I woke to silence.
Not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of dawn. But the kind of stillness that comes after a storm—the air thick, spent, every breath a ghost of what had been. My body was heavy, sunk deep into the mattress, my limbs tangled in silk sheets that smelled like him: winter pine, dark earth, iron. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat I’d finally learned to match.
Kael was beside me.
Not touching. Not watching. Just… there.
He lay on his back, one arm flung across his eyes, his chest rising and falling in the dim candlelight. His coat was gone. His boots were gone. His rings—those cold silver bands etched with Duskbane sigils—were piled on the bedside table like discarded armor. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked… human. Vulnerable. The Hollow King, stripped of his shadow, his power, his lies.
And I had *healed* him.
The memory slammed into me—my hands on his chest, the surge of blood magic, the flood of memories, the way our souls had tangled in the fire of the bond. I’d seen him. Felt him. Known him. And he’d seen me. Not just the warrior. Not just the avenger. But the girl who’d watched her mother burn. The woman who’d sworn to kill him. The fool who’d started to care.
And still, he hadn’t turned away.
My throat tightened. I wanted to hate him. Wanted to slip out of bed, find my dagger, and carve that softness from his throat before he woke. But my body wouldn’t move. My hands wouldn’t reach for the blade. My heart—traitorous, broken, *beating*—refused to let me go.
Because I’d saved him.
And that terrified me more than any failure, any betrayal, any loss.
Because saving him meant I *wanted* him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the mission.
But because he’d chosen me. Again. Even when I didn’t deserve it.
Even when I’d tried to destroy him.
And that—more than any oath, more than any magic—was the one thing I couldn’t survive.
—
I must have drifted.
Because the next thing I knew, I was dreaming.
Not a memory. Not a vision. But a fever dream—raw, unfiltered, *real.*
I was back in the Obsidian Spire. The Council chamber. The air thick with incense and blood. My mother stood 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.”*
And then—Vexis. Stepping forward, his smile sharp. *“Then let the oath be tested.”*
She knelt. The fae blade pressed to 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.
“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—Kael. Standing at the edge of the dais, his face cold, his eyes empty. But beneath it—*grief.* A flicker. A crack. A whisper of something he’d buried for centuries.
And then—me. A child. Twelve years old. Hidden in the shadows, my hands pressed to my mouth, my breath silent, my heart breaking. I hadn’t been allowed to speak. Hadn’t been allowed to weep. I’d stood there, and watched them erase her.
And then—fire.
The pyre. The silver ink burning. The silence where her name used to be.
And then—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.”*
The dream shifted.
Now I was in the war room. Kael on his knees, head bowed, voice raw. *“I failed you. I let them hurt you. I let them doubt you. And I will spend every day from now until my death making it right.”*
And then—me, turning away. My hands clenched into fists, my heart pounding like a war drum.
And then—Nyx. In his chambers. Her hand on his chest. Her lips on his neck. Her voice, low, seductive. *“You used to beg for my blood. For my touch. For my scream.”*
But it wasn’t true.
It was a lie. A performance. A knife meant for me.
And then—Kael’s voice, quiet, firm: *“You’re not what I think?”* And then, softer: *“She’s not what you think.”*
The dream shifted again.
Now I was in the crypts. Nyx on her knees, gasping, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. Fear? Regret? *Envy?* And Kael, his hand still around her throat, his voice low, deadly: *“You will not touch her. You will not speak her name. And if you ever come near her again, I will bury you with the kings and let the worms feast on your lies.”*
And then—me, standing in the courtyard. Cold wind on my face. The sky black. The moon a sliver of bone. And Kael, carrying me through the keep, his face pale, his jaw tight, his hands gripping me like I might vanish. *“Don’t leave me,”* he murmured. *“Not now. Not ever.”*
And then—me, pressing my palms to his chest, whispering the incantation—*Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat.* Blood opens, truth reigns.
And then—connection.
Not just through the bond.
Through *us.*
I felt him—his pain, his fear, his love, his guilt, his need. I saw his memories—his first love’s execution, his century of silence, the moment our hands touched, the way his breath caught when I walked into a room.
And I let him feel me.
My mother’s trial. The pyre. The silence where her name used to be. The dagger in my boot. The vow to kill him.
And then—us.
The near-kiss in the war room. The blood-sharing ritual. The way his hands felt on my skin. The way his voice sounded when he said, *“You’re already mine.”*
The dream shifted.
Now I was in his chambers. My lips brushing his. Not a kiss. A *promise.* And then—his mouth crashing down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
His hands fisted in my hair, his body pressing me into the bed, his 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 him at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And then—
Stillness.
He gasped, his body arching, his hands flying to my waist. His skin cooled. His breath steadied. The blood at his lip stopped.
He was alive.
And I was—
Shattered.
Because I hadn’t just healed him.
I’d *felt* him.
And I’d liked it.
And then—
Darkness.
—
I woke with a gasp.
My body was drenched in sweat. My gloves were gone. My gown was tangled around my waist. My skin burned. My heart pounded. The bond pulsed, a slow, aching throb, like it knew I was unraveling.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar.
Footsteps.
Kael was beside me, a damp cloth in his hand, his coat whispering against the stone. He didn’t speak. Just sat on the edge of the bed, his presence a wall at my back, and pressed the cool fabric to my forehead.
“You’re burning up,” he said, voice low.
“The poison,” I whispered.
“It’s gone,” he said. “I drained it. Burned it out. But your body’s still fighting. The fever will pass.”
“And you?”
“I’m fine,” he said. But his face was pale. His hands trembled. Blood still stained the corner of his lip—dark, thick, *wrong.*
“You’re not fine,” I said. “You took the poison. You could have died.”
“And you would have,” he said. “If I hadn’t.”
My breath caught. “Why would you do that? Why would you risk your life for me?”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed the cloth to my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse point. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, voice breaking. “You don’t get to play martyr and expect me to *thank* you.”
“I don’t want your thanks,” he said. “I want your trust.”
“And if I give it?”
“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away. Just reached up, my fingers brushing his cheek, his jaw, the blood at his lip. “You don’t get to die,” I whispered. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Then stay,” he said. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
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 bed, 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 gown, 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 gown, 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.”
“And I don’t know if I can trust you either,” he said. “But I know this—I can’t live without you.”
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.