The vault door sealed behind us with a groan of stone and magic, the sigils flaring crimson as the enchantments reactivated. Kael held the Heart of Duskbane in one hand, its pulse slow and deep, like a sleeping heart. The air still reeked of blood—the sentry’s, warm and coppery, pooling beneath his body—and something darker: betrayal. The killer hadn’t come for the relic. They’d come to frame me. To make me the monster in this story.
And it would have worked.
If Kael hadn’t already known.
“You set a trap,” I said, voice low, stepping over the body. “You knew they’d come.”
He didn’t look at me. Just tucked the relic into a silver-lined pouch at his belt. “I suspected. After what you told me. After the bond screamed when you lied.”
My breath caught. “You *felt* it?”
“Every time,” he said, turning. “When you said Vexis came to you in a dream. When you said you were watching the vault alone. When you said you didn’t trust me.”
I flinched. “And yet you didn’t stop me.”
“No,” he agreed. “I followed. I watched. I waited. Because I needed to know—would you run? Would you hide? Or would you stay and fight?”
My pulse spiked. “And?”
“You stayed,” he said. “Even when you thought I’d blame you. Even when you thought the bond would burn you alive. You stood your ground.”
He stepped closer, his presence a wall at my back. “That’s not the act of a traitor. That’s the act of a queen.”
I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to scream. To slash at him. To remind him that I wasn’t his. That I didn’t belong to him. That I was here to avenge my mother, not become his consort.
But the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t just bound to him by magic.
I was bound by *need.*
And he knew it.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered.
“And you’re afraid of me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my jawline. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then tell me,” I challenged. “Why am I afraid?”
“Because you don’t fear my power,” he said. “You fear your own. You fear what you’re capable of when you stop running. When you stop hiding. When you stop pretending you don’t *want* me.”
The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in my chest. My breath hitched. My body arched toward him, just a fraction, just enough.
He saw it.
And he smiled.
Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s smile. “You’re learning.”
—
We didn’t speak on the way back to his chambers.
The keep was silent, the torches dimmed, the sentries changed. The bond pulsed between us, steady, insistent, but no longer painful. Just… present. Like a second heartbeat I couldn’t silence.
When we reached his door, he stopped. “You’ll stay with me tonight.”
“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.”
“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 my 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 have a ritual at dawn.”
“What kind of ritual?”
“A blood-sharing,” he said. “Diplomatic. With the werewolf envoys. It’s required to seal the new border agreement.”
My blood ran cold. “And if I refuse?”
“Then the clans will see it as a sign of weakness,” he said. “And the peace we’ve built will shatter.”
I stared at him. “You’re asking me to drink your blood.”
“Not just drink,” he said. “Kiss. Mouth to mouth. It’s part of the rite.”
The bond flared—a hot spike of awareness that made my skin tighten. I’d heard of this. A ritual of union, sealed by shared breath and blood. It wasn’t just political. It was *intimate.* A psychic flood of memories, emotions, desires. A merging of souls.
And if we did it—
We’d be exposed. Raw. *Known.*
“You want me to let you into my mind,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I want you to let me *in.* And I’ll let you in too.”
My breath caught. “And if I see something I don’t like?”
“Then you’ll know the truth,” he said. “And if I see something I don’t like?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Then I’ll still want you. Because I already do.”
—
Dawn came too soon.
I stood in the ceremonial chamber, dressed in a gown of deep crimson silk, my witch-mark hidden beneath black gloves. The air was thick with the scent of incense and blood, the torches flickering low. The werewolf envoys stood at the far end—three Alphas, their eyes glowing amber, their fangs bared in what passed for a smile.
Kael stood beside me, his coat whispering against the stone, his crimson eyes scanning the room. He looked like a king. A god. A monster.
And I was bound to him.
The High Priestess stepped forward, her hands raised. “By blood and bone, by fang and flame, we gather to seal the pact between vampire and wolf. Let the bond be witnessed. Let the blood be shared. Let the peace be *sealed.*”
She handed Kael a ceremonial dagger—silver, etched with runes of binding. He took it, then cut a shallow line across his palm. Blood welled, dark and thick, dripping onto the obsidian floor.
Then he turned to me.
“Your turn,” he said, offering the blade.
My fingers trembled as I took it. I sliced my palm, wincing as the blood rose. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like it knew what was coming.
The Priestess raised her hands. “Now, seal the pact. Mouth to mouth. Blood to blood. Let the bond be *consummated.*”
Kael stepped close.
His hand cupped my jaw.
His thumb brushed my bottom lip.
And then—his mouth was on mine.
Not a kiss.
A *claim.*
Hard. Desperate. *Needing.* His tongue slid against mine, his blood flooding my mouth—coppery, dark, *alive.* 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.
But deeper.
Further.
I saw him—*truly* saw him.
His first love, executed for treason. Her blood on his hands. His scream as they burned her name. The century of silence. The weight of rule. The loneliness. The fear.
And then—me.
The moment our hands touched. The shock. The recognition. The *hope.* The way his breath caught when I walked into a room. The way his pulse jumped when I challenged him. The way he *ached* for me—body, soul, *blood.*
And beneath it all—*need.*
Not for power. Not for control.
For *me.*
“You don’t get to want me,” I whispered, breaking the kiss, my voice raw.
“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 altar. The blood on our palms mingled, hot and slick, the bond roaring, 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 my gown, 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 altar, 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 felt that,” I whispered. “You felt *me.*”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just stared at me, his gaze burning. “And if I did?” he said. “Would you run? Or would you finally *stay?*”
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.