The convoy moved like a wound through the night—slow, bleeding tension, each hoofbeat a drumroll toward war. Blackmire’s torchlit gates had closed behind us hours ago, swallowed by the storm-laden sky. Now, the road to the northern border unfurled like a scar across the moors, flanked by skeletal pines and jagged cliffs that clawed at the blood moon. The air was thick with the scent of iron and damp earth, of wolves on the prowl and blood about to be spilled.
I sat in the lead carriage, my coat whispering against the velvet seat, my hands steepled before me. Crimson was beside me, silent, her storm-colored eyes fixed on the horizon. She hadn’t spoken since we’d left. Not when Riven secured the rear flank. Not when the sentries lit the torches. Not when I’d ordered the escort to double. She just sat there, her gloves tight over her palms, her dagger hidden in her boot, her breath steady, her heart a locked vault.
And the bond?
It hummed.
Not with desire. Not with jealousy.
With *anticipation.*
She felt it too. The weight in the air. The silence before the storm. The way the wind had stilled, as if the world were holding its breath.
“They’re coming,” she said, voice low.
“I know,” I said.
“And you’re still going?”
“I have to,” I said. “The Bloodfang Clan controls the northern passes. If they turn rogue, they’ll cut off our supply lines. Burn our outposts. Rally the other packs. And if that happens—”
“—you’ll have a war,” she finished.
I nodded. “And I’d rather bleed than burn.”
She turned then, slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. “And what if they don’t want peace? What if they want *you?*”
“Then they’ll get me,” I said. “But not without a fight.”
Her breath caught. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in her chest. She didn’t look away. Just reached out, slow, and pressed her palm to my heart, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath the fabric. The bond *screamed,* 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 die,” she said, voice raw. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
I didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned in, my forehead resting against hers, my breath warm against her skin. “Then stay,” I said. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
Her breath hitched.
And then—her hand moved.
Not to push me away.
Not to fight.
To my wrist.
She turned it over, her fingers tracing the veins beneath the skin, the old scars from battles long past. And then—she pressed her palm to the inside of my forearm, over the pulse point.
“Blood-debt,” she whispered.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a *ritual.*
One I hadn’t expected. One I hadn’t prepared for.
But one I’d always known would come.
“Yes,” I said, voice rough. “I owe you. Not just for your mother. For every lie I let you believe. For every wound I didn’t heal. For every time I let you think I didn’t care.”
She looked up, her storm-colored eyes burning. “Then pay it.”
And before I could react—before I could speak—she drew a silver blade from her boot and sliced open her palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, *powerful.* The scent flooded the air, thick with iron and storm. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every wall, every lie, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
And then—she pressed her bleeding hand to mine.
“Take it,” she said, voice low, commanding. “Take my blood. Take my pain. Take my *truth.* And swear—by blood and bone, by fang and flame—that you will never fail me again.”
The world spun.
Not from the blood. Not from the magic.
From the *weight* of it.
She wasn’t asking for vengeance.
She wasn’t asking for justice.
She was asking for *me.*
And gods help me, I’d give it to her.
—
I didn’t hesitate.
Just pressed my palm to hers, our blood mingling, the bond *exploding*—a surge so intense I thought I’d die. Images flooded my mind—her mother’s trial, the pyre, the silence where her name used to be. My own failures, my centuries of silence, the way I’d let the world try to break her.
And then—her voice, raw, broken: *“You don’t get to decide that.”*
And then—mine, rough, desperate: *“I already did.”*
And then—
I spoke.
Not in words.
In blood.
My voice was low, guttural, the ancient tongue of the Duskbane kings rising from my throat like a prayer. *“By blood and bone, by fang and flame, I swear—Crimson Veyra, daughter of Seraphine, I will never fail you again. I will protect you. I will fight for you. I will love you. And if I break this oath, may my heart turn to ash and my name be erased from history.”*
The bond flared—white, blinding, *final.*
And then—stillness.
She gasped, her body collapsing against me, her breath hot against my neck. I caught her, my arms tight around her waist, my face buried in her hair. The scent of her—storm and iron—filled my lungs.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“I already do,” I said, my thumb brushing her jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
She didn’t slap me.
Just leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm against my lips. “You don’t get to love me,” she said. “Not after what you let them do.”
“And yet,” I said, “I do. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
She didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
A *promise.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My mouth crashed down on hers—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
Her hands flew to my hair, not to push me away, but to hold on. Her body arched into mine, her 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 her at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against hers, I whispered the only truth that mattered:
“You were right,” I said. “And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
But I know this—I can’t live without you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just held me, her fingers digging into my coat, her body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to destroy the Hollow King.
I was here to *save* him.
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.”
—
The first arrow struck the carriage door like a thunderclap.
One moment, silence. The next—*crack.* The thick oak splintered, the tip of a silver-tipped shaft protruding through the wood, quivering. Crimson didn’t flinch. Just turned, her storm-colored eyes sharp, her body coiled like a spring.
“Wolves,” she said.
“Bloodfang,” I said, rising.
Another arrow. Then another. Then a third, this one embedding in the ceiling above us. The carriage lurched as the horses screamed, rearing, the wheels skidding on the slick road. Outside, chaos erupted—shouts, snarls, the clash of steel. Riven’s voice, barking orders. The howl of a pack leader calling his kin to blood.
“Stay behind me,” I said, stepping in front of her.
“Don’t,” she said, drawing her dagger. “I’m not your damsel.”
“No,” I said, turning, my crimson eyes locking onto hers. “You’re my queen.”
And then the door exploded inward.
Not from an arrow. Not from a blade.
From a *body.*
A vampire enforcer—my own sentry—flew through the air, his throat torn out, his blood spraying across the velvet seats. Behind him, a massive figure stepped through the wreckage—seven feet tall, furred in black and silver, his eyes glowing amber, his claws dripping with gore.
Bloodfang Alpha.
Garrik the Ravager.
“Kael Duskbane,” he growled, his voice a rumble of thunder. “You come to my lands like a thief in the night. You think your blood and your title make you untouchable?”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, my coat whispering against the stone floor of the carriage, my hands open at my sides.
“I came to talk,” I said.
“And I came to *kill,*” he snarled, lunging.
I moved.
Not with shadow-walk. Not with speed.
With *precision.*
My hand shot out, catching his wrist mid-swing, twisting, snapping. He roared, but I was already inside his guard, my other hand driving upward, fingers plunging into the soft tissue beneath his jaw. He gagged, blood spraying, but I didn’t stop. Just wrenched my hand sideways, tearing through muscle and cartilage, severing the spinal cord.
He dropped.
Dead before he hit the floor.
But the fight wasn’t over.
Wolves poured in from both sides—Alphas, Betas, Gamma scouts—snarling, slashing, their claws raking across my coat, my arms, my face. I fought like a demon—tearing out throats, breaking bones, using their momentum against them. But there were too many. And I was outnumbered.
Then—Crimson.
She moved like fire.
Her dagger flashed, slicing through tendons, severing arteries. Her magic flared—sigils drawn in blood, incantations whispered in the ancient tongue. A Gamma lunged at her, and she sidestepped, her palm slamming into his chest, a burst of energy throwing him back like a ragdoll. Another came from behind, and she spun, her boot connecting with his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
But then—
A crossbow bolt.
Not aimed at her.
At *me.*
I saw it coming. Saw the glint of silver in the moonlight. Saw the archer perched on the cliff above, drawing back the string.
And I moved.
Not to dodge.
To *protect.*
I threw myself in front of her, my body a shield, the bolt striking my chest with a sickening *thud.* Pain exploded—white-hot, blinding—but I didn’t fall. Just turned, my hand snapping out, shadow-walking the ten feet to the cliff in an instant. The archer barely had time to gasp before my fingers closed around his throat.
“Who sent you?” I demanded, my voice a growl.
He didn’t answer. Just spat in my face.
So I broke his neck.
And then I was back—landing beside her, my breath ragged, my vision swimming. The bolt was still in my chest, the silver tip burning through my flesh, poisoning my blood.
“Kael,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“I’m fine,” I said, though I wasn’t.
She didn’t believe me. Just stepped forward, her hands flying to the bolt, her fingers trembling. “You don’t get to die,” she said, voice raw. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
“Then don’t let me,” I said.
And she *pulled.*
The bolt came free with a wet *rip,* blood gushing, my body convulsing. I fell to one knee, my vision blurring, my strength fading. But she caught me, her arms tight around my waist, her body pressing mine into the carriage floor.
“Hold on,” she said, her voice fierce. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not ever.”
And then—her hands were on me.
Not gentle. Not careful.
*Desperate.*
Her palms pressed to the wound, her fingers tracing the sigils of a blood-healing ritual. Her voice rose—low, guttural, chanting in the old tongue. *“Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat. Os sanum, cor vivit. Sana, sana, sana.”*
Power flared.
Not just from her. From *us.*
The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. But it wasn’t pain.
It was *connection.*
I felt her—her fear, her rage, her love, her need. I saw her memories—her mother’s execution, the pyre, the silence where her name used to be. The dagger in her boot. The vow to kill me.
And I let her feel me.
My failures. My guilt. My century of silence. The moment our hands touched. The way my breath caught when she walked into a room.
And then—
Warmth.
Not from the magic.
From *her.*
Her mouth pressed to the wound, her tongue lapping at the blood, her fangs piercing her own lip, her blood mingling with mine. The pain lessened. The silver burned, but her magic fought it, sealing the flesh, knitting the muscle, restoring the blood.
And then—
Stillness.
I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to her waist. My skin cooled. My breath steadied. The blood at my lip stopped.
I was alive.
And she was—
Shattered.
Because she hadn’t just healed me.
She’d *felt* me.
And she’d liked it.
And then—
Darkness.
—
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 carriage seat, my limbs tangled in her arms, her breath steady against my neck. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat I’d finally learned to match.
Crimson was beside me.
Not touching. Not watching. Just… there.
She lay against me, her head on my chest, her fingers tangled in the fabric of my shirt. Her gloves were gone. Her gown was torn. Her witch-mark glowed faintly beneath the skin of her palm, pulsing in time with the bond.
And I had *healed* her.
The memory slammed into me—her hands on my 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 her. Felt her. Known her. And she’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 me. The fool who’d started to care.
And still, she hadn’t turned away.
My throat tightened. I wanted to hate her. Wanted to push her away, remind her that I wasn’t worth saving. But my body wouldn’t move. My hands wouldn’t release her. My heart—traitorous, broken, *beating*—refused to let her go.
Because she’d saved me.
And that terrified me more than any failure, any betrayal, any loss.
Because saving me meant she *wanted* me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the mission.
But because I’d chosen her. Again. Even when I didn’t deserve it.
Even when I’d tried to destroy her.
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 first love stood in the center, her head high, her voice steady. *“I did not conspire with the vampires. 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—me. Standing at the edge of the dais, my face cold, my eyes empty. But beneath it—*grief.* A flicker. A crack. A whisper of something I’d buried for centuries.
And then—Crimson. Hidden in the shadows, her hands pressed to her mouth, her breath silent, her 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—my 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. Crimson on her 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 my chambers. Her hand on my chest. Her lips on my 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—Crimson’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 Crimson, her hand still around my throat, her 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 Crimson, carrying me through the keep, her face pale, her jaw tight, her hands gripping me like I might vanish. *“Don’t leave me,”* she murmured. *“Not now. Not ever.”*
And then—me, pressing my palms to her chest, whispering the incantation—*Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat.* Blood opens, truth reigns.
And then—connection.
Not just through the bond.
Through *us.*
I felt her—her pain, her fear, her love, her guilt, her need. I saw her memories—her mother’s trial, the pyre, the silence where her name used to be. The dagger in her boot. The vow to kill him.
And I let him feel me.
My first love’s execution, my century of silence, the moment our hands touched, the way my breath caught when she walked into a room.
And then—us.
The near-kiss in the war room. The blood-sharing ritual. The way her hands felt on my skin. The way her voice sounded when she said, *“You’re already mine.”*
The dream shifted.
Now I was in her chambers. My lips brushing hers. Not a kiss. A *promise.* And then—her mouth crashing down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
Her hands fisted in my hair, her body pressing me into the bed, her 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 her at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And then—
Stillness.
She gasped, her body arching, her hands flying to my waist. Her skin cooled. Her breath steadied. The blood at her lip stopped.
She was alive.
And I was—
Shattered.
Because I hadn’t just healed her.
I’d *felt* her.
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.
Crimson was beside me, a damp cloth in her hand, her coat whispering against the stone. She didn’t speak. Just sat on the edge of the bed, her presence a wall at my back, and pressed the cool fabric to my forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she said, voice low.
“The poison,” I whispered.
“It’s gone,” she said. “I drained it. Burned it out. But your body’s still fighting. The fever will pass.”
“And you?”
“I’m fine,” she said. But her face was pale. Her hands trembled. Blood still stained the corner of her lip—dark, thick, *wrong.*
“You’re not fine,” I said. “You took the poison. You could have died.”
“And you would have,” she said. “If I hadn’t.”
My breath caught. “Why would you do that? Why would you risk your life for me?”
She didn’t answer. Just pressed the cloth to my neck, her thumb brushing my pulse point. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in her 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,” she 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 her cheek, her jaw, the blood at her lip. “You don’t get to die,” I whispered. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm against my skin. “Then stay,” she said. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
My breath hitched.
And then—her 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 her shoulders for balance.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” she said, her thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—her 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 her 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,” she said, her fingers circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped her.
She didn’t stop.
Just laughed—a low, dark sound—and pressed harder.
I came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* My body convulsed, my thighs clamping around her hand, my nails digging into her shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate her.
And when it was over, I collapsed against her, my breath ragged, my skin burning.
She didn’t let go.
Just held me, her arms tight around my waist, her face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” she murmured, her voice rough, her breath warm against my skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
I wanted to hate her.
Wanted to push her away.
But all I could do was cling to her, my fingers digging into her 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, her body a furnace against mine, her hand still between my thighs, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already did.
I already *wanted* her.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the mission.
But because she’d *fought* for me.
Because she’d *failed* trying.
Because she was broken—and still standing.
Just like me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.