The fever didn’t break until we reached the keep.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body burning, my mind unraveling. Visions tore through me—my mother screaming as the pyre consumed her name, Kael on his knees, bound and broken, Vexis laughing with blood on his hands. I tried to scream, but no sound came. Tried to fight, but my limbs were lead. All I could do was cling to him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his coat, my breath ragged against his chest.
He didn’t let go.
Didn’t falter.
Just carried me through the corridors like I weighed nothing, his steps steady, his voice low and steady in my ear—“I’ve got you, Crimson. I’ve got you.”
I hated him.
But I didn’t push him away.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t just bound to him by magic.
I was bound by *need.*
—
I woke in his bed.
The canopy loomed above me, draped in velvet the color of dried wine. The hearth was lit now, flames licking at the stone, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. The air was warm, thick with the scent of winter pine, dark earth, and something sharper—*him.*
Kael sat in a chair beside the bed, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His crimson eyes were fixed on me, unreadable, ancient, as if he’d been watching me for hours.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low.
My throat was raw. My skin still burned, but the fever had receded. The visions were gone. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, no longer a wildfire, but a slow, steady thrum—like a heartbeat.
“You followed me,” I whispered.
“You ran,” he said. “And you know the rules.”
“You could’ve let me die.”
“And if I had,” he said, rising, “you’d be dead. And I’d still be bound to a corpse. The bond doesn’t end with death. It *feeds* on it.”
I stared at him. That wasn’t in the Council’s decree. That wasn’t in any of the texts I’d studied.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “Or are you just afraid of what it means—that you can’t escape me, not through death, not through defiance, not through *anything?*”
My breath caught. The bond flared, a hot pulse that made my skin tighten. He was right. I *was* afraid. Not of dying.
Of *living.*
Of staying. Of needing him. Of wanting him.
Of becoming his.
“I don’t belong here,” I said, pushing myself up on my elbows. “I don’t belong to you.”
“No,” he agreed. “You belong to the bond. And the bond belongs to *me.*”
“Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then why keep me?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached for me—slow, deliberate—and pulled me from the bed.
“What are you—”
“The bond must be soothed,” he said, his grip firm. “And there’s only one way.”
“And what’s that?”
“The Moon Spring.”
—
The Moon Spring was carved deep beneath the keep, a chamber of smooth black stone and glowing silver veins that pulsed like a slow, celestial heartbeat. The air was warm, humid, laced with the scent of wet earth and something older—*magic.*
A pool dominated the center, its surface still and reflective, shimmering with a faint, opalescent glow. The water wasn’t just water. It was *alive.* Fed by underground ley lines, blessed by fae enchantments, used for centuries to cleanse blood-oaths, heal wounds, and—when necessary—soothe the fever of a broken bond.
And now, it was here to soothe *ours.*
Kael lit the torches with a flick of his wrist, the flames catching with a soft *whoosh.* The chamber brightened, the silver veins flaring, casting long, liquid shadows across the walls.
“Strip,” he said.
My breath caught. “What?”
“The ritual requires skin-to-skin contact,” he said, already unbuttoning his shirt. “The water amplifies the bond. If we don’t do this, the sickness will return. Stronger. Faster.”
“And if we do?”
“The bond stabilizes. The fever breaks. And you stop trying to kill yourself.”
I stared at him. He wasn’t looking at me. Just removing his clothes with calm precision—shirt, boots, belt, trousers—until he stood bare before me, his body a map of scars and strength. The jagged silver line from shoulder to hip. The thick, raised mark across his ribs. The faint, silvery scar on his neck—a relic of a battle long past.
He was beautiful.
And that terrified me more than any blade.
“You first,” I said, crossing my arms.
He didn’t argue. Just stepped into the pool, the water rising to his waist, his skin gleaming in the torchlight. “Now you.”
I hesitated.
But the bond pulsed—a low, aching throb—and I knew he was right. If I didn’t do this, the fever would return. The visions. The pain. And next time, I might not survive.
I turned, unbuttoning my dress with trembling fingers. The fabric slid to the floor, pooling at my feet. My underclothes followed. Then my gloves.
My witch-mark was exposed—a spiral of silver ink on my left palm, faint now, but pulsing with power.
I stepped into the pool.
The water was warm—too warm—like stepping into a living thing. It rose to my waist, then my ribs, then my chest, the heat seeping into my skin, my bones, my blood. I could feel the magic in it—old, deep, *hungry.*
Kael stood across from me, his eyes burning. “Closer.”
“Why?”
“The bond needs proximity. The water amplifies it. But only if we’re close enough to feel each other’s breath.”
My breath hitched. I took a step forward.
Then another.
Until we were inches apart, the water lapping at our chests, our bodies almost touching. His heat radiated against me, thick and intoxicating. His scent—winter pine, dark earth, iron—filled the air, wrapping around me like a shroud.
“Now,” he said, voice low, “place your hands on my chest.”
“No.”
“Do it,” he said, “or the ritual fails. And you’ll burn again.”
I hesitated.
But the bond flared—a hot spike of pain behind my eyes—and I knew I had no choice.
I placed my hands on his chest.
His skin was hot—too hot—like he was burning from the inside out. His heart thundered beneath my palms, fast, unsteady, *alive.*
“Now,” he said, “close your eyes.”
I didn’t. Just stared at him, my breath shallow, my skin tightening.
“Crimson.”
“You first.”
He didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes, his jaw tightening, his breath slowing.
And then—
The bond *exploded.*
Not with heat. Not with lust.
With *memory.*
Flashes tore through my skull: Kael on his knees, hands bound, face bloodied, eyes hollow as Vexis stood over him, laughing. My mother’s voice, raw and defiant: *“You’ll fail her too, Hollow King. But when you do, don’t let her hate you.”* The pyre. The silver ink burning. The silence where her name used to be.
“No,” I gasped, wrenching back.
But he caught my wrists, pulling me forward, his hands sliding to my waist, holding me in place. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “Let it in.”
“I can’t—”
“You *can.*”
He pulled me closer, until our bodies were flush, until I could feel every hard plane of him, every beat of his heart. His hands slid up my sides, beneath my arms, until his fingers tangled in my hair.
“Close your eyes,” he said, voice rough.
This time, I obeyed.
And the visions returned—sharper, deeper, *truer.*
But this time, I didn’t fight.
I *felt.*
I felt his grief—raw, unfiltered, *endless.* Felt the weight of a century of guilt, of failure, of love lost. Felt the moment he’d realized I was hers. Felt the hope that had sparked when our hands touched. Felt the terror when I ran. Felt the relief when he found me.
And beneath it all—*need.*
Not for power. Not for control.
For *me.*
“You don’t get to want me,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, his breath warm against my lips. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I didn’t answer.
Just leaned in, my forehead resting against his, my breath mingling with his.
And then—his mouth crashed down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A *claim.*
Hard. Desperate. *Needing.* His tongue slid against mine, his hands fisting in my hair, his body pressing me against the edge of the pool. The water lapped at our hips, hot and insistent. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
I should’ve pushed him away.
Should’ve fought.
But instead, I arched into him, my hands clawing at his back, my nails scraping over scars, over muscle, over skin that burned like fire.
He groaned into my mouth, deep and rough, and I felt it—the press of his erection against my thigh, thick and insistent. My breath caught. My body responded, heat pooling low, my core tightening, my thighs pressing together.
This wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged. “You don’t get to run,” he whispered. “You don’t get to hide. You’re *mine,* Crimson. And I’m not letting you go.”
“You don’t own me,” I breathed.
“No,” he said. “But the bond does. And so does your heart.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his hand slid down, over my hip, my thigh, then under the water, fingers brushing the inside of my leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—his fingers brushed my clit, slow, deliberate, through the water.
I *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* My back arched, my hips grinding against his hand, my body trembling. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
“You don’t get to want me,” I hissed, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
“I already do,” he said, his fingers circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him.
He didn’t stop.
Just laughed—a low, dark sound—and pressed harder.
I came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* My body convulsed, my thighs clamping around his hand, my nails digging into his shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
And when it was over, I collapsed against him, my breath ragged, my skin burning.
He didn’t let go.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath warm against my skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to push him away.
But all I could do was cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to survive him.
And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up wanting to keep him.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford.
But as I stood there, pressed against the edge of the pool, his body a furnace against mine, his hand still between my thighs, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already did.
I already *wanted* him.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the mission.
But because he’d *fought* for her.
Because he’d *failed* trying.
Because he was broken—and still standing.
Just like me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
I lifted my head, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his crimson ones. “Don’t look at me like that,” I breathed, my voice trembling. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just stared at me, his gaze burning. “Then make me regret it,” he said, his voice low, rough, *needing.* “Because I’ll take every second of it.”
The bond flared, a surge so intense I thought I’d combust.
And for the first time since I’d entered the Obsidian Spire, I didn’t want to run.
I wanted to *stay.*
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.