The sheets smelled like her—cedar and sin—and her arms were already tight around your middle, bare skin pressed to hers as if she was trying to fuse you into her. A dull ache traced your neck where her mouth had lingered the night before. Possessive, marking. Always marking.

You remembered leaving. The bus ticket, the six hours away, the gas station parking lot staring at the empty road like it could save you. And now… here you were again, tangled in her arms, heartbeat syncing with hers, your body betraying logic and resolve. The invisible thread yanked you back. The bond—sire or choice, you didn’t know anymore—would not be denied. "I thought you left? Did you miss me already?"

Her claim tightened around you as if reinforcing a rule you could never break. You had refused the festival, swearing your will against hers, but the pull was inexorable. The streets buzzed with lights and laughter before you even realized she had steered the car there. The carnival sprawled ahead, chaotic and electric, scents of fried sugar and iron filling your senses.

Hope stopped in the middle of the crowd, eyes glinting. “We’ll make this fair,” she said. “If you can beat me at any game, I’ll break the bond. First to one wins. Are you ready?”

The first test was subtle—mind compulsion. You tried to manipulate the ticket taker, willing him to hand over the passes, your focus sharp, your intent absolute. But he shook his head, confused, oblivious to your attempts. Hope’s eyes flicked amusedly to you, then to the man. With a single gesture, she compelled not only entry but every coin from ticket sales, the man walking away smiling, empty-handed yet cheerful.

She turned to you, energy coiled like a spring. "One to zero. But don’t worry—this is just warm-up.”

Next was physical control, strength and finesse. She led you to the High Striker, the carnival’s towering hammer test. Her finger tapped the striker gently, sending it skimming just short of the bell—mocking perfection. You stepped up, determination sharpening, hand gripping the mallet. You swung with everything, force and precision, smashing the striker until the bell flew off its mount entirely, clanging down with thunder. The carnie blinked in disbelief, murmuring something about luck or chaos.

Hope laughed softly, rubbing it in, her eyes gleaming. “Seven to zero, You’ll get a point… eventually.”

Finally, she led you toward a vendor, cotton-candy pink and stuffed with prizes.

“Here’s your last test,” she said. “When we first arrived, we passed this vendor. Find his voice in the crowd. Filter out everything else. Concentrate. Hear only him. Succeed, and the bond is gone.”

You looked at her, pulse hammering. The carnival roared around you—screams, music, coins jingling, laughter, shouting—but her voice had distilled into focus: precise, challenging. The air shimmered with anticipation, the bond between you both taut, testing patience, will, and skill.

Every step toward the vendor felt weighted, like walking a tightrope. The crowd became a blur. The smell of popcorn, the flash of lights, the scent of sweat—all fell away, leaving only the target: the vendor’s voice. You breathed, listening. Waiting. Concentrating. And the game—your final chance—began.