The peace didn’t last.
It never does.
One night of blood and breath shared in sacred rite, one moment of surrender in the heat of the bond’s flood—and still, the world turned on its axis of lies, of power, of betrayal. I should have known better. Four centuries of rule had taught me: trust is a luxury, and peace is just the silence before the storm.
And yet, for a moment, I’d believed.
When Crimson’s lips met mine in that ritual, when her blood mingled with mine and the bond roared through us like a star collapsing, I’d felt it—*truth.* Not the cold, calculated truth of politics or power, but something raw, unfiltered, *real.* I’d seen her. Felt her. Known her. And she’d seen me. Not the Hollow King. Not the monster who ruled through fear. But the man who’d failed. Who’d grieved. Who’d carried a century of guilt like a shroud.
And still, she hadn’t turned away.
She’d kissed me back.
Not out of duty. Not out of magic.
Out of *want.*
And gods help me, I’d let myself believe it meant something.
But by dawn, the relic was gone.
—
I found out during the morning council.
The vault seal had held. The sentry was alive. The Heart of Duskbane—our most sacred artifact, the vessel said to contain the soul of the first Duskbane king—was missing. Not stolen in violence. Not taken in battle.
Vanished.
Like smoke.
Lyra stood at the war table, her molten silver eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. “It’s gone. The seal shows no breach. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. It’s as if it simply… disappeared.”
My jaw tightened. “Impossible. The vault is warded. Only two blood-keys can open it—mine, and the High Priestess’s. And she’s been in Nocturne since the ritual.”
“Then someone forged a key,” Torvin said, arms crossed. “Or used dark magic.”
“Or,” Lyra said, turning to me, “someone with access walked out with it.”
All eyes turned to the empty space beside me.
Crimson.
She wasn’t there.
She’d been summoned to the archives an hour ago—something about cross-referencing old border treaties with current land claims. Riven had escorted her. But she hadn’t returned.
And now, the relic was gone.
“Where is she?” I asked, voice low.
“Still in the archives,” Riven said. “I left her reviewing scrolls.”
“Bring her,” I said.
“Kael,” Lyra said, stepping forward, “you can’t be serious. She’s your *betrothed.* You can’t suspect—”
“I suspect *everyone,*” I cut in, my voice like ice. “Especially those closest to me. Especially those with motive.”
“And what motive would she have?” Riven challenged. “To weaken your power? To destabilize your rule? She’s been working to *strengthen* it.”
“Or so she claims,” Lyra said. “But we all know why she’s here. Her mother was executed for treason. She came to Duskrend to expose corruption, to dismantle the Council’s authority. What better way than to steal the Heart and leave us vulnerable?”
“She didn’t steal it,” Riven said.
“How do you know?” Lyra shot back. “You’ve been defending her since she arrived. Are you loyal to the crown—or to her?”
“Enough,” I said, rising. “Bring her. Now.”
Riven hesitated, then nodded and left.
The others watched me—some with fear, some with suspicion, some with hunger. They wanted chaos. Wanted weakness. Wanted a reason to tear the peace apart.
And I had given them one.
By loving her.
—
She came in silence.
Her storm-colored eyes were sharp, her posture rigid, her gloved hands folded at her waist. She didn’t look at me. Not at first. Just stood at the end of the table, waiting.
“The Heart of Duskbane is missing,” I said.
Her breath caught—just a fraction, just enough. But I saw it. Felt it. The bond flared, a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a warning.
“And you think I took it,” she said, voice steady.
“I think someone with access did,” I said. “And you were the last one seen near the vault.”
“I was in the *archives,*” she said. “Two levels above. And I didn’t go near the vault.”
“No,” I agreed. “But you could have. And if you did, the bond would have screamed. I would have *felt* it.”
“And did you?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Did the bond scream when I lied to you about the sentry’s killer? When I said Vexis came to me in a dream? When I said I didn’t trust you?”
My jaw clenched. “Yes. Every time.”
“Then why don’t you trust me now?”
“Because this isn’t a lie,” I said. “This is theft. And if you didn’t take it, then someone else did. Someone who wants to destroy you.”
“And you’re letting them,” she said, voice low. “You’re standing here, letting them paint me as a thief, as a traitor, as the enemy. After everything we’ve done. After the bond. After the ritual. And you’re *letting them.*”
The bond flared—a hot spike of pain that made my vision blur. Guilt. Shame. *Fear.* She was right. I was letting them. Because I was afraid. Afraid that if I defended her too fiercely, they’d see the truth—that I cared. That I *loved.* And in this world, love is weakness. Love is leverage.
“I’m doing my duty,” I said, voice cold.
“No,” she said. “You’re doing *theirs.* You’re letting Vexis win. Again.”
“Vexis?” Lyra sneered. “Now you’re blaming the Seelie Councillor? Convenient.”
“It’s not convenient,” Crimson said, turning to her. “It’s *true.* He’s been trying to frame me since the beginning. The sabotage at the wards. The sentry’s murder. The fake theft. It’s all part of the same game—make me the villain so you’ll turn on me. So *he’ll* turn on me.” She looked at me, her eyes burning. “And it’s working.”
The room stilled.
Even Riven looked uneasy.
“Prove it,” Lyra said.
“I don’t have to,” Crimson said. “You already know. You’ve seen how he moves. How he lies. How he uses people. And now, he’s using *you.*”
“And what about the relic?” Torvin asked. “If she didn’t take it, where is it?”
“Hidden,” I said, stepping forward. “Not stolen. The seal wasn’t broken. No forced entry. It’s still in the keep. Someone took it and concealed it, knowing the moment it was reported missing, suspicion would fall on her.”
“Then find it,” Lyra said. “And if you do, we’ll know who the real thief is.”
“And if you don’t?” Crimson asked.
“Then you’ll answer for it,” I said, voice low. “Not as my betrothed. Not as my co-ruler. As a suspect. And if the evidence points to you, you’ll face the Council’s judgment.”
She stared at me. The bond flared—a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. Pain. Betrayal. *Heartbreak.*
And then—she turned and walked out.
—
I didn’t sleep that night.
I paced the keep, my boots echoing in the silence, my coat whispering against the stone. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, aching throb, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. I could feel her—agitated, angry, *afraid.* But I didn’t go to her. Didn’t call her. Didn’t try to mend what I’d broken.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid that if I saw her, if I touched her, if I *spoke* to her, I’d admit the truth—that I believed her. That I trusted her. That I *loved* her.
And love is a weapon.
One that can be turned against you.
So I searched.
Alone.
I tore through the keep—chambers, vaults, archives, barracks. I questioned the sentries, the servants, the envoys. I scoured the blood-ledger, the surveillance runes, the shadow-walk logs. Nothing.
The relic was gone.
Or hidden so well even I couldn’t find it.
And then—
A flicker.
Not in the logs.
In the bond.
A pulse. Sharp. Sudden. Like a scream.
I turned.
And there she was.
Standing in the doorway of her chambers, her gown torn at the shoulder, her glove split, blood welling beneath the fabric. Her storm-colored eyes were wide, her breath ragged.
“They came for me,” she said, voice trembling. “Nyx. And Lyra. They broke in. Tore through my things. Said they were searching for the relic. Said they had your orders.”
My blood ran cold.
“I didn’t give any orders,” I said, stepping forward.
“Then why did they have a warrant?” she shot back. “Signed with your seal? Your *blood?*”
I stared at her. The bond flared—a hot pulse of rage that made my vision blur. Someone had forged my seal. Used my name. My authority. To attack *her.*
And I’d let it happen.
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“But you *let* them,” she said, stepping back. “You let them tear my room apart. Let them humiliate me. Let them make me the enemy. And for what? To prove you’re still in control? To prove you don’t care?”
“I care,” I said, voice rough.
“Then *act* like it,” she hissed. “Or stop pretending.”
She turned to leave.
But I moved faster.
In a blur of shadow, I was in front of her, my hand on her wrist, pulling her close. Her breath hitched. The bond *screamed,* a wave of heat that stole my breath, pooled low in my belly.
“You don’t get to walk away,” I murmured, my voice rough, my breath warm against her lips. “Not this time.”
“And you don’t get to touch me,” she said, her voice breaking. “Not after what you let them do.”
“I didn’t let them,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“But you *could* have,” she said. “You could have trusted me. You could have defended me. But you didn’t. You stood there and let them paint me as a thief. As a liar. As the enemy.”
My grip tightened. “I was doing my duty.”
“No,” she said. “You were doing *nothing.* You were letting them win. And you know what? Maybe they’re right. Maybe I *am* the enemy. Maybe I *should* have taken it. Maybe I *should* have burned your legacy to ash.”
The bond flared—a surge so intense I thought I’d die. Pain. Guilt. *Need.*
And then—my mouth was on hers.
Not a kiss.
A *claim.*
Hard. Desperate. *Needing.* My tongue slid against hers, my hands fisting in her hair, my body pressing her against the wall. The world spun. 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.
She should have pushed me away.
She should have fought.
But instead, 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 screamed, a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. My hands slid down, over her hip, her thigh, then under her gown, fingers brushing the inside of her leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
She gasped, her body arching, her hands flying to my shoulders for balance.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she hissed.
“I already do,” I said, my thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. Her core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—my fingers brushed her clit, slow, deliberate, through the fabric.
She *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* Her back arched, her hips grinding against my hand, her body trembling. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. Her core clenched, *aching* for more.
“You don’t get to want me,” she hissed, her voice breaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
“I already do,” I said, my fingers circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
She slapped me.
I didn’t stop.
Just laughed—a low, dark sound—and pressed harder.
She came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* Her body convulsed, her thighs clamping around my hand, her nails digging into my shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
And when it was over, she collapsed against me, her breath ragged, her skin burning.
I didn’t let go.
Just held her, my arms tight around her waist, my face buried in her neck. “You’re already mine,” I murmured, my voice rough, my breath warm against her skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
She didn’t answer.
Just clung to me, her fingers digging into my coat, her body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
She wasn’t here to destroy me.
She was here to *save* me.
And I’d let the world try to break her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She didn’t move. Just stayed in my arms, her breath warm against my neck.
And then—softly—she said, “Prove it.”
—
We found the relic at dawn.
Not in Nyx’s chambers. Not in Lyra’s. Not even in the vault.
In the war room.
Hidden beneath the obsidian table, tucked inside a false panel Riven had discovered while reinforcing the legs. The Heart of Duskbane sat in its velvet-lined box, pulsing faintly with crimson light.
“It was never stolen,” Riven said. “Just moved. And the warrant? Forged. The seal is a perfect replica, but the blood isn’t yours. It’s synthetic. Vampire serum mixed with iron.”
I stared at it. The pieces fell into place—Lyra’s sudden accusation. Nyx’s midnight visit to my chambers. The way they’d moved in tandem, like they’d planned it.
“They’re working together,” I said.
“And Vexis is behind it,” Crimson said, stepping forward. “He gave them the serum. The seal. The plan. All to destroy me. To make you doubt me.”
I turned to her. The bond pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. “I never doubted you.”
“You didn’t trust me,” she said. “And that’s the same thing.”
I didn’t argue. Just reached out, slow, and took her 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. “And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
But I know I can’t live without you.”