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"Will it hurt?" she asks.

I drag my gaze away from the apex of her thighs and up to the beautiful face chosen by fate to be the only woman for me.

"We'll slice our palms and say the words. It will hurt as the magic takes hold. At least, that's what I've heard. I've only seen it done a few times," I tell her. "But I'll be here the whole way through, and I can heal the cut the same way I did this morning."

"By licking me, you mean?" Tilting her head, there's an edge to her voice.

And I feel guilty, like I'm taking advantage of her, because fuck if I can't have her as a mate, this is the next best thing—pretending to be her betrothed, making it look real. Maybe I can trick myself, too. It'll have to be enough. Keeping her alive through the rituals is the only thing that matters now. How I feel about any of it is the least of our concerns.

"What are the words we have to say?"

"Slice my palm," I tell her, holding up my hand.

Her white teeth bite into her lower lip, and I feel my cock grow hard. The urge to bite her is so strong now, but I know I'll need all my control to keep from tackling her to the ground and mating her right here in the foyer of Midnight House. But I didn't make it to my old age without control.

"It's going to be fine," I tell her.

"I can't heal you like you healed me," she says, her voice shaky.

But she doesn't falter as she reaches for my wrist with one hand, then swipes the enchanted dagger along my palm with the other. Blood wells instantly.

"Are you certain?" I ask her.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and locks eyes with me.

"Yes," she says. "I'm not ready to die."

I'm not ready for her to die either, but I don't say that. Instead, I speak the Latin phrase ingrained in all of us who live under the thumb of the Eternal Society the moment we're old enough to speak.

"Sanguis pro sanguine, umbra pro umbra," I tell her.

"Blood for blood," she repeats, translating the Latin. "Shadow for shadow."

I nod. "Aye, lass. Now it's my turn."

She hands me the dagger, her fingers trembling, her hand outstretched. And I take my mate's hand in mine, draw a gash along her palm.

"Now say the words," I tell her.

"Sanguis pro sanguine, umbra pro umbra," she says, her voice clear despite the shaking of her hands.

My hand locks over hers, the warmth of her blood and flesh seeping into mine. And she blinks the minute the ancient magic takes root. Two thin cords of glowing smoke—one midnight-cyan for House Midnight, one molten crimson-gold for MacTavish—spiral out from our sliced palms and wrap tightly around our wrists. The cords braid themselves into an intricate, continuous Celtic knot, looking like a delicate woven bracelet branded beneath the top layer of skin.

"Now everyone will know," I tell her.

I let go of her hand, pulling the sleeve of my shirt up so that she can see exactly what it is we've done.

"Is it a tattoo?" she asks, her fingers going to her wrist.

"Something like that," I tell her. "When we marry for real, it will seal on its own. We have 365 days before we must seal with either a mate bond or a marriage, or the mark will fade."

"A year," she says, her voice hollow.

“It’s a living braid. Celtic tradition of handfasting. That’s where it comes from.” The Eternal Society bastardized it, of course, but it could be worse. “If you flip it over, you’ll see the ends are frayed. When we marry, they’ll connect.”

My hands are trembling as I pull her palm to mine to make good on my promise to lick her better. Need swelling through me, my beast roaring inside me, pacing the mental cage he's in with the need to claim her, to bite her, to mark her as ours.

“Fascinating,” she says in a small, breathy voice, and I don’t know if she means the way I’m lapping at her cut, or the handfasting magic.