The war room door clicked shut behind Kael, but his presence lingered like a brand—hot, inescapable, *violating.* My body still hummed from the near-kiss, the ghost of his mouth on mine, the way his hand had gripped my waist like he had every right. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, aching throb, like it knew I was unraveling. I hated it. I hated *him.*
But worse—I hated that part of me had *wanted* it.
I pressed my palms flat against the obsidian table, grounding myself. The cool stone helped. So did the familiar sting of blood welling beneath my glove as I dug my nails into my palm. Pain was honest. Pain didn’t lie.
I hadn’t come to Duskrend to be tempted. I’d come to survive. To prove I wasn’t just a pawn in Kael’s game. To find a way to kill him without killing myself in the process.
And now? Now I’d nearly kissed him. Again.
I closed my eyes, forcing my pulse to slow. That wasn’t weakness. It was strategy. A moment of leverage. I’d seen the flicker in his eyes when I challenged him—surprise, then something darker: *interest.* He didn’t expect me to fight. Didn’t expect me to think. And that was my advantage.
Because if he thought I was just another woman to be claimed, he was already losing.
I straightened, smoothing my robe. The war room was empty now, the maps still glowing faintly under the torchlight. I moved to the northern border lines, tracing the ward markers with my gloved finger. If the sabotage was real, the breach point would be along the eastern ridge—thin soil, weak ley lines. Easy to destabilize.
I needed proof. Not just for the council. For *me.* Because if I was going to survive ninety days in this fortress of shadows, I needed to know who I could trust. And right now, the only person who hadn’t lied to me was the dead.
My mother.
Her face flashed in my mind—pale, proud, unbroken even as the pyre consumed her name. I hadn’t been allowed to speak at her trial. Hadn’t been allowed to weep. I’d stood in the back of the chamber, hidden in the shadows, and watched them erase her.
And now, her killer sat on the throne.
Or did he?
Kael’s marginal note haunted me: *Overruled by Vexis. King’s plea for clemency denied.*
He’d tried to save her.
And failed.
Was that redemption? Or just another layer of manipulation?
I didn’t know. But I knew this—Vexis had wanted the bond to form. He’d orchestrated the ritual. He’d *smiled* when it happened. And now, he was letting Kael send me to Duskrend, the most volatile province in the Eastern Territories.
Why?
Because he thought I’d die here?
Or because he thought I’d *break?*
Either way, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
I turned to leave, but a sound stopped me—soft, rhythmic. Footsteps. Slow. Confident.
Then a voice, low and honeyed, dripping with false warmth.
“So *you’re* the one who touched him.”
I turned.
She stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the torchlight—tall, lithe, draped in nothing but a long, open black shirt that barely covered her thighs. Her skin was the color of moonlight on ash, her hair a cascade of ink-black waves that fell past her waist. Her eyes—crimson, like Kael’s—locked onto mine with a predator’s focus.
And on her left hand, gleaming like a brand, was a ring.
Black onyx, set in silver, carved with the same sigil as Kael’s signet.
My breath caught.
“You must be Nyx,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
She smiled. Slow. Deliberate. Like she already knew she’d won. “And you’re the little witch who thinks she can replace me.”
She stepped forward, the shirt parting with each movement, revealing the curve of her hip, the smooth line of her thigh. She wasn’t just wearing Kael’s shirt.
She was *wearing his scent.*
Winter pine. Dark earth. Iron.
My stomach twisted.
“I’m not trying to replace anyone,” I said. “I was *claimed.* Not chosen.”
“Claimed?” She laughed, a sound like broken glass. “Is that what he’s calling it now? How sweet. He used to call it *binding.* Or *blood-sharing.* Or, my favorite—*pleasure.*”
She traced a finger down her collarbone, then lower, stopping just above her breast. And there—just visible beneath the edge of her shirt—a mark.
A bite.
Deep. Fresh. Still healing.
My pulse spiked.
“He likes it when I scream his name,” she murmured, voice dropping to a whisper. “Especially when he bites me *here.*” She pressed two fingers against the mark, her lips parting on a soft moan. “You should hear him. The way he growls. The way he *takes* me. Like he’s starving.”
I clenched my jaw. The bond flared, a hot spike of jealousy so sharp it stole my breath. I shouldn’t care. I *couldn’t* care. Kael was my enemy. His past was none of my business.
But the bond didn’t listen to reason.
It only knew *hunger.*
And right now, it was screaming.
“If you’re so close to him,” I said, voice cold, “why aren’t you wearing his ring on your finger instead of his shirt on your body?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “Because he gave it to me as a *gift.* Not a promise. And I keep it close. Very close.” She slid a hand between her thighs, then brought it up, slow, letting her fingers trail along the inside of her arm. “He likes it when I wear it *there.*”
Disgust curled in my gut. This wasn’t just a rival. This was a *performance.* A calculated display of ownership, designed to break me.
And it was working.
Because no matter how much I told myself I didn’t care, no matter how many times I reminded myself that Kael was a monster, a liar, a murderer—
Part of me *ached.*
Part of me wanted to know what it felt like to have his teeth in my skin. To hear him growl my name. To be wanted like that—desperately, violently, *completely.*
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
“You’re pathetic,” I said, stepping forward. “Using sex as a weapon. Did he tire of you? Is that why you’re slinking around in his clothes like a discarded pet?”
She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head, studying me. “You think I’m afraid of you? A half-breed with a dagger in her boot and a death wish in her eyes?” She stepped closer, her scent hitting me—vampire musk, laced with something darker: desire, decay, *possession.* “I’ve been his blood-mate. His lover. His *equal.* And I still am. Because no matter what that cursed bond says, he’ll always come back to me. He *needs* me.”
“And what do you need?” I shot back. “Validation? Attention? Or just the thrill of watching me squirm?”
Her eyes flashed. “I need *him.* And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take him from me.”
“Then you’ll have to kill me,” I said. “Because I’m not leaving.”
“Oh, you will,” she purred. “One way or another. The bond will consume you. Or he’ll grow tired of you. Or *I’ll* make sure you’re gone.”
She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek. I didn’t pull away. Didn’t blink.
“You smell like storm,” she murmured. “And iron. Like you’re made of thunder and blood.” She inhaled deeply. “But underneath? Fear. So much fear. You’re afraid of him. Afraid of the bond. Afraid of what you *want.*”
My breath hitched.
“And that,” she whispered, “is why you’ll lose.”
Then she turned and walked away, the shirt swaying with each step, the ring glinting on her finger like a warning.
I stood there, trembling, my skin burning where she’d touched me. The bond pulsed, a low, aching throb, like it knew I was unraveling.
She was right.
I *was* afraid.
Not of death. Not of pain.
But of *wanting* him.
Of needing him.
Of becoming just another woman who’d been claimed and discarded.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breath. But the scent of him—of *them*—still clung to the air. I could almost feel his mouth on my neck, his hands on my waist, his voice in my ear: *You’re already mine.*
I turned and left the war room, my boots clicking too loud in the silence. I didn’t know where I was going. Just *away.* Away from the memories. Away from the bond. Away from the truth I couldn’t face.
But the corridors of the keep were a labyrinth of shadows and steel, and no matter how fast I walked, I couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched.
Then—voices.
Low. Familiar.
I stopped at the end of a narrow hall, hidden in the gloom. Kael’s chambers were just ahead. The door was ajar.
And inside—Nyx.
She stood with her back to me, her bare shoulders gleaming in the candlelight. Kael faced her, his expression unreadable.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.
“And you shouldn’t have let her touch you,” she shot back. “That bond is a curse. It’ll destroy you.”
“It’s already sealed.”
“Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
She stepped closer, her hand sliding up his chest. “You don’t need a fated bond. You have *me.* You always have.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just stared at her, his jaw tight.
“You know what I am,” she whispered. “You know what we are. Don’t throw that away for some half-breed witch with a death wish.”
“She’s not what you think,” he said.
“And you’re not what *I* think?” she challenged. “You used to beg for my blood. For my touch. For my *scream.* Now you’re letting her *live* in your chambers?”
“She’s my co-ruler.”
“She’s your *weakness.*”
He didn’t answer.
And in that silence, I felt it—the bond, flaring like a star collapsing. Pain lanced through my chest, sharp and sudden, stealing my breath. My vision blurred. For a second, I thought I’d been stabbed.
But it wasn’t a blade.
It was *jealousy.*
Pure. Vicious. *Unbearable.*
I turned and ran.
I didn’t know where I was going. Just *away.* Away from the keep. Away from the bond. Away from the truth that I was losing myself.
I burst into the courtyard, the cold wind slapping my face. The sky was black, the moon a sliver of bone. I stumbled toward the stables, my boots slipping on the bloodstone. I needed a horse. Needed to ride. Needed to *escape.*
But the bond wouldn’t let me.
Twenty-four hours apart. Fever. Hallucinations. Death.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breath. I couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t even *think* without the bond screaming in my veins.
And then—Riven.
He stepped out of the shadows, his armor gleaming, his expression unreadable.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I snapped.
“No,” he agreed. “But you need to breathe.”
I glared at him. “You saw her. In his chambers. In his *shirt.*”
He didn’t deny it. Just nodded. “Nyx. She’s been coming here for years. Claims she’s his blood-mate. Says he bit her in passion. Says he promised her the throne.”
“And is it true?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ve never seen him look at anyone like he looks at *you.* Not even her.”
My breath caught.
“He’s cold,” Riven continued. “Controlled. But with you? He’s… *alive.* Like something long dead has started beating again.”
I shook my head. “It’s the bond. It’s magic. It’s not real.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you’re the only one who’s ever made him *feel* something.”
I looked away. The wind howled, carrying the scent of iron and storm.
“I came here to kill him,” I whispered.
“And now?”
I didn’t answer.
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.
I turned and walked back toward the keep, my steps slow, my heart heavy.
But as I passed the war room, I stopped.
The door was open.
And on the table—where I’d left it—was the map of the northern border.
But now, something was different.
A single drop of blood, fresh and glistening, had been smeared across the eastern ridge.
The breach point.
My breath caught.
Someone had been here.
Someone had *known.*
And they’d left a message.
I reached for the map, my fingers trembling.
The game had changed.
And this time, I wasn’t just playing for survival.
I was playing for my soul.
—
I waited until midnight.
The keep was silent, the torches dimmed, the sentries changed. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a steady pulse—Kael was in his chambers, awake, restless. I could feel him, like a second heartbeat, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
But I couldn’t go to him.
Not yet.
Not until I knew the truth.
I slipped through the corridors like a ghost, my boots silent on the stone, my glamour a thin veil over my presence. The witch-mark on my palm burned beneath my glove, a warning. This was forbidden. To enter the king’s private study without permission was a death sentence. But I wasn’t here for permission.
I was here for answers.
The study was behind a heavy iron door, sealed with a blood-lock. I pressed my palm to the sigil, whispering the incantation—*Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat.* Blood opens, truth reigns.
The door groaned open.
Inside, the room was small, circular, lit by a single floating orb of witch-light. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes, scrolls sealed in wax, ledgers bound in black leather. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it—a massive, silver-plated console, its surface etched with runes of encryption.
The Council’s private archive.
Only the king could access it.
Unless you had a blood-key.
I reached into my boot, pulling free a small vial—dark, viscous, still faintly warm. Kael’s blood. From the Moon Spring. From when I’d cut my palm on the edge of the pool, and he’d pressed his hand to mine, his fingers closing over mine, his voice low: *“Let me heal you.”*
I hadn’t healed.
But I’d taken his blood.
Now, I poured it onto the console’s activation plate.
The runes flared crimson. The screen flickered to life.
ACCESS GRANTED: BLOOD-KEY AUTHENTICATED.
I exhaled. My hands trembled as I typed—*Seraphine Veyra. Trial 387. Blood Era.*
The screen blinked.
CLASSIFIED. LEVEL 9 CLEARANCE REQUIRED.
I typed again—*Kael Duskbane. Blood Ledger. Marginal Notes.*
ACCESS GRANTED.
And there it was—his handwriting, scrawled in blood-red ink:
I failed you, Seraphine. But I won’t fail her.
My breath caught.
Then—another file. Hidden. Encrypted. Labeled: *Project Phoenix.*
I clicked.
The screen split—video footage, grainy, flickering. A council chamber. My mother, standing in the center, her head high, her voice steady. *“I did not conspire with the werewolves. I did not betray the Council. I served this realm with honor, and I will not be silenced.”*
Then—Vexis, stepping forward, his smile sharp. *“Then let the oath be tested.”*
My mother knelt. A fae blade was placed against her palm. She spoke the words—*“I swear by blood and bone, I have not betrayed the Council.”*
The blade glowed silver.
And then—black.
The Council gasped.
“She lied,” Vexis said. “The oath is broken. Sentence: Erasure.”
But I knew the truth.
The blade had been tampered with. The oath hadn’t been broken.
She’d been framed.
And then—another file. Audio. Kael’s voice, low, raw, speaking to an unseen advisor.
“I fought for her. I pleaded for clemency. I offered my own life in exchange. But Vexis had already decided. He wanted her gone. And when I refused to bow, he made me watch. Made me remember. Made me *fail.*”
My throat tightened.
Then—text. A report from a vampire informant.
Subject: Vexis. Motive: Power consolidation. Plan: Eliminate unclaimed fae heirs to prevent fated bonds with rival houses. Target: Crimson Veyra. Status: Active.
My blood ran cold.
He wasn’t just after my mother.
He was after *me.*
And Kael—
Kael had *protected* me.
By claiming me. By binding me. By making me his.
Not as a weapon.
As a *shield.*
I pressed my hand to my mouth, tears burning behind my eyes. All this time, I’d thought he was the monster.
But the real monster had been smiling from the Council dais, whispering lies into his ear, playing him like a puppet.
Vexis.
And I’d been so focused on hating Kael that I’d nearly missed it.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar.
Footsteps.
I turned.
Kael stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the torchlight, his coat whispering against the stone. Not angry. Not even tense. Just… *there.* Like he’d known I’d come. Like he’d been waiting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.
“I needed to know,” I whispered.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “And now you do.”
“You fought for her,” I said. “You *tried* to save her.”
“And failed,” he said. “But I kept her last request. I kept *you* alive.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked me to,” he said. “And because the moment I saw you, I *recognized* you. Not just as her daughter. As *mine.*”
I stared at him. The bond pulsed between us, no longer a leash, no longer a curse.
A *lifeline.*
“You let me hate you,” I said, voice breaking.
“And if I hadn’t?” he asked. “Would you have let me near you? Would you have let the bond form? Would you have *lived?*”
“You don’t get to decide that!” I shouted, shoving him. “You don’t get to play martyr and expect me to *thank* you!”
He didn’t budge. Just caught my wrists, twisted them behind my back, and *pinned* me against the console—hard, fast, *final.*
My breath came in gasps. His chest pressed against mine. His eyes—crimson, wild, *alive*—bored into me.
“No,” he growled. “I don’t get to decide. But I *do* get to protect you. To fight for you. To *burn* for you.”
“You don’t owe me anything!”
“I don’t *owe* you,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I *want* you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you. And I’ll be damned if I let Vexis take you from me too.”
My pulse spiked.
The bond flared—a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
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 into the console. A scroll clattered to the floor, but neither of us moved. The bond roared, a surge of heat so intense I thought I’d combust. My hands clawed 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.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “You don’t hate me. You *need* me. Just like I need you.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his hand slid down, over my hip, my thigh, then under my robe, fingers gripping the back of my knee, lifting my leg around his waist. I gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his mouth crashing back onto mine.
This time, I didn’t fight.
Didn’t resist.
I arched into him, my mouth opening wider, my tongue tangling with his. He tasted like blood and power, like danger and *home.* I hated it. I hated *him.*
But I couldn’t let go.
His other hand slid up my side, beneath my arm, until his fingers tangled in my hair. He tilted my head back, his eyes burning into mine. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“No,” I whispered.
He kissed me again—harder, deeper, *fiercer.* His hips ground against mine, his erection a brand through the fabric. I moaned into his mouth, my body arching, my hands clawing at his coat.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough, his breath hot against my lips. “Or I’ll keep you like this—pressed against this console, aching, *needing,* until you beg for me.”
“You’re a monster,” I breathed.
“And you love it,” he said, his hand sliding up my thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. “You love how I touch you. How I *take* you. How I make you feel *alive.*”
My breath caught.
And then—his thumb pressed against 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 thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him again.
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 console, 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. “You don’t get to ruin me,” I whispered, my voice raw. “You don’t get to *break* me.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just stared at me, his gaze burning. “No,” he said. “But I’ll *love* you. And if that ruins you—” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then I’ll ruin you every damn day until you can’t remember a time you weren’t mine.”
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.
He lowered my leg slowly, his hand sliding from beneath my robe, his fingers brushing my inner thigh as he pulled away. 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 reached out, slow, and took my hand.
Our fingers intertwined.
The bond flared—a slow, steady pulse, like a heartbeat.
Not a leash.
Not a curse.
A *promise.*
“You were right,” I said, my voice raw. “But I still don’t know if I can trust you.”