The morning after the war room came like a blade through fog—sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. I woke tangled in silk sheets that smelled like him: winter pine, dark earth, iron. My body ached in ways I didn’t want to name—thighs sore, core tender, skin still humming where his mouth had been. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat I’d finally learned to match.
Kael was gone.
Not far. I could feel him—somewhere in the keep, moving, thinking, *feeling.* The bond didn’t lie. It never had. It only screamed when we lied to each other. And last night? We hadn’t lied. Not with words. Not with hands. Not with bodies.
We’d *fought.*
And then we’d *fucked.*
And then we’d *surrendered.*
I pressed my palms flat against the cool stone of the headboard, grounding myself. My gloves were gone. My gown was torn at the shoulder. My dagger—still in my boot—felt heavier than ever. Not a weapon. A reminder.
I was Crimson Veyra. Daughter of Seraphine. Witch. Warrior. Avenger.
And I’d just let the Hollow King take me on a war table, surrounded by maps of the very lands I was supposed to reclaim in my mother’s name.
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.
—
I dressed in silence.
Black leather boots. A deep crimson gown that clung to my curves. Gloves—fresh, unsplit—slid over my palms, hiding the witch-mark that still burned beneath. I didn’t look in the mirror. Didn’t need to. I could feel the changes—the way my skin still tingled where his teeth had grazed my neck, the way my pulse jumped when I thought of his hands on me, the way my body *ached* for more.
Weakness.
That’s what this was.
Not love. Not trust. Not even desire.
Weakness.
And in this world, weakness gets you killed.
I found him in the war room.
Of course I did.
He stood at the window, his coat whispering against the stone, his hands clasped behind his back. The obsidian table behind him was already cleared—maps refolded, inkwells replaced, blood-ink ledgers stacked with military precision. No trace of last night remained. No spilled ink. No scattered scrolls. No evidence that the king had just taken his betrothed like a man possessed.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just watched the city below, his expression unreadable, his body a wall.
But I felt him.
The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest. My breath hitched. Just a fraction. Just enough.
“You’re avoiding me,” I said, voice low.
“I’m working,” he said.
“And yet,” I said, stepping closer, “you haven’t touched a single scroll. You haven’t moved in an hour. You’ve just been standing there, staring at nothing.”
He turned then, slowly, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. “You’re one to talk. You spent the night in my bed. You let me touch you. You let me *take* you. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who’s hiding.”
My breath caught. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” he said, stepping closer. “You wrapped your legs around me. You moaned my name. You came on my fingers, on my cock, on this very table. And you didn’t stop me. You *told* me not to.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said, lifting my chin.
“It means *everything,*” he said, his voice rough. “It means you want me. It means you *need* me. It means you’re not just here to kill me.”
“And if I am?” I challenged. “If I still want to burn your legacy to ash?”
“Then do it,” he said. “But not after you’ve tasted me. Not after you’ve let me inside you. Not after you’ve *felt* me.”
The bond flared—a surge so intense I swayed, my hands flying to the table for balance. My core clenched, *aching* for more. My skin burned. My breath came fast.
He saw it.
And he *smiled.*
Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s smile. “You’re learning.”
—
We didn’t speak of it again.
Not then. Not later. Not when Riven arrived with reports of increased werewolf patrols along the eastern ridge. Not when Torin sent word of a suspected spy in the Bloodfang Clan. Not when the courier from Nocturne returned, this time bearing a sealed scroll from the Council.
We worked.
Side by side. Silent. Efficient. Like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The way his hand brushed mine when passing a map. The way his breath hitched when I leaned over the table. The way his eyes burned when I challenged him on troop deployment. It was all there—beneath the surface, simmering, *waiting.*
And then—
She came.
Nyx.
Not in chains. Not in rags. Not even in the high cell.
She walked into the war room like she owned it—barefoot, dressed in a sheer black gown that left nothing to the imagination, her crimson eyes glowing, her hair a curtain of ink-black waves. Her wrists were bandaged—fresh, clean linen—but she moved like a queen, not a prisoner.
“You’re out,” I said, voice flat.
“On Council order,” she said, her voice like smoke. “They deemed my confinement unjust. Said I was a victim of *political manipulation.*” She glanced at Kael. “Isn’t that right, my king?”
Kael didn’t react. Just steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. “The Council has spoken. You’re free to move within the keep. But if you approach Crimson again, I’ll have your tongue.”
She laughed—a low, honeyed sound. “Oh, I won’t need to. The truth will do that for me.”
My blood ran cold. “What truth?”
“That you’re not just his betrothed,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re his *whore.*”
The room stilled.
Even Riven tensed.
“You have no proof,” I said, voice steady.
“Oh, I do,” she said, lifting her wrist. The bandage had slipped, revealing not a healing wound—but a *bite mark.* Deep. Fresh. Purpled with blood. “He marked me last night. In his chambers. On his bed. He begged for it. He screamed my name. He *came* inside me.”
Lies.
All of it.
He’d been with me. In my room. On the war table. In his bed.
He hadn’t left.
But the mark was real.
And the Council didn’t need truth.
They needed scandal.
“You’re lying,” I said, stepping forward. “He was with me. All night.”
“And who will believe you?” she asked, smiling. “The half-breed witch with a blood debt? Or the king’s former blood-mate, the woman who’s worn his ring for decades?”
My breath caught.
She was right.
In their eyes, I was the interloper. The outsider. The weapon. The *threat.*
And she? She was the past. The legacy. The bloodline.
“I don’t need them to believe me,” I said. “I need *him* to.”
All eyes turned to Kael.
He didn’t flinch. Just studied Nyx, his crimson eyes unreadable. “Remove the bandage,” he said.
She hesitated. Then, slowly, unwound the linen.
The bite mark was there—deep, ragged, unmistakable. But something was wrong.
“That’s not my mark,” Kael said, voice low.
“What?” she asked, her smile faltering.
“My bite doesn’t bruise like that,” he said. “It leaves a silver scar. A crescent. You know that.”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re saying I forged it?”
“I’m saying you’re lying,” he said. “And if you don’t leave this room, I’ll have you dragged back to the high cell and this time, I’ll *personally* ensure you never speak again.”
She didn’t move. Just turned to me, her eyes burning. “You think you’ve won? You think he’ll always defend you? He let me wear his ring. He let me into his bed. He let me *scream* his name. And one day, when he’s tired of your defiance, when he’s sick of your lies, he’ll come back to me. And you’ll be nothing but a footnote in his reign.”
“And you’ll be nothing but a corpse,” I said, stepping forward. “Because if you ever touch him again, if you ever speak his name, if you ever *breathe* near me—I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to the wolves.”
She laughed—a broken, hollow sound. “You’re already losing him. Can’t you feel it? The bond is weakening. He’s starting to see you for what you are. A weapon. A tool. A *mistake.*”
“Get out,” Kael said, voice like ice.
She didn’t argue. Just turned and walked out, her bare feet silent on the stone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The war room fell silent.
And then—
“You should have killed her,” I said, voice low.
“And prove her right?” he asked. “That I’m ruled by desire? By vengeance? By *you?*”
“She’ll keep coming,” I said. “She’ll keep lying. She’ll keep trying to break us.”
“Let her,” he said. “The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do I.”
But the damage was done.
I could feel it—the bond, pulsing, *uneasy.* Not broken. Not severed. But… strained. Like a thread pulled too tight.
And worse—
I could feel *her.*
Nyx.
Not in the keep.
In the Council.
She’d already spoken. Already poisoned the well. Already turned the knives toward me.
And soon, they’d come for me.
Not with enforcers.
Not with warrants.
With *truth.*
—
They came at dusk.
The summons arrived on silver parchment, sealed with the Council’s sigil—a black sun eclipsed by a crescent moon. I was to appear before the Fae High Court at dawn. To answer for my conduct. To prove my loyalty.
“It’s a truth-ordeal,” I said, staring at the scroll.
Kael didn’t look up. Just continued reviewing troop reports. “Then you’ll pass.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will,” he said. “Because you’re not a traitor. You’re not a liar. You’re not a whore.”
My breath caught. “And what if they ask about last night?”
He looked up then, his crimson eyes burning. “Then you tell them the truth. That I took you. That you let me. That you *wanted* me. And that you’d do it again.”
“And if they exile me?”
“Then I’ll burn the Court to the ground,” he said. “And crown you queen over the ashes.”
My heart stopped.
He wasn’t joking.
He’d do it. For me.
And gods help me, I believed him.
—
I didn’t sleep.
Instead, I walked the keep—silent, deadly, a shadow in leather and crimson. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, aching throb, like it knew what was coming. I passed the crypts where Nyx had been caught with the serum. The courtyard where I’d collapsed from the poison. The war room where he’d taken me.
And then—
A flicker.
Not in the torchlight.
In the bond.
A pulse. Sharp. Sudden. Like a scream.
I turned.
And there she was.
Elara.
My mentor. My mother’s closest friend. The Seelie witch who’d gone into exile rather than swear allegiance to the Council. She stood in the corridor, her form shimmering like mist, her silver eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
“You’re late,” I said, voice tight.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve been hard to reach. The bond—it mutes your thoughts. Like a veil over your mind.”
“It’s not a veil,” I said. “It’s a *leash.*”
“Or a lifeline,” she countered. “Depends on how you wear it.”
“They’re calling me to the Fae High Court,” I said. “A truth-ordeal. To prove I’m not a traitor.”
She nodded. “And are you?”
“No,” I said. “But they’ll ask about Kael. About the bond. About last night.”
“And what will you say?”
“The truth.”
“Then you’ll survive,” she said. “But not unscathed. The ordeal will hurt. It will show them everything—your memories, your desires, your fears. They’ll see your mother’s execution. They’ll see your vow to kill him. They’ll see… *him.*”
“And if they exile me?”
“Then you’ll have to choose,” she said. “Vengeance. Or love. And whichever you pick—it will cost you everything.”
My breath caught. “And if I choose both?”
She smiled—a real one this time. “Then you’ll be the first.”
And then she was gone—dissolving into mist, leaving only the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine in the air.
I stood there, trembling, my skin still humming from her touch. The bond pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. I could feel Kael—he was in his chambers, awake, restless. Pacing. Thinking. *Feeling.*
And I could feel the truth in Elara’s warning.
The ordeal would happen at dawn.
And I had to be ready.
—
I didn’t go to him.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t call.
Just stood outside his door, my hand hovering over the handle, my breath steady, my heart a locked vault.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not with desire.
With *need.*
His need.
For me.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a mission.
As *his.*
I opened the door.
He was there—standing by the window, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned, his face pale, his jaw tight. He didn’t turn. Just whispered, “You’re here.”
“You called me,” I said.
“I didn’t have to,” he said. “The bond did.”
I stepped closer. “They’ll ask about us.”
“Then tell them,” he said. “Tell them I’m yours. That I’ll burn the world for you. That I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
My breath caught. “And if they exile me?”
“Then I’ll follow,” he said. “And if they kill me, I’ll rise from the ashes just to find you.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away. Just reached up, my fingers brushing his cheek, his jaw, the scar 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 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.
“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.