The tribunal circle smells of blood and copal smoke.

My blood. Their incense.

I lean against the sacred jaguar pillar, pressing my palm against the wound in my side where that bastard explorer's companion got lucky with a knife before I separated his head from his shoulders. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but the pain keeps me sharp. Focused.

I need to be focused for this.

The elders sit in judgment, their jade-and-feather mantles rustling like warning serpents. Iara the Serpent-Tongue watches from her position of honor, those obsidian eyes missing nothing. Especially not the way I'm favoring my left side, the weakness I can't quite hide.

She smiles. Just slightly.

I want to carve that smile off her face.

But instead I watch the foreigner on his knees in the center of the circle, hands bound behind his back with sacred cord. They've stripped him of his weapons and most of his dignity, leaving him in torn linen that shows the lean muscle of a man who's survived more than drawing room politics. His dark hair falls across his face, but he holds his head up despite the odds.

Stupid. Brave. Probably both.

"Rafael de Luz of the Luz merchant family," Elder Citlali intones. "You have trespassed on sacred ground. Your expedition has violated the boundary treaties. The penalty is death."

The man—Rafael—doesn't flinch. His Spanish-accented Nahuatl is surprisingly good when he speaks. "I understand the law. I accept responsibility for my men's actions."

"Your men are already dead," I say, unable to help myself. "Except you."

Those dark eyes find me across the circle. Even bound and facing execution, there's intelligence there. Calculation. He's trying to figure out why he's still breathing.

Join the club, explorer.

"There is," Iara says, her voice sliding through the chamber like smoke, "an alternative to death. As is traditional."

Here it comes.

"Any warrior may claim you as consort," Elder Citlali continues. "You would belong to her, serve her household, father her children if she wills it. Your life for your freedom."

I watch Rafael process this. Watch the moment he understands he's being offered as a prize, a breeding stud, a political token. His jaw tightens, but he's smart enough not to refuse the only path to survival.

"And if no warrior claims me?" he asks.

"Then you die at sunset." Citlali's tone suggests she doesn't particularly care which option he chooses.

The silence stretches. I know what's happening—every warrior in this tribunal is doing the same calculation I am. A foreign consort is a liability. A pretty face doesn't compensate for the political complications, the questions about loyalty, the target it paints on your back.

Tlali catches my eye from her position near the door. She has that look, the one that says don't you dare do something stupid.

I'm absolutely about to do something stupid.

"No one?" Iara asks, and there's satisfaction in her voice. She's been pushing the younger warriors to take consorts, to bind themselves into her web of obligations and alliances. My refusal to claim anyone has been a thorn in her perfectly manicured plans for years.

She wants me isolated. Wants me to have no connections, no vulnerabilities she can't exploit.

Fuck that.

"I claim him," I say.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Every head turns toward me. Rafael's eyes widen, just slightly. Tlali mouths what the fuck across the circle. Iara's expression doesn't change, but I feel her attention sharpen like a blade finding flesh.

"Ximena of the Scarred Moon," Elder Citlali says slowly. "You have refused every opportunity to take a consort. Why claim this foreigner?"

Because you want me not to. Because Iara expects me to stay alone and manageable. Because I'm tired of being the only piece on the board that isn't bound to someone else's strategy.

I don't say any of that.

"He survived the jungle," I say instead, pushing off the pillar and walking toward the center of the circle. Every step hurts, but I don't let it show. "His men died screaming, but he made it to the boundary stones. That takes either skill or luck, and I can use both."

It's not entirely a lie. The fact that he survived my hunting party's ambush says something about his instincts.

Rafael watches me approach with the wariness of a man who's realized he's traded one death sentence for something potentially worse. Smart.

Up close, he smells like bergamot and leather and fear-sweat. The civilized scent of his world mixing with the reality of mine. It shouldn't be appealing.

It is anyway.

"Do you accept Ximena's claim?" Citlali asks him.

"Do I have a choice?" Rafael's voice is steady, but I can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

"Death or claiming," I say, crouching down so we're eye to eye. "Choose quickly. I'm bleeding on the sacred stones and the elders get cranky about that."

Something flickers in those dark eyes. Humor, maybe. Or recognition that we're both playing a game neither of us fully understands.

"I accept," he says.

The words bind us before any ritual does. I feel them settle in my chest like a weight.

"Then come forward for the marking," Citlali commands.

I stand, grab Rafael by the arm, and haul him to his feet. He's taller than me by a few inches, lean where I'm muscled, but he moves well even with bound hands. The elders form a circle around us, and someone brings the ceremonial blade.

"This will hurt," I tell him, taking the knife.

"Everything about this situation hurts," he replies, and there's that flash of humor again.

I almost like him. That's inconvenient.

The blade is obsidian, sharp enough to split moonlight. I cut the cord binding his wrists first, then catch his right hand before he can pull away. His palm is calloused from mapmaking and sword work, warm against mine.

"Hold still," I say, and draw the blade across his palm.

He hisses but doesn't pull back. Blood wells, dark and rich.

I cut my own palm, feeling the bite of pain add to the chorus already singing through my side. When I press our bleeding hands together, the warmth of his skin against mine sends an unexpected jolt through my arm.

The elders begin the chant. Old words, older than the tribe, older than the jungle itself. Words that bind soul to soul, life to life.

I've seen this ritual a hundred times. It's supposed to be symbolic. A formality.

The magic hits like lightning.

One moment I'm standing in the tribunal circle, hand clasped with a stranger's, listening to ritual words I've heard before.

The next, I'm drowning in sensation that isn't mine.

Terror. Sharp and metallic, flooding my mouth with the taste of it. But underneath—attraction. Desire. The confusing tangle of a man who knows he should be afraid but can't help noticing the way my hand feels in his, the curve of my throat, the—

What the fuck.

I try to pull away, but Rafael's hand tightens on mine. Not restraining. Steadying.

Because he feels it too.

I know he does because I can feel his shock crashing into mine, his confusion mixing with something darker and far more dangerous. Want. Need. The kind that ignites in your belly and spreads like wildfire.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown. "What—"

"The soul-bond," Iara says, and there's something in her voice I can't identify. Surprise? Satisfaction? "How... unexpected."

The elders have stopped chanting. Everyone is staring at us, at our joined hands where blood and magic are doing something they're not supposed to do.

"This hasn't happened in three generations," Elder Citlali breathes.

I force myself to let go of Rafael's hand. The physical connection breaks, but the other one—the one I can feel pulsing in my chest like a second heartbeat—remains.

I can feel him. Not just his emotions, but his presence. Like he's standing too close even though there's space between us now.

"What the hell did you do to me?" Rafael asks, and there's an edge to his voice that matches the panic I can feel radiating from him.

"I didn't do anything," I snap, because I didn't. This isn't supposed to happen. The claiming mark is symbolic, a political binding. It's not supposed to create a—

A soul-bond.

The kind of connection that lets you feel what your consort feels. Know what they know. Share their desires and their fears and their—

No.

"The ritual is complete," Iara says smoothly, rising from her seat. She moves toward us, jade clicking softly. "Ximena of the Scarred Moon, you have claimed Rafael de Luz as your consort. He is yours to command, to protect, to—" her smile sharpens "—cherish."

I want to put my fist through that smile.

"Take him to your dwelling," Citlali says. "The bond will settle within the day. Until then, you should remain in close proximity."

Close proximity. With a man whose desire I can feel like heat against my skin. Whose fear tastes like copper in my mouth. Whose every emotion is now tangled with mine in ways I can't untangle.

I've made a terrible mistake.

Rafael is staring at me, and I can feel what he's feeling—confusion, yes. Fear, absolutely. But also curiosity. The scholar in him wants to understand what just happened. The man in him is noticing things he shouldn't.

Like the way my armor doesn't hide much. The strength in my hands. The scar that cuts across my face and somehow draws his attention rather than repelling it.

I can feel his attraction like a physical touch, and it's doing things to my body that I absolutely cannot afford right now.

"Come on," I growl, grabbing his arm harder than necessary.

He stumbles after me as I drag him from the tribunal circle. Behind us, I hear the elders murmuring, Iara's voice rising above them like smoke.

This was supposed to be simple. A political move. A way to claim power without actually having to share anything real.

Instead, I've bound myself to a man who can feel every emotion I've spent years learning to hide.

We step out of the tribunal chamber into the twilight heat. The jungle presses close, alive with evening sounds. Somewhere a jaguar coughs, and the orchids that grow near the training grounds perfume the air with their blood-fed sweetness.

Rafael is trying to process everything, his thoughts a chaotic storm I can feel battering against my consciousness. He's looking at the city—our city, carved from jungle and stone, lit with torches that turn everything amber and shadow.

"It's beautiful," he says quietly.

I feel the truth of it. He means it. Not the patronizing appreciation of a conqueror, but genuine awe.

That's... unexpected.

"Don't get comfortable," I tell him. "You're a political prop, nothing more. The bond is—" I search for words that won't betray how much this terrifies me. "—an inconvenience. We'll figure out how to manage it."

"Manage it." His laugh is sharp. "I can feel your fear. You can't lie to me anymore."

I stop walking. Turn to face him.

He's right. The bond won't let me hide. Not from him.

But it works both ways.

I step closer, into his space, until I can smell the bergamot and leather and the jungle rain that's soaked into his torn clothes. Until I can see his pulse jump in his throat again.

"You're right," I say softly. "I can't hide from you. But you can't hide from me either. And right now, Rafael de Luz, I can feel exactly what you're feeling."

His breath catches.

Because he knows what I mean. Knows I can feel the heat building in his belly, the way his body is responding to proximity despite everything. Despite the fear and the confusion and the fact that I literally own him now.

"This doesn't change anything," I continue. "You're my consort. My property. The bond just means we'll both be uncomfortable until we learn to block it out."

"And if we can't?" His voice is rough.

I can feel what he's not saying. What if we can't block it out? What if we're stuck feeling each other's desires, our fears, our needs?

What if this intimacy neither of us wanted becomes something we can't escape?

"Then we'll both suffer," I say, and step back before I do something stupid.

Like close the distance between us. Like find out if his mouth tastes as good as his scent suggests.

I can feel his desire spike at the thought, which means he caught it from me, which means—

Fuck.

"Come on," I say again, and this time when I grab his arm, I'm gentler.

My dwelling is on the edge of the warrior quarter, deliberately isolated from the others. I've always preferred solitude to the complicated politics of the communal houses.

Now I'm bringing a man into my private space. A man who can feel my emotions. Who will sleep under my roof, eat at my table, exist in my life in ways I've never allowed anyone.

The door is carved jaguar wood, heavy and dark. I push it open and pull Rafael inside.

He looks around, taking in the sparse furnishings, the weapons on the walls, the sleeping platform covered in jaguar pelts. It's not much. I don't need much.

"Home sweet home," he says, and I can feel his nervousness mixing with something else.

Relief. He's relieved this isn't a dungeon. That I haven't chained him to a wall.

The bar is so low it's underground.

"You'll sleep there," I point to the smaller platform near the fire pit. "Don't touch my weapons. Don't leave without permission. Don't—"

"Don't expect to be treated like a person?" His tone is light, but I feel the anger underneath.

Good. Anger I can handle. Anger doesn't make me want to close the distance between us and—

"You're alive," I say flatly. "Your men are dead. You want to be treated like a person, try not trespassing on sacred ground."

"I was following a map," he shoots back. "A map your people sold to mine three years ago."

That stops me.

"What?"

"The boundary treaties." He moves closer, and I can smell the bergamot stronger now, mixing with my own scent of copal and crushed orchids. "Someone from your tribe has been selling false maps. Leading expeditions into forbidden territory. My men died because we trusted—"

"You're lying."

But I can feel that he isn't. The bond won't let him lie, won't let me pretend I don't know he's telling the truth.

Someone in the tribe is selling out our borders. Leading foreigners to their deaths and us to war.

Iara's smile flashes through my memory.

How unexpected, she'd said about the soul-bond.

But nothing about Iara is unexpected. She plans everything three moves ahead.

"Who sold you the map?" I demand.

Rafael hesitates, and I feel his calculation. He has information I need, and he knows it gives him leverage.

"Tell me," I say, stepping closer. "Or I'll—"

"You'll what?" He doesn't back away. "You need me alive. The bond won't let you hurt me without hurting yourself."

He's right. I can already feel it—the connection between us means his pain would be my pain. His death would probably kill me too.

I've trapped myself.

"A woman," he says finally. "She called herself a trader. Silver in her hair, tattoos on her arms—"

"Iara."

Of course it's Iara.

Rafael watches my face, and I feel his understanding dawn. "She's the one from the tribunal. The one who looked satisfied when the bond formed."

"She's the high priestess," I say. "And she's been trying to control me for years."

"Well." Rafael's smile is sharp. "Congratulations. By claiming me, you've given her exactly what she wants."

I can feel his certainty, his analysis of the political situation he's been thrown into. He's not just a pretty face with a talent for maps. He's smart. Strategic.

Dangerous.

"Get some rest," I tell him, moving toward my own sleeping platform. "Tomorrow we figure out how to survive this."

"This being the soul-bond or the political machinations?"

"Yes."

I can feel his exhaustion now, crashing over him like a wave. The adrenaline of survival is wearing off, leaving him shaking and spent.

I should let him collapse. Should ignore the way his fear tastes in my mouth, the way his need for comfort pulls at something in my chest.

Instead, I find myself saying, "There's water in the clay jar. Food in the basket. Help yourself."

His surprise ripples through the bond, warm and unexpected.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I don't respond. Just turn away and start removing my armor, trying to ignore the way I can feel his eyes on me. The way his desire spikes when I reveal the full map of scars across my back and arms.

He finds them beautiful.

The thought comes through the bond clear and undeniable, and it does something to my breathing I refuse to acknowledge.

"Stop looking at me," I growl.

"I can't help it." His voice is rough. "You're... striking."

I can feel what he means. Not pretty. Not delicate. But powerful. Compelling. The kind of beautiful that comes from survival and strength.

I hate that I like how he sees me.

"Go to sleep, Rafael."

"As my lady commands."

There's mockery in his tone, but underneath—curiosity. Attraction. The same pull I'm feeling and trying desperately to ignore.

I lie down on my sleeping platform, every muscle in my body aware of his presence across the room. The bond hums between us, carrying emotions neither of us can fully block.

His fear. My uncertainty. Our shared, unwanted desire.

Tomorrow I'll figure out how to manage this. How to use the bond without letting it use me. How to protect my position while navigating Iara's schemes.

Tonight, I just have to survive being this close to someone who can feel every crack in my armor.

Outside, the jungle screams its evening song. Inside, Rafael's breathing slowly evens out as exhaustion claims him.

But I can still feel him. Still sense the warmth of his presence like a second heartbeat in my chest.

I've spent years building walls. Keeping everyone out. Staying untouchable.

Now I'm bound to a man who can feel every hidden softness I've tried to bury.

And the worst part?

I can feel his, too.