The silence in the healing chamber is thick—so heavy it feels like the air itself is holding its breath. Torchlight flickers across the black stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows that dance like ghosts. The runes etched into the floor pulse faintly, their crimson glow dimming with each passing breath. Outside, the Undercourt hums with tension—whispers of battle, the clatter of boots, the low growl of wounded werewolves—but in here, it’s still. Too still. Like the world has paused, waiting for something to break.
I lie on the bed of black silk, my body a map of pain. The iron burns on my wrists throb beneath their silver-laced bandages. My ankles ache from the chains. My throat is raw from screaming, from the needle, from Lira’s slap. But worse than the wounds is the emptiness—the hollow space where my magic should be, buried under iron and exhaustion, like a fire smothered beneath stone.
And him—
Kaelen.
He stands at the edge of the room, a statue carved from shadow and fury. His coat is torn, his shirt stained with blood—some his, some not. His hands are clenched at his sides, his fangs still bared, his black eyes burning with a rage so deep it doesn’t even have a name. He hasn’t moved in hours. Hasn’t spoken. Just watches me. Guards me. Like I’m something fragile. Something breakable.
And maybe I am.
But not like he thinks.
“You should rest,” I say, my voice rough, my throat burning with every word.
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps his gaze fixed on the door. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” I push myself up, wincing as pain lances through my ribs. “You’re hurt. The blood sigil drained you. I can feel it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s *everything*.” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet meeting the cold stone. The room tilts. I sway. And then—
He’s there.
Not with a word. Not with a touch.
Just *there*—his hand on my arm, steadying me, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His scent—night air and blood and something darker, something *his*—wraps around me like a promise.
“Don’t,” I say, pulling back. “Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”
His jaw clenches. “You were chained. Drained. Left to rot in a blood circle. Forgive me if I don’t feel like taking chances.”
“And you?” I snap. “You walked into a trap. You let the sigil bind you. You nearly got yourself killed.”
“And I’d do it again.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “In a heartbeat.”
“Why?” I turn to him, my green eyes burning into his. “Why risk everything for me? You don’t owe me anything. The bond doesn’t demand it. The Oath doesn’t require it. So why?”
He stills.
Not in anger.
Not in frustration.
In *pain*.
And then—
He cups my face, his thumb brushing the bruise on my jaw. “Because I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not in it.”
My breath catches.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
But then—
A groan.
From the corner.
Riven.
He’s slumped against the wall, his back pressed to the stone, his head bowed. The bite on his throat—Lira’s mark—still oozes, refusing to heal. His golden eyes are half-lidded, his breath coming too fast. He’s fading. Fast.
“Riven,” I say, pulling away from Kaelen. “You need healing.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, pressing a hand to the wound. “Just need a minute.”
“You don’t have a minute.” I move toward him, my steps unsteady. “That bite’s infected. It’s laced with shadow magic. If we don’t treat it, it’ll spread. It’ll kill you.”
“Then let it.” He lifts his head, his eyes sharp. “I failed. I let her get to Malrik. I let them take you. I don’t deserve—”
“Stop.” I kneel in front of him, my hands gripping his shoulders. “You don’t get to decide that. You warned us. You followed her. You fought. You *mattered*.”
He flinches. “And look where it got me.”
“Alive,” Kaelen says, stepping beside me. His voice is low, rough. “And still breathing. That’s more than most.”
Riven doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, his expression unreadable.
“I can heal him,” I say, pressing my palm to my sternum. “But I need my magic. And it’s buried. The iron—”
“Then we wake it up,” Kaelen says.
I turn to him. “How?”
“Blood magic.” He meets my gaze, his black eyes burning into mine. “A healing ritual. But it’s not simple. It requires… intimacy.”
“What kind of intimacy?”
“Mouth-to-mouth. Breath exchange. Blood sharing. The bond amplifies it. But it’s dangerous. If the connection breaks—”
“He dies,” I finish.
“And you’ll be drained. Possibly unconscious. Possibly worse.”
I don’t hesitate. “Do it.”
“Blair—”
“Do it,” I say, voice firm. “He saved us. He warned us. He fought for us. And I’m not letting him die because I’m afraid of a little risk.”
Kaelen stares at me. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Help me lay him on the bed,” he says.
We do.
Riven is heavier than he looks, his body tense with pain, his breath ragged. We position him on the black silk, his head propped up, his arms at his sides. The bite on his throat is worse up close—black veins spreading beneath his skin, the flesh around it necrotic, pulsing with a sickly light.
“This will hurt,” I say, kneeling beside him.
“I’ve felt worse,” he mutters.
“Not like this.” I press my palm to the wound. “This isn’t just healing. It’s purging. I’ll have to burn the shadow magic out. It’ll feel like fire in your veins.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods. “Then get on with it.”
I look at Kaelen. “The bond.”
He steps behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. I feel it—immediately. The bond flares, low and insistent, a thrum beneath my skin. Heat floods my veins. My magic stirs—weak, sluggish, but *there*.
“Now,” he says, voice rough. “Breathe with me.”
I close my eyes.
And I do.
Not just air.
Not just breath.
But *magic*.
I pull from the bond—from the gold of the mark between my shoulder blades, from the pulse of Kaelen’s hands on my shoulders, from the raw, unfiltered need that hums between us. I draw it in, deep, until my lungs burn, until my blood sings, until the emptiness inside me is full.
And then—
I lean down.
And I press my lips to Riven’s.
Not in passion.
Not in desire.
But in *healing*.
My breath flows into him—warm, steady, *alive*. I feel it—immediately. The shadow magic in his veins fights back, a cold, writhing thing that claws at my magic, that tries to push me out. But I don’t let it. I push deeper. Harder. I send my breath into his lungs, into his blood, into the core of his being.
And then—
I bite.
Not deep.
Not violent.
Just enough to draw blood—mine, not his. A thin line on my lower lip. Red. Hot. *Alive*. And I let it drip—into his mouth, onto his tongue, into the wound on his throat.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It screams.
A surge of magic crashes through us—raw, uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, amplified.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp. My nails dig into the bed. My body arches. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
“Blair,” Kaelen growls, his hands tightening on my shoulders. “Hold on. Don’t let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Breathe.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, I’m not me.
I’m *him*.
Riven.
I feel his pain—like fire in his veins. I feel his fear—of failing, of being nothing. I feel his loyalty—unshakable, unbreakable, *true*.
And I know—
I can’t let him die.
So I push harder.
Deeper.
I send my breath into him. My blood into him. My magic into him. I burn the shadow magic out—vein by vein, cell by cell, until the blackness is gone, until the wound closes, until his breath is steady, until his body is still.
And then—
I pull back.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
My lips are swollen. My lower lip is split. Blood stains my mouth. Riven’s chest rises and falls—steady, deep, *alive*.
And the bond—
It hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
“He’s alive,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “You did it.”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to my sternum, as if I can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in my veins.
My magic is back.
Not weak.
Not empty.
Stronger than before.
And then—
Riven stirs.
His golden eyes flutter open. He looks at me. Then at Kaelen. Then back at me.
“You healed me,” he says, voice hoarse.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter, wiping the blood from my lip.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not nothing,” I say, standing. “And you don’t get to decide that.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, his expression unreadable.
And then—
He nods.
Slow. Reluctant. Like he’s finally believing it.
—
Later, when the torches burn low and the runes on the walls pulse faintly, I sit on the edge of the bed, my body humming with exhaustion, my magic coiled beneath my skin like a serpent ready to strike.
Kaelen is beside me, his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, voice low.
“Yes, I did.” I press my palm to my sternum. “He saved us. He warned us. He fought for us. And I’m not letting someone die because I’m afraid of a little blood.”
“It wasn’t just blood.” He turns to me, his hand finding mine. “It was *you*. Your breath. Your magic. Your *life*.”
“And I gave it willingly.” I look at him, my green eyes burning into his. “That’s the difference, isn’t it? You think love is weakness. You think sacrifice is failure. But it’s not. It’s *choice*.”
He stills. “And if you’d died?”
“Then I’d have died knowing I did the right thing.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You don’t have to be the monster. You don’t have to be the lord. You don’t have to be anything but *you*.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But *holding*.
And for the first time, I let him.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
And then—
He lifts my chin.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold on my skin. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
“Kiss me,” he says, voice rough. “*Really* kiss me.”
And I do.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
And I kiss him back.
Because I’m not afraid anymore.
Because I’m not alone.
Because the truth—
Is that I’m not here to unmake.
I’m here to become.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.