Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel

PRAISE FOR THE

DRAGON’S HEAT NOVELS

FORBIDDEN EMBERS

“A steamy, exciting novel.”

—Fresh Fiction

“An engaging tale of star-crossed love.”

Genre Go Round Reviews

“A fantastic addition to the series that is filled with passion and intriguing characters.”

—Night Owl Reviews

HIDDEN EMBERS

“[A] first-class shape-shifting novel…filled with a fiery passion that’s hot enough to set the desert sands aflame.”

—
Romantic Times
(top pick)

“A super thriller.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A no-holds-barred epic romance where no emotion is left unscathed.”

—Lovin’ Me Some Romance

“Adams has created an enthralling, highly charged romance, complete with strong characters, hot-steaming sex, and fast-paced suspenseful action where no one is safe.”

—Fresh Fiction

DARK EMBERS

“Written in a compelling voice,
Dark Embers
introduces a sexy and intriguing new world.”

New York Times
bestselling author Nalini Singh

“A blistering-hot, fast-paced adventure that will leave readers breathless…a romantic story that will captivate you and keep you turning pages long into the night.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Anya Bast

“This darkly seductive tale will have you longing for a dragon of your very own.”

—national bestselling author Shiloh Walker

“A fantastic debut…that will take you on a scorching hot adventure and leave you wanting more.”

—Among the Muses

“If you’re looking for a fast paranormal read featuring suspense, hot shifters and even hotter sex, then look no further.”

—Smexy Books Romance Reviews

The Dragon’s Heat Novels
by Tessa Adams

Dark Embers

Hidden Embers

Forbidden Embers

Soulbound

A LONE STAR WITCH NOVEL

Tessa Adams

A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK

For my husband,
who has made this
whole wild ride worth
every second

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

About the Author

I
was born on a dark night, under a Dark Moon in a sky turned bloodred with power and prophecy.

Some say it was a less than fortuitous beginning to a new life of power, but as I squalled my way into the world, none of those bound to love me were disturbed by it. Why should they have been? Magic was everywhere.

It was burning in the wall of flames that surrounded the birthing bed.

Bubbling in the vases of sacred water positioned at North, East, South and West.

Trembling in the blessed earth sprinkled all over my grandmother’s prized Aubusson rug.

Even spinning in the air that whipped around the room in a frenzy.

Yes, magic was all around me. How could it not be when hundreds, thousands, of members of our coven were there, gathered right outside the walls of my grandmother’s garden, straining for their first glimpse of the enchanted one? Of me.

The news of my imminent birth spread quickly—which was no surprise as it was the most anticipated, most celebrated, occasion the coven had seen in many years. Since the birth of my own mother some two hundred odd years before, probably. After all, it’s not every day that a seventh daughter bears a seventh daughter, let
alone does it on the seventh day of the seventh month. In fact, our historians swore that it had never happened before.

Tales of my expected power spread until they became a thing of lore. Or even worse, until all those stories—all those whispers—became the norm. The expected. I would be great, powerful, untouchable by nearly all witch standards.

It was one hell of a birthright for a scrawny, five pound baby, but my family was convinced I would live up to it. As were my coven, the Council and the entire magical world.

And when the sky split straight down the middle, when it was rent in half by the most powerful forces of Heka—of the goddess Isis, herself—I moved from creature of lore to portent of legend.

Lightning spun through the sky like a whirlwind, whipping around and around as it tore through my grandmother’s roof and through the third and second stories of her house until it found me tucked safe in my mother’s arms on the ground floor.

And that’s when it hit, lighting up my mother and me—the whole room, really—in a strike of such brilliance that it could be seen for endless miles. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving the two of us untouched—except for the golden mark that appeared on my neck and collarbone.

A circle with the outline of a pointed half circle above it, it was Isis’s most sacred symbol—a magical tattoo that nothing could remove and one that no one had been gifted with before me.

The legends and the expectations grew. And grew. And grew. Until no mortal could possibly live up to them.

Especially not me.

Winter 2005

M
y humiliation is complete.

I can see it in their faces, in the way some are trying desperately not to look at me while others can’t stare long or hard enough.

I can see it in the embarrassed flush on my father’s cheeks and the clenched hands, wandering gazes and tapping toes of my sisters.

And, most of all, I can see it in the way my mother’s amethyst eyes have glazed over with mortified tears. In the way she keeps clicking together the heels of her favorite, ruby red pair of cowboy boots—like if she hits the perfect spot she’ll spiral out of the room just as Dorothy did all those years ago.

Too bad there’s never a tornado around when you need one.

I try to tune them out, to close my eyes and pretend that I’m up in my room, practicing, instead of standing here in the middle of my Kas Djedet—my magical coming out party—making a complete and total ass of myself. If I can do that, if I can just forget my audience of legions, then maybe this once I can find a way to make the stupid spell work.

The fact that it never has before is utterly inconsequential to me now. Everything is, except making fire.

Please, Isis, just this once. I beg of you.

There’s no answer, but then I didn’t really expect one. Except for the day I was born, Isis has been notably absent from my life. You’d think, by now, I would have learned to stop asking.

Still, I concentrate on the spell as hard as I can, repeating the words over and over again in my head like I’ve been taught. The charm itself is child’s play—or at least, to a certain kind of child. But I’ve never been able to do it. Never been able to do
anything
when it comes to magic, no matter how much I study or how hard I try. Why I let my family talk me into believing tonight would be different, I’ll never know.

Maybe because I wanted to believe it as much as they did.

Still, I’d warned my parents, weeks ago, that this party was a bad idea. Told them that I was going to fail. That I absolutely, positively could not do what they so desperately wanted me to.

They’d refused to listen.

“You’re simply a late bloomer,” my mother told me. “Your powers will unlock on your nineteenth birthday and you’ll do fine. Isis knew what she was doing when she marked you. Trust me.”

“You’re just nervous,” my dad concurred. “Once you’re up there, the magic will come.”

“Performance anxiety,” my oldest sister, Rachael, commented with a smirk that was a long way from sympathetic. “Good luck with that.” Still, despite her amusement, it was obvious that she hadn’t expected me to fail either. But then, why would she? No one in my family fails. At anything. And certainly not at magic. There hasn’t been a latent witch on either side of my family tree for seven generations. And if there
was
going to be one, it certainly shouldn’t be me.

After all, with my birthright, I should be loaded with
power. Showered with it. It should be leaking out my pores and lighting up everything I touch.

Instead, it turns out that seven is
not
my lucky number. I can’t do even the most basic spell.

I try again.

Nothing.