled beneath her lips. What would Option Three bring? Collapse, chaos. The Gate would rupture. A full rejection of the system. Marcella had already left a trail of ruin in her past life. She had chased power and abandoned people. She had made herself the center of the world and found herself alone in it. She couldn't do that again. Marcella stood, walking to the mirror, "I want to survive," she declared, her hands smoothing the front of her gown. "and I will do whatever I must." Her reflection didn't blink. "But it will be on my terms." She pulled her cloak from the hook near the door, and slipped it over her shoulders, while stuffing her feet in her boots, heading to the Duke's Quarters. When Marcella reached Berith's door, she didn't hesitate before knocking. Once, Twice. Marcella could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage like a trapped bird desperate for escape. There was a rustle from within. Then the door opened. Berith stood on the threshold. His hair was tousled, his shirt loose at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He looked at her like he had expected her hours ago. "Lady Marcella?" Her name sat rough in his throat. She didn't let herself flinch. "May I come in?" His eyes searched hers for a long second, then he stepped aside. Marcella walked past him into the room. The heat inside was immediate-the scent of smoke, wine, and something darker. His desk was a mess of open scrolls, and across the table, two untouched glasses poured long ago. He closed the door behind them. Without explaining anything, Marcella reached for the first clasp of her cloak and undid it with a quiet flick. Berith's Berith's gaze tracked her every movement, squinting his eyes. The cloak slid off her shoulders and onto the chair behind her. She didn't stop, her hands found her sleeves next. That's when he spoke. "What are you doing?" His voice wasn't startled. It wasn't a question out of confusion. Marcella didn't pause. The second clasp gave way beneath her fingers. "I thought you were cleverer than this," Berith murmured, his voice darker now, watching her like she was something volatile, something that could unravel if touched the wrong way. "Coming into my room like a sacrifice." She met his eyes then. No coyness. No plea for mercy. Just defiance, wrapped in fire. Berith walked to her, closing whatever distance they had between them. "If you seal the Flame now," he drawled, voice curling around her like smoke, "you can't walk away later." "I know," Marcella acknowledged, though her heart beat louder than his words. "You'll be mine." He voiced possessively. Marcella tilted her head. "I was never yours." "And yet here you are." The last clasp came undone beneath her fingertips. Her robe slid another inch down her arms, exposing the hollow of her throat, the line of her collarbone. "I'm not doing this for you," she said quietly. "I know." "I still hate you." Berith stepped closer. "Good. Then we'll be honest." He was close enough that she could see something lurking behind his eyes, the tic of his jaw, the tremor in his fingers he tried to hide by curling them into fists. Marcella dropped the robe. It pooled at her feet, a dark puddle of velvet. She stood tall, proud, flame in her veins. "I'm here to finish what I started." Berith's expression didn't shift, but his breath did-deeper now, sharper. "And if I refuse?" "Then I find another way." "You won't." Her chin rose, defiant. "Try me." He stared at her, long enough for something in his expression to fracture. When she stepped forward-bare skin brushing against the warmth of his coat-her voice dropped, velvet and steel. "Seal it, Montclair. But know this... I won't kneel." Berith's reply was a whisper, reverent and dangerous. "Then stand. But don't expect mercy. Marcella had never feared fire. But this moment, standing inches from Berith in a chamber heavy with smoke and old rites, felt like something older than fear. A threshold she had refused, resisted and now walked across of her own will. She had come to claim herself even if it meant being bound to him - to the Gate she'd tried to sidestep then it would be her hand on the seal. The air around them thickened, shifting with the hum of something ancient and primal, something hungrier. Berith didn't reach, not until her fingers found his chest and slid the clasps of his coat open one by one, exposing pale skin marred with faint sigils - battle-worn, beautiful. Only then did he touch her. The moment his palm settled at her hip, a small shiver rippled through her body. When he pulled her close, the flame inside her flared violently, the heat rising like a challenge. No tremble. No hesitation. If this was surrender, it was the kind made with a dagger in hand. Her breath hitched once when his lips grazed her neck like he was marking the places she would carry him, even when she hated him for it. Berith touched her like a man memorizing something forbidden like he knew exactly how she would haunt him for the rest of his life. His fingers slid down her spine, "You're not mine," he whispered, his teeth grazing her collarbone. "But I'll ruin you like you are," Fisting her hair, his mouth crashed down on hers. It was a claim, brutal and consuming. No fear. No mercy. It was possessive, borne out of years of pent-up frustration and tension. Her nails bit into his back. There was nothing tentative in how they moved - how she arched into him, how he gripped her thigh and lifted her as if he'd been born for this moment. Berith pushed her down on the bed, soaking in how beautiful she looked, with her face that flushed with arousal. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside her so deep she'd never forget him. Mark her with his teeth, proclaim to the world who she belonged to, who she should belong to. Me. Berith could smell her arousal already. Then, he captured her mouth for another fierce, knee-buckling kiss before moving her way down her neck. Collarbones. Shoulders. Marcella wrapped her arms around his neck, reveling in the taste and feel of him. She matched him with a ferocity that sang through her limbs, that left him panting, cursing her name like it was sacrilege and salvation at once. Then, Berith slid his hand up her inner thigh, driving into her with one deep vicious thrust. Marcella inhaled, her first real breath of the night broke into squeal. In and Out. Harder and faster each time until the tingles at the base of her spine came back to life. Their bodies moved in sync with the pulsing of the flame, the entire chamber echoing with their breaths and the language of skin on skin. "Say it," he growled against her lips, thrusting brutally. "W-what?" she whimpered. "That you want it, that you came for this." His hot breath slid over her sweaty skin. Marcella shuddered as her head tilted back, her eyes fluttering close. "I came to burn." Then, she shattered, breaking into a million pieces around him. She sank into it like war and Berith too came with a loud groan, eyes wild, like a man being claimed in return. The flame screamed with her, turning gold, then black at the edges. Their bond had been consummated successfully. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...