The night before the blood moon, the air in Duskrend thickened with the scent of iron and storm. Not just from the sky—though the clouds hung low and bruised, pregnant with lightning—but from *me.* From deep in my marrow, a heat began to coil, slow and insistent, like a serpent uncurling in my blood. I woke before dawn, drenched in sweat, my gloves clinging to damp skin, my gown twisted around my waist. The bond pulsed beneath my flesh, a slow, aching throb, but it wasn’t the only thing screaming.
Something deeper.
Older.
Something I’d buried since childhood.
I sat up, pressing my palms flat against the cool stone of the headboard, grounding myself. My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching,* though I couldn’t say why. Not desire. Not fear.
Hunger.
And then—memory.
My mother’s voice, low, urgent: *“You have their blood in you, Crimson. Not just mine. Not just your father’s. The wolf. The beast. It sleeps. But when the blood moon rises, it will wake. And if you don’t control it, it will consume you.”*
I’d thought she meant metaphor.
She hadn’t.
I’d known, of course, that my father was a warlock with distant lycan blood—enough to grant me strength, speed, a heightened sense for danger. But I’d never felt the *heat.* Never known the *pull.* Never understood why, on certain nights, my bones ached and my vision sharpened and the scent of blood made my mouth water.
Now I did.
The blood moon was rising.
And the wolf in me was waking.
—
I found Kael 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 littered with reports—werewolf pack movements, vampire sentinel rotations, supply lines to the northern border. But he wasn’t reading. Just staring at the horizon, where the first crimson edge of the moon bled through the clouds.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just said, “You feel it.”
Not a question.
A statement.
“You knew,” I said, stepping closer, my voice tight. “You knew about the lycan blood. About the heat.”
“I suspected,” he said, finally turning. His crimson eyes burned, not with desire, but with something darker—*fear.* “Your mother never spoke of it. But I’ve seen the signs. The way you move. The way you fight. The way your scent changes when you’re angry. When you’re afraid. When you’re… aroused.”
My breath hitched.
He saw it. But he didn’t smile. Just stepped closer, his presence pressing against me, his voice low. “The blood moon triggers it. Three days. That’s all you have. And when it peaks, the heat will consume you. You’ll lose control. And if you do—”
“I’ll shift?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “You’re not a full lycan. You won’t shift. But you’ll enter *estrus.* A mating fever. And every Alpha in a hundred miles will scent it. They’ll come for you. They’ll fight for you. They’ll *claim* you.”
My blood ran cold.
“And you?” I asked. “What will *you* do?”
His jaw tightened. “I’ll lock you in my chambers. I’ll post sentries. I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you.”
“And if I want to be touched?” I challenged, stepping closer. “If I *need* it?”
His breath caught. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest. “Then you’ll have to ask me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll suffer,” he said, voice rough. “Because I won’t take you unless you beg for it.”
My core clenched, *aching.* My skin burned. My breath came fast. The heat was rising, pooling low in my belly, spreading through my veins like wildfire.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar.
Footsteps.
Riven entered, his armor gleaming, his expression unreadable. “Scouts report movement along the eastern ridge,” he said. “Three Alphas—Bloodfang, Ironclaw, and Nightstalker. They’re converging on Duskrend. Fast.”
Kael didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Double the sentries. Seal the gates. No one enters or leaves.”
“And Crimson?” Riven asked, glancing at me.
“She stays with me,” Kael said. “In my chambers. Under guard.”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I said, lifting my chin.
“You’re a target,” he said. “And if I have to chain you to my bed to keep you safe, I will.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. And he *smiled.* Not warm. Not kind. A predator’s smile. “You’re learning.”
—
He didn’t chain me.
But he might as well have.
His chambers were a fortress—black stone walls, iron-bound doors, windows barred with enchanted silver. The bed was massive, draped in velvet the color of dried blood, the headboard carved with Duskbane sigils that pulsed faintly in the candlelight. A hearth crackled in the corner, casting long shadows across the floor.
And I was trapped.
Not by locks. Not by guards.
By *heat.*
It rose through me in waves—slow, then sudden, then unbearable. My skin burned. My breath came in gasps. My core clenched, *aching,* though I couldn’t say why. Not desire. Not fear.
Hunger.
And then—scent.
Not just his—winter pine, dark earth, iron—but *mine.* Storm and fire. Blood and salt. And beneath it, something darker, muskier, *primal.* The scent of a female in heat.
It filled the room.
And Kael *inhaled.*
His nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. His jaw tightened. The bond flared—a hot spike of awareness that made his skin tighten, his breath hitch.
“You smell like defiance,” I murmured, echoing his words from long ago.
“And I’m going to devour every drop,” he said, voice rough.
And then—silence.
Not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of resolution. But the kind of stillness that comes before a storm—the air thick, charged, every breath a spark waiting to ignite.
—
The first night passed in agony.
I paced the room like a caged beast, my boots clicking too loud in the silence, my skin burning, my body *needing.* I tried to meditate. To focus. To draw on my magic. But the heat drowned it out, leaving only raw, animal instinct.
And Kael?
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
From the armchair by the fire, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned, his crimson eyes burning. He didn’t sleep. Just sat there, his presence a wall at my back, his silence heavier than any vow.
And the bond?
It screamed.
Not with desire.
With *need.*
His need.
For me.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a mission.
As *his.*
“You’re not supposed to want me,” I said, voice raw, stopping in front of him.
“And yet,” he said, lifting his gaze, “I do. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
“And what if I don’t want you back?”
“Then you’re lying,” he said. “Because your body knows the truth. Your blood knows it. Your *bond* knows it.”
My breath caught. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did,” he said. “The moment our hands touched. The moment the bond ignited. The moment you saved me.”
“I didn’t save you,” I whispered.
“You did,” he said. “Not just from the poison. From myself. From the century of silence. From the weight of rule. From the fear of loving someone who could destroy me.”
I stared at him. The air between us crackled, thick with unsaid things, with heat, with *hunger.*
And then—my hand moved.
Not to push him away.
Not to fight.
To his chest.
I pressed my palm to his heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath the skin. The bond flared—a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. My core clenched, *aching.* My breath came fast. My skin burned.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, his hand sliding over mine, pressing it harder against his chest. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his other hand moved.
Slow. Deliberate.
To my hip. Then 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 want me,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“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 touch 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.”
“You don’t get to say that,” I whispered, my voice raw.
“And yet,” he said, “I do. Because it’s true.”
—
The second night was worse.
The heat rose higher, thicker, *darker.* My vision sharpened. My hearing expanded. I could hear the sentries’ whispers beyond the door, the beat of their hearts, the scent of their fear. I could smell the blood in their veins. Could taste it on the air.
And Kael?
He was a furnace.
His presence filled the room, his scent wrapping around me like a vice. He didn’t touch me again. Didn’t speak. Just sat by the fire, his shirt open, his chest bare, his muscles taut with restraint.
But I could feel it.
The way his breath hitched when I passed. The way his pulse jumped when I leaned too close. The way his eyes burned when I stripped off my gown and stood before him in nothing but my gloves and boots.
“You’re testing me,” he said, voice low.
“And if I am?” I asked, stepping closer. “What will you do?”
“I’ll let you suffer,” he said. “Because you need to learn control.”
“And if I don’t want control?” I challenged, my hand moving to his chest, my fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen. “If I want *you?*”
His breath caught. The bond flared—a hot spike of awareness that made his skin tighten, his muscles flex.
“Then beg,” he said, voice rough. “Beg for it. Beg for me. And maybe—*maybe*—I’ll give it to you.”
My core clenched, *aching.* My skin burned. My breath came fast.
But I didn’t beg.
Just turned and walked to the bed, my hips swaying, my body aching, my scent flooding the room.
And I didn’t look back.
—
The third night.
The blood moon hung full and crimson in the sky, its light bleeding through the barred windows, painting the room in shades of fire and ash. The heat was unbearable now—coiling in my core, spreading through my veins, drowning out thought, reason, *control.* I was on the bed, my body arched, my hands clawing at the sheets, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I was breaking.
And then—
Kael was there.
Not with words. Not with promises.
With action.
He moved like a shadow, his coat whispering against the stone, his presence a wall at my back. And then—he was on the bed, his body pressing mine into the mattress, his hands fisting in my hair, his mouth crashing down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.*
Not a kiss.
A *claim.*
His tongue slid against mine, his body grinding against me, the bond *screaming,* a wave of heat that stole my breath, pooled low in my belly.
“You don’t get to want me,” I hissed, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, his hand sliding down, over my hip, my thigh, then under my gown, fingers brushing the inside of my leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.* “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 touch 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.”
And for the first time, I didn’t argue.
Just clung 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 love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
Crimson’s Vow: Hollow King
The first time Crimson sees the Hollow King, he’s standing over a pyre where her mother’s name burns in silver ink—erased from history. She watches from the shadows of the Obsidian Spire, her witch-mark hidden beneath gloves, her breath steady, her heart a locked vault. She came to destroy him. Not to desire him. But when the Supernatural Council demands a unity pact between the last unclaimed fae-blooded heir and the vampire monarch, the ritual backfires. Their hands touch. Fire erupts in their veins. A bond—ancient, unbroken, fated—snaps into place. The council gasps. The Hollow King’s crimson eyes lock onto hers, not with rage, but recognition. “You are mine,” he murmurs, voice like a blade dragged over silk. “And I will not let you go.” Now, she is bound to him in name and magic, forced into his court, his bedchamber, his world of blood oaths and political knives. Every night, she feels his presence like a fever. Every day, she plots his death. But when a rival—his former blood-mate, the seductive vampire mistress Nyx—emerges from his past wearing his ring and whispering secrets of their shared nights, Crimson’s control wavers. Jealousy claws at her pride. Worse, she saves him from an assassination meant for her—proving her heart is already betraying her mission. Their bodies are tied by magic that demands closeness. Their souls are torn between vengeance and surrender. And the deeper they fall, the more they realize: the true enemy isn’t each other. It’s the Council that forged them into weapons—and will burn the world to keep them apart.