The fever didn’t return.
Not after the Moon Spring. Not after his hands had moved between my thighs beneath the water, not after I’d shattered in his arms for the second time in as many days, not after I’d whispered, *“Don’t look at me like that,”* and he’d answered, *“Then make me regret it.”*
The bond had settled. Calmed. Like a storm that had finally spent itself, leaving behind a strange, trembling stillness. It still pulsed beneath my skin, a low, steady thrum, but it no longer burned. No longer screamed. It simply *was.* A presence. A truth.
I was his.
And he was mine.
Not because of magic. Not because of the cursed ritual that had bound us. But because I’d *felt* him—his grief, his guilt, his unrelenting need. Because he’d fought for my mother. Because he’d failed trying. Because he was broken—and still standing.
Just like me.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
—
We left the Moon Spring in silence.
Kael dressed first, his movements precise, controlled, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just made me come apart with his fingers, as if he hadn’t held me afterward, his face buried in my neck, his breath warm against my skin. He helped me from the pool, his hands firm on my waist, his touch lingering just a second too long. Then he turned, offering me a robe—black wool, lined with silver thread, woven with protective sigils.
“Put it on,” he said.
I did. The fabric was soft, warm, too large. It smelled like him—winter pine, dark earth, iron. I hated how it made me feel. Hated how it clung to my skin like a second skin.
We walked back through the keep in silence, the torches flaring as we passed, the stone breathing in time with his steps. The bond pulsed between us, steady, insistent, but no longer painful. Just… present. Like a heartbeat I couldn’t silence.
When we reached his chambers, he stopped at the door.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “The bond is stable, but it’s still new. It needs time to settle.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I said, voice sharper than I meant.
“No,” he agreed. “But you need to rest. And I need to know you’re not going to try to cut your way out of the bond again.”
I glared at him. “You were watching me.”
“I was *feeling* you,” he corrected. “The bond doesn’t lie. And you were about to do something stupid.”
“Maybe I wanted to.”
“And if you had,” he said, stepping closer, “you’d be dead. And I’d be bound to a corpse. The bond doesn’t end with death. It *feeds* on it.”
My breath caught. That wasn’t in any of the texts. Not in the Council’s decree, not in Elara’s warnings, not in the ancient grimoires I’d studied in secret. But I believed him. Because the bond didn’t lie.
And neither did his eyes.
He reached out, slow, deliberate, and brushed a strand of damp hair from my face. His fingers grazed my cheek, and the bond *screamed,* a wave so intense I swayed, my hands flying to his chest for balance.
He didn’t let go.
Just held me there, his hand on my face, his thumb tracing my jawline, his crimson eyes burning into mine. “You don’t get to die,” he murmured. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
“And what if I want to?” I whispered.
“Then you’re not the woman I thought you were.”
“And what woman is that?”
“The one who fights. Who survives. Who *refuses* to break.”
I stared at him. The air between us crackled, thick with unsaid things, with heat, with *hunger.*
And then—his mouth was 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 door. 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 coat, 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 robe, 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 fabric.
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 door, 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.
He lowered his hand slowly, his fingers sliding from beneath the robe, his touch lingering just a second too long. The loss was immediate—aching, *needy.* I wanted to pull him back. To demand more. To beg.
But I didn’t.
Just straightened my robe, my hands trembling, my skin still humming from his touch.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat.
Just opened the door and stepped back. “Sleep,” he said. “We leave at dawn.”
“Where?”
“Duskrend.”
—
Dawn came too soon.
I stood at the gates of the keep, wrapped in the black wool robe, my boots laced tight, my dagger hidden in my boot where it belonged. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of damp earth and gunpowder. The sky hung low and bruised, streaked with clouds that pulsed like infected wounds.
Kael stood beside me, his coat whispering against the stone, his crimson eyes scanning the horizon. Riven stood at attention, his armor gleaming, his gaze watchful.
“Ready?” Kael asked.
I didn’t answer. Just climbed into the carriage.
He followed.
The door closed. The shadow-wolves howled. And we rolled forward, into the rising sun.
—
The road to Duskrend unspooled like a black vein through the corpse of the world.
Outside the carriage window, the landscape bled from the gothic spires and veiled alleys of Nocturne into something rawer, older—jagged cliffs sheared by wind, forests choked with thorn, rivers that ran the color of rust. The sky hung low and bruised, streaked with clouds that pulsed like infected wounds. Even the air was different—thicker, heavier, laced with the scent of damp earth, gunpowder, and something feral: wolf musk, vampire rot, the faint, acrid tang of fae decay.
I sat across from him, rigid, every muscle coiled like a spring. Kael. The Hollow King. My betrothed. My enemy. My *bonded.*
He hadn’t spoken since we left. Just watched me with those crimson eyes, unreadable, ancient, as if he could see every thought before I formed it. The bond hummed between us, a constant pressure beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat I couldn’t silence. I could feel him—his stillness, his focus, the quiet thrum of his power. He wasn’t just a vampire. He was a force. A storm wrapped in velvet.
And I was trapped in the eye of it.
I glanced at Riven, seated beside the driver, his broad shoulders tense, his gaze scanning the horizon. Loyal. Silent. Watching. Not for us. *For us.*
Good.
Let him see what kind of monster Kael really was.
“How long?” I asked, voice sharp, cutting through the silence.
Kael didn’t look at me. “Two days. If the roads hold.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we walk.”
“You’d survive that,” I said. “I might not.”
Finally, he turned. His gaze slid over me, slow, deliberate. “You will. You’re stronger than you think.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your scent,” he said. “Storm and iron. Vengeance and truth. I know the way your pulse jumps when I get too close. I know the lies you hide behind your teeth.”
My breath caught. The bond flared, a hot spike of awareness that made my skin tighten. He *could* smell my lies. The bond had given him that. And worse—he enjoyed it.
“You think that makes you powerful?” I shot back. “Reading me like some open book?”
“No,” he said. “It makes you dangerous. And I like dangerous.”
I looked away, jaw clenched. Outside, the first outpost appeared—a crumbling stone fort, its towers half-collapsed, banners torn and flapping like wounded birds. A werewolf sentry stood at the gate, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes tracking our carriage with cold suspicion.
“Duskrend,” I said. “A province ruled by warlords and whispers.”
“A province,” Kael corrected, “that answers to *me.*”
“And what do you answer to?” I challenged. “Power? Blood? Or just the echo of your own voice in an empty throne room?”
He smiled. Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s smile. “I answer to survival. To order. To the truth that power isn’t taken—it’s *held.* And I’ve held it for four centuries. What have you held, Crimson? Besides grudges and daggers?”
My fingers twitched toward my boot. The dagger was still there. My only weapon. My only promise.
But I couldn’t use it. Not yet. Not when every strike would be a death sentence.
“I’ve held my silence,” I said. “While they burned my mother’s name. While they called her a traitor. While *you* signed the decree that sealed her fate.”
“I didn’t,” he said, voice low. “Vexis did. And I tried to stop it.”
“And failed,” I snapped. “So what does that make you? A king who couldn’t save a life? Or just another puppet who bows to the real power?”
His eyes darkened. For the first time, I saw it—anger. Real, raw, barely leashed. “I am not your enemy, Crimson. But I will *become* one if you keep pushing me.”
“You *are* my enemy,” I said. “You’re the man who let her die.”
“No,” he said. “I’m the man who remembers her. Who fought for her. Who still carries the weight of her loss.”
I stared at him. The bond pulsed, a low, aching throb, like it knew the truth in his words.
But I couldn’t believe him. Not yet. Not when belief was the first step toward surrender.
—
Duskrend’s capital—Blackmire—was a city of iron and shadow.
Tall, jagged walls of blackened steel encircled the settlement, patrolled by armored sentries with glowing red eyes—vampire enforcers. Inside, the streets were narrow, cobbled with bloodstone, lit by flickering gas lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. The buildings leaned into one another like drunks, their facades carved with runes of protection and warning. Markets sprawled in the open square, selling weapons, poisons, and black-market magic. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation.
Our carriage rolled through the gates, the shadow-wolves snarling at the crowd that parted before us. I saw their faces—werewolves with sharpened teeth, witches with eyes like cracked glass, half-breeds like me, their features twisted by heritage and hate. They stared. Not at the king. At *me.*
The unclaimed heir. The half-fae witch. The woman who had touched the Hollow King and lived.
Some spat. Others whispered. A few reached for weapons.
“They don’t trust me,” I said.
“No,” Kael agreed. “They don’t trust *anyone.* But they fear me. And that’s enough.”
“Fear isn’t loyalty.”
“Loyalty is overrated,” he said. “Fear keeps cities standing. Fear keeps blood from spilling in the streets.”
“At what cost?”
“The cost of peace.”
I looked away. Peace built on fear wasn’t peace. It was silence before the storm.
The royal keep loomed ahead—a fortress of black iron and bone, its towers crowned with crows that watched us with hollow eyes. We dismounted in the courtyard, the cold wind whipping my robe around me. Riven took position at the door. Kael stepped close, his presence a wall at my back.
“Welcome home,” he murmured.
“This isn’t my home,” I said.
“It is now,” he said. “For ninety days. And if you survive it, it might become more.”
I didn’t answer. I followed him inside.
—
The war room was a chamber of shadows and steel.
A long obsidian table dominated the center, carved with maps of Duskrend and its bordering territories. Around it sat six advisors—three vampires in black armor, two werewolf lieutenants, and one witch with eyes like molten silver. All of them turned as we entered.
“My king,” the lead vampire said, bowing. “And… guest.”
“She is not a guest,” Kael said. “She is my co-ruler. Her word is law, as is mine. You will treat her with the same respect.”
Silence. Then, grudging nods.
I took my seat at the table, Kael to my right. The bond flared, a warm pulse along my arm where our sleeves brushed. I pulled back slightly, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.
“We have a problem,” the witch said—Lyra, her nameplate read. “The northern clans are refusing to pay tribute. They say the border wards are failing. That werewolf raiders are crossing into their lands.”
“And are they?” Kael asked.
“We’ve confirmed three attacks,” said Torvin, a werewolf lieutenant. “Farms burned. Livestock slaughtered. Two deaths.”
“Raiders?” Kael asked.
Torvin hesitated. “Or a message.”
“From who?” I asked.
All eyes turned to me. Cold. Assessing.
“The Bloodfang Clan,” Torvin said. “They’ve been pushing for independence. This could be their way of testing your rule.”
Kael steepled his fingers. “Then we respond with force. Send enforcers to the border. Reinforce the wards. Execute the next raider on sight.”
“That’ll start a war,” I said.
He turned to me. “Better a war than weakness.”
“No,” I said. “Better a solution than slaughter.”
“And what do you propose, *betrothed*?” Lyra asked, the word dripping with mockery.
I ignored her. “The wards aren’t failing. They’re being *sabotaged.*”
“Prove it,” Torvin challenged.
“The attacks are too precise,” I said. “Too convenient. If it were wild raiders, they’d hit softer targets—villages, caravans. These were farms owned by loyalists. This isn’t about territory. It’s about *division.* Someone wants the clans to turn on the crown.”
“And who would benefit from that?” Kael asked, voice low.
“Someone who wants chaos,” I said. “Someone who knows that fear breeds rebellion. And someone who knows that *you*—” I looked at him “—rule through fear.”
His eyes narrowed. The others shifted, uneasy.
“So what?” Lyra sneered. “We hold a tea party for the raiders? Offer them cookies and diplomacy?”
“No,” I said. “We find the saboteur. We expose the lie. And we prove that the crown doesn’t rule through fear—but through *justice.*”
“Justice?” Kael asked, leaning forward. “You think justice matters here? In Duskrend, power is the only truth.”
“And if the people stop believing in your power?” I challenged. “If they see you as just another tyrant? Then your power *means nothing.*”
He stared at me. The bond flared, hot and sudden, a surge of heat that made my breath catch. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes.
“You’re either very brave,” he said, “or very stupid.”
“Or both,” I said. “But I’m not wrong.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Send scouts to the ward lines. Look for signs of tampering. And bring me the next raider—*alive.*”
Gasps. Even Riven looked surprised.
“Alive?” Torvin asked. “But the law—”
“The law,” Kael said, “is mine to command. And I say we need answers, not corpses.”
He turned to me. “You want justice? Fine. But if this fails, if the clans rise, if blood spills in the streets—then *you* will answer for it.”
“And if it works?” I asked.
“Then,” he said, voice low, “you’ll have proven you’re more than just a weapon in a dress.”
The meeting ended. The advisors filed out, whispering. Riven gave me a look—something like respect—before closing the door.
Then it was just us.
“You undermined me,” Kael said, rising from his seat.
“I corrected you,” I said, standing too.
He stepped close, his presence pressing against me. “You think you can walk into my kingdom and rewrite my rules?”
“I think,” I said, holding his gaze, “that if you want loyalty, you need more than fear. You need *trust.*”
“Trust is a weakness,” he growled.
“No,” I said. “It’s a weapon. And you’ve forgotten how to wield it.”
He moved faster than thought. One moment he was in front of me, the next his hand was on my waist, pulling me close. My breath hitched. The bond *screamed,* a wave of heat that stole my breath, pooled low in my belly.
His other hand slid to my neck, not choking, not threatening—*claiming.* His thumb brushed my pulse point, and I felt it—his own heartbeat, wild, unsteady, syncing with mine.
“You don’t get to tell me how to rule,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath warm against my lips. “You don’t get to walk into my world and change it.”
“But I already have,” I whispered.
His eyes burned. “You’re dangerous.”
“And you’re afraid of me.”
He laughed—a low, dark sound. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then why are you holding me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish?”
He stilled. His grip tightened. The bond flared, a surge so intense I swayed, my hands flying to his chest for balance.
And then—his mouth was on mine.
Not a kiss. A *claim.* Hard, desperate, teeth and heat and hunger. I gasped, and he took it, his tongue sliding against mine, his hand tightening in my hair. The world spun. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
I should have pushed him away.
I should have fought.
But instead, my hands curled into his coat, and I kissed him back.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel it—*us.*
Then I wrenched back, breathless, heart pounding. “You don’t get to want me,” I hissed, my voice trembling. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
He didn’t let go. His hand still gripped my waist, his thumb tracing slow circles on my hip. His breath was ragged. His eyes—crimson, wild—never left mine.
“I already do,” he said. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. His head turned, but he didn’t release me. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly turned back, a thin line of blood at the corner of his lip.
He touched it with his thumb, then brought it to his mouth, tasting. “You taste like defiance,” he murmured. “And I’m going to devour every drop.”
Then he let me go.
I stumbled back, chest heaving, skin burning where he’d touched me. The bond pulsed, aching, *needy.*
“Get out,” I said, voice raw.
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked to the door.
At the threshold, he paused. “You’ll learn, Crimson. One way or another.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there, trembling, my fingers brushing my lips. They still burned.
I had come here to kill him.
But now, I wasn’t sure I could.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
It wasn’t just the bond.
It wasn’t just the mission.
It was *him.*
And the terrifying, traitorous thought that maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want him dead.
Maybe I wanted him *alive.*
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.