The eastern ridge breach had been sealed by dawn—reinforced with silver-threaded wards and patrolled by my enforcers. The saboteur, a turncoat witch from the northern garrison, was locked in the high cell, awaiting interrogation. The Bloodfang Clan’s raids had ceased. For now.
Peace, such as it was, had been bought.
But it wasn’t peace that mattered.
It was *perception.*
And Crimson had just changed it.
I stood at the war room window, watching the first light bleed over Blackmire’s jagged skyline. The city stirred beneath me—smoke curling from chimneys, the clang of weapons being sharpened, the low growl of werewolf sentries changing shifts. It was a place built on blood and silence. A place that knew how to survive.
And so did she.
She’d seen the truth in the sabotage—the precision, the targeting of loyalists, the message of division. She’d challenged me in front of my advisors, not with fear, but with *logic.* With *strategy.* And when I’d threatened her with the consequences of failure, she hadn’t flinched.
She’d *corrected* me.
And gods help me, I’d *listened.*
I’d ordered the next raider brought in alive. Not executed. Not displayed. *Interrogated.*
It was a risk. A dangerous one. The clans respected strength, not mercy. But Crimson had been right—fear bred rebellion. And if the people stopped believing in my power, my power meant nothing.
So I’d given her a win.
Not because I trusted her.
But because the bond didn’t lie.
And it had screamed when she’d spoken—hot, insistent, *alive.* Not with desire, not with rage.
With *recognition.*
As if my blood had known hers long before our hands had touched.
—
She entered the war room just after sunrise, dressed in a deep crimson gown that clung to her curves, her witch-mark hidden beneath black gloves. Her storm-colored eyes scanned the chamber, sharp, assessing. She didn’t look at me. Not at first.
Good.
If she had, I might have done something stupid.
Like pull her into my arms. Like taste the defiance on her lips. Like remind her—again—how much she *craved* me.
Instead, I nodded to the seat beside me. “You’re late.”
“I was reviewing the ward reports,” she said, taking her place. “The silver threads are holding. No further breaches.”
“And the raider?”
“Alive. In the lower vaults. Riven’s preparing the interrogation.”
I studied her. The shadows beneath her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands. She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t rested. Had spent the night digging through my files, uncovering secrets I’d buried for a century.
And still, she sat here, spine straight, voice steady, as if she hadn’t just shattered every wall I’d built around myself.
“You looked well-rested,” I said, voice dry.
She didn’t rise to the bait. Just lifted her chin. “I had work to do.”
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
Her gaze flickered—just for a second—to my left hand, where the ring Nyx had worn still glinted on my finger. A keepsake. A warning. A reminder of the woman who’d tried to break me once and failed.
“I found enough,” she said.
Enough to know I’d fought for her mother.
Enough to know I’d failed.
Enough to know I’d *protected* her.
And still, she hadn’t forgiven me.
Still, she hadn’t *trusted* me.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford.
—
The Council session began at midday.
The war room filled with advisors—vampires in black armor, werewolf lieutenants with sharpened teeth, witches with eyes like cracked glass. They took their seats around the obsidian table, their gazes flicking between us—cold, assessing, *hungry.*
They didn’t see a king and his co-ruler.
They saw a power struggle.
And they were waiting to see who would break first.
Lyra, the silver-eyed witch, spoke first. “The Bloodfang Clan demands tribute. They say the wards are still failing. That their lands are under threat.”
“The wards are *not* failing,” Crimson said, voice sharp. “They were *sabotaged.* By one of your own—Veyra’s report confirms it.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “And you have proof?”
“The breach point was on the eastern ridge,” Crimson said. “Thin soil. Weak ley lines. Easy to destabilize. But the attacks weren’t random. They targeted farms owned by loyalists—men who’ve paid tribute for decades. This wasn’t about territory. It was about *division.*”
“And who would benefit from that?” Torvin, the werewolf lieutenant, asked.
“Someone who wants chaos,” she said. “Someone who knows that fear breeds rebellion. And someone who knows that *you*—” She looked at me. “—rule through fear.”
The room stilled.
Even Riven, standing at the door, tensed.
I didn’t react. Just steepled my fingers, my expression unreadable. Let them see the challenge. Let them feel the tension.
Because this wasn’t just about the wards.
This was about *power.*
And Crimson was testing mine.
Lyra sneered. “So what? We hold a tea party for the raiders? Offer them cookies and diplomacy?”
“No,” Crimson said. “We expose the lie. We find the saboteur. We prove that the crown doesn’t rule through fear—but through *justice.*”
“Justice?” I asked, voice low. “You think justice matters here? In Duskrend, power is the only truth.”
“And if the people stop believing in your power?” she challenged. “If they see you as just another tyrant? Then your power *means nothing.*”
The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in my chest. My gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. She wasn’t afraid. Wasn’t cowed.
She was *leading.*
And gods help me, I *liked* it.
“You’re either very brave,” I said, “or very stupid.”
“Or both,” she said. “But I’m not wrong.”
I was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, I 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,” I said, “is mine to command. And I say we need answers, not corpses.”
I turned to Crimson. “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?” she asked.
“Then,” I said, voice low, “you’ll have proven you’re more than just a weapon in a dress.”
—
The session ended. The advisors filed out, whispering. Riven gave her a look—something like respect—before closing the door.
Then it was just us.
“You undermined me,” I said, rising from my seat.
“I corrected you,” she said, standing too.
I stepped close, my presence pressing against her. “You think you can walk into my kingdom and rewrite my rules?”
“I think,” she said, holding my gaze, “that if you want loyalty, you need more than fear. You need *trust.*”
“Trust is a weakness,” I growled.
“No,” she said. “It’s a weapon. And you’ve forgotten how to wield it.”
She was dangerous.
Not because she carried a dagger in her boot.
Because she carried *truth.*
And truth was the one thing I couldn’t control.
I moved faster than thought. One moment she was in front of me, the next my hand was on her waist, pulling her close. Her breath hitched. The bond *screamed,* a wave of heat that stole my breath, pooled low in my belly.
My other hand slid to her neck, not choking, not threatening—*claiming.* My thumb brushed her pulse point, and I felt it—her own heartbeat, wild, unsteady, syncing with mine.
“You don’t get to tell me how to rule,” I murmured, my voice rough, my breath warm against her lips. “You don’t get to walk into my world and change it.”
“But I already have,” she whispered.
My eyes burned. “You’re dangerous.”
“And you’re afraid of me.”
I laughed—a low, dark sound. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then why are you holding me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish?”
I stilled. My grip tightened. The bond flared, a surge so intense I swayed, my hands flying to her waist for balance.
And then—my mouth was on hers.
Not a kiss. A *claim.* Hard, desperate, teeth and heat and hunger. She gasped, and I took it, my tongue sliding against hers, my hand tightening in her hair. The world spun. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate her.
She should have pushed me away.
She should have fought.
But instead, her hands curled into my coat, and she kissed me back.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel it—*us.*
Then she wrenched back, breathless, heart pounding. “You don’t get to want me,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
I didn’t let go. My hand still gripped her waist, my thumb tracing slow circles on her hip. My breath was ragged. My eyes—crimson, wild—never left hers.
“I already do,” I said. “And you? You *crave* it.”
She slapped me.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. My head turned, but I didn’t release her. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly turned back, a thin line of blood at the corner of my lip.
She touched it with her thumb, then brought it to her mouth, tasting. “You taste like defiance,” I murmured. “And I’m going to devour every drop.”
Then I let her go.
She stumbled back, chest heaving, skin burning where I’d touched her. The bond pulsed, aching, *needy.*
“Get out,” she said, voice raw.
I didn’t answer. Just turned and walked to the door.
At the threshold, I paused. “You’ll learn, Crimson. One way or another.”
Then I was gone.
—
The raider was brought in at dusk.
A young werewolf, no older than twenty, his face bruised, his left arm broken. He knelt in the center of the interrogation chamber, his head bowed, his breath ragged. Riven stood behind him, silent, watchful.
“Name,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Name,” I repeated, voice colder.
“Kaelen,” he muttered.
“Of the Bloodfang Clan?”
“Yes.”
“You raided the eastern farms. Burned the crops. Slaughtered the livestock.”
“We were ordered to.”
“By whom?”
He hesitated.
I stepped forward, my shadow falling over him. “I don’t ask twice.”
“Alpha Torin,” he said.
My jaw tightened. Torin was one of my lieutenants. A loyalist. Or so I’d thought.
“Why?” I asked.
“He said the wards were failing. That we had to take the land before the vampires did.”
“And did you check the wards?”
“No.”
“You attacked loyalists. Men who’ve paid tribute for decades.”
“We didn’t know.”
“Ignorance is not an excuse,” I said. “But it is a weapon. And someone used you.”
He looked up, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know—”
“You *know* now,” I said. “And if you want to live, you’ll tell me everything.”
He nodded, trembling.
I turned to Riven. “Hold him. And bring me Torin.”
—
The next morning, the war room was packed.
Advisors. Enforcers. Clan representatives. All of them waiting to see what I would do.
And there, in the center of the chamber—Torin.
He stood tall, his armor gleaming, his expression unreadable. But I could smell it—fear. Guilt. *Deceit.*
“You ordered the raids,” I said.
He didn’t deny it. Just nodded. “The wards were failing. The clans were restless. I acted to protect our interests.”
“By attacking loyalists?”
“By securing land before it was lost.”
“And who told you the wards were failing?”
He hesitated. “A scout. From the northern garrison.”
“A witch,” I said. “One who’s now in my cell. Confirmed to have tampered with the wards. To have fed you false information.”
His jaw clenched.
“You were played,” I said. “And you played the clans into war.”
“I did what I thought was right.”
“And now,” I said, voice low, “you will answer for it.”
“What will you do?” Lyra asked. “Execute him?”
I didn’t answer. Just turned to Crimson.
She stood at the edge of the table, her storm-colored eyes sharp, her hands folded. She hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.
But I could feel her—the bond pulsing, steady, *calm.* As if she already knew.
“This is not just a military matter,” I said. “It is a matter of justice. Of trust. And so, it will be decided not by me—but by *her.*”
Every head turned.
Even Torin looked surprised.
“Me?” Crimson said.
“You wanted justice,” I said. “Now you have the power to give it.”
She stared at me. The bond flared—a slow, aching throb, like a heartbeat.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
“Torin,” she said, voice clear. “You acted on false information. You caused harm to loyal subjects. But you did not conspire. You were *used.*”
He nodded, relief flashing in his eyes.
“So,” she continued, “you will not be executed. But you *will* be stripped of rank. You will serve as a foot soldier in the border patrols for one year. And you will personally oversee the rebuilding of the farms you destroyed.”
Gasps. Murmurs.
But no one argued.
Because it was *fair.*
And fairness was a currency more powerful than fear.
She turned to me. “And the witch?”
“Life in the high cell,” I said. “No parole.”
She nodded. “Just.”
The advisors filed out, whispering. Riven gave her a nod—something like pride—before closing the door.
Then it was just us.
“You gave him mercy,” I said.
“I gave him justice,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
“And what if he betrays me again?”
“Then you’ll deal with it,” she said. “But today, you showed the clans that you’re not just a king who rules through fear. You’re a king who *listens.*”
I stepped close, my presence pressing against her. “And who taught me to listen?”
She didn’t back down. Just lifted her chin. “The woman you tried to destroy.”
“And failed,” I said.
“And *protected,*” she whispered.
The bond flared—a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. My hand lifted, slow, and I pressed it over her heart. Her pulse jumped. Mine synced with it.
“You’re not just a weapon,” I said, voice rough. “You’re a queen.”
She didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, until our bodies were flush, until I could feel the heat of her, the scent of her, the way her breath hitched when I touched her.
And then—her lips brushed mine.
Not a kiss. Not a claim.
A *promise.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My mouth crashed down on hers—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
Her hands flew to my chest, not to push me away, but to hold on. Her body arched into mine, her breath hot against my lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against hers, I whispered the only truth that mattered:
“You were right. And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
But I know I can’t live without you.”