The northern border stretched before us like a wound in the earth—blackened moors, skeletal trees clawing at a bruised sky, the wind howling through the jagged cliffs like a chorus of the dead. The Bloodfang Clan’s stronghold loomed in the distance, a fortress of obsidian and bone, its torches flickering like dying stars. But we weren’t going there.
We were turning back.
The ambush had shattered the fragile peace we’d been trying to broker. Garrik the Ravager was dead—by Kael’s hand—but his pack wouldn’t see it as justice. They’d see it as war. And Kael, though he’d survived the silver-tipped bolt, was in no state to lead a siege.
He sat beside me in the carriage now, his head resting against the cracked window, his face pale, his breathing shallow. The wound on his chest had sealed, thanks to my blood magic, but the poison had left its mark. His skin was fever-hot, his crimson eyes dimmed, his strength sapped. The once-unshakable Hollow King looked… fragile.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever had.
Because if he broke, I wasn’t sure I could hold myself together.
—
We rode in silence.
The convoy moved fast, the horses’ hooves pounding the slick road, the sentries scanning the treeline for more attackers. Riven rode at the front, his armor gleaming, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t spoken since the fight. None of us had. There was nothing to say. We’d come to negotiate. We’d left with blood on our hands and war at our backs.
And Kael?
He didn’t move. Just sat there, his coat whispering against the velvet, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw tight. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, aching throb, but it wasn’t the usual surge of power or desire. It was something darker. Weaker. Like a heartbeat struggling to keep time.
“You should rest,” I said, voice low.
He didn’t answer. Just turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. There was no fire in them. No challenge. No hunger. Just… exhaustion. And something else. Something I couldn’t name.
Guilt?
Regret?
Fear?
“You’re not fine,” I said. “And pretending you are won’t make it true.”
“I’m alive,” he said, voice rough. “That’s enough.”
“It’s not,” I said. “Not if you’re going to bleed out before we reach Duskrend.”
He didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes, his breath hitching. The bond flared—a hot spike of pain that made my own chest tighten. I reached out, slow, and pressed my palm to the bandage over his wound. The fabric was dry, but beneath it, I could feel the heat. The corruption. The silver had been purged, but the damage remained.
“You need more than a patch,” I said. “You need a full healing. And you’re not going to get it unless you let me in.”
His eyes opened. “You already did.”
“Not like this,” I said. “Not completely. You held back. I felt it. You didn’t let me see everything.”
“And if I had?” he asked. “If I let you see the truth—the centuries of silence, the weight of rule, the way I’ve failed everyone I’ve ever loved—would you still want to heal me?”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t smile. Just turned away, his face shadowed, his voice low. “I don’t want your pity, Crimson. I don’t want your sacrifice. I want you to walk away. To live. To be free of me.”
“And if I don’t want to be free?” I challenged.
He turned back, slowly, his eyes burning. “Then you’re a fool.”
“And if I don’t care?” I said, pressing my palm harder against his chest. “If I don’t care that you’re broken? That you’ve failed? That you’ve killed? If I don’t care that you’re the Hollow King?”
“Then you’re dangerous,” he said. “Because you’re the only one who could destroy me.”
“And yet,” I said, leaning closer, “you let me heal you.”
“Because I’m weak,” he said. “And I wanted to live. Not for the throne. Not for the Council. For *you.*”
My breath hitched.
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.
—
We reached Duskrend at dawn.
The keep rose from the mist like a blade, its obsidian walls slick with dew, its torches flickering low. The gates groaned open, and the convoy rolled through, the horses’ hooves echoing in the courtyard. Servants rushed forward, but I waved them back.
“No one touches him,” I said. “Not until I say so.”
Riven didn’t argue. Just nodded, his expression unreadable. He knew. We all knew. This wasn’t just a wound. This was a test.
And I wasn’t going to fail.
—
I carried him to his chambers.
Not with magic. Not with strength. But with the bond—its pulse guiding my hands, my steps, my breath. He was heavy, his body limp, his head resting against my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. The scent of him—winter pine, dark earth, iron—filled my lungs, but beneath it, something darker. Decay. Death. The shadow of the poison still clinging to his veins.
I laid him on the bed, my hands trembling as I unbuttoned his coat, peeled it from his shoulders, then his shirt. The bandage was stained with old blood, the skin beneath swollen, angry, the sigils I’d etched to seal the wound already fading. The silver had done its damage. It had burned through his flesh, poisoned his blood, scarred his soul.
And I was the only one who could fix it.
—
I lit the candles.
One by one, their flames flickering to life, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The hearth crackled, the fire low, the scent of burning oak mingling with the iron in the air. I stripped off my gloves, letting them fall to the floor, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath the skin of my palm. Then I drew my dagger.
Not to kill.
To heal.
I pressed the silver blade to my palm and sliced open the skin. Blood welled—dark, rich, *powerful.* The scent flooded the room, thick with iron and storm. The bond flared—a wildfire in my veins, burning through every wall, every lie, every reason I had to keep him at arm’s length.
And then—I pressed my bleeding hand to his chest, over the wound.
“Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat,” I whispered, my voice low, guttural. *Blood opens, truth reigns.*
Power flared.
Not just from me. From *us.*
The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. But it wasn’t pain.
It was *connection.*
I felt him—his fear, his guilt, his love, 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 he felt 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 magic surged, my blood seeping into his wound, my power knitting the flesh, sealing the muscle, restoring the blood. But it wasn’t enough. The poison was deeper. It had sunk into his bones, his heart, his soul.
And to reach it, I had to go deeper too.
—
I leaned down.
Not to kiss him.
To *claim.*
My lips brushed the wound, my tongue lapping at the blood, my fangs piercing my own lip, my blood mingling with his. The pain flared—sharp, blinding, *unbearable*—but I didn’t stop. Just pressed harder, my hands fisted in the sheets, my body arching, my breath coming fast.
And then—
Fire.
Not from the magic.
From *him.*
His hand shot up, fisting in my hair, pulling me closer, his breath hot against my skin. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d combust. My core clenched, *aching.* My skin burned. My breath came in gasps.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline, his grip tightening. “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.
—
The fever broke at dawn.
Not with a scream. Not with a climax. But with stillness.
One moment, the heat was coiling in my core, my body trembling, my breath ragged. The next—silence. The fire in my blood cooled. The ache in my muscles faded. The scent of storm and iron—mine, his, *ours*—lingered, but the hunger was gone.
I opened my eyes.
Kael was still there.
Still on the edge of the bed. Still shirtless. Still watching.
But now, his eyes were closed. His head was bowed. His breathing was slow, steady, *deep.* He’d finally slept.
And I hadn’t.
Not really.
Just drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between fever dreams and reality. I’d seen my mother. Seen Kael on his knees. Seen Nyx’s lies. Seen Vexis’s arrest. Seen the locket. Seen the blood-debt.
And I’d seen *us.*
Not as enemies. Not as weapons. Not as pawns in a Council game.
As *mates.*
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
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.
—
I reached out.
Slow. Hesitant.
My fingers brushed his cheek, his jaw, the scar at his lip. He didn’t wake. Just leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
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.
But not from fever.
From *want.*
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
He didn’t answer. Just shifted, his body rolling toward me, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me against him. His skin was warm. His breath steady. His presence a wall at my back.
And for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
Just curled into him, my head on his chest, my fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The bond pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.
Not a leash.
Not a curse.
A *promise.*
“You were right,” I said, voice low. “But I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
He didn’t move. Just held me, his breath warm against my skin.
And then—softly—he said, “And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
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.