The silence after the healing was not peace. It was the calm before the storm—the kind that presses against your eardrums, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of centuries. Dawn had come and gone, bleeding into midday, then into dusk, and still I hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. Crimson slept beside me, curled into my side, her head on my chest, her fingers tangled in the fabric of my shirt. Her breath was steady, her skin cool, the fever finally broken. But I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t.
I just watched her.
Her storm-colored lashes fanned against her cheeks. Her lips, slightly parted, still bore the faint bruise of where I’d kissed her—hard, desperate, *needing*—during the ritual. Her gloves were gone. Her gown was torn at the shoulder. The witch-mark on her palm glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. And beneath it all, beneath the defiance and the vengeance and the fire, I saw her.
Not the avenger.
Not the weapon.
Not the half-breed witch with a blood debt.
My *mate.*
And gods help me, I loved her.
Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Not because of fate.
Because she’d *chosen* me.
Even when I didn’t deserve it.
Even when I’d tried to destroy her.
Even when I’d let her believe I was the monster.
She’d seen the truth. Felt it. *Known* it. And still, she hadn’t turned away.
She’d healed 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.
And that—more than any oath, more than any magic—was the one thing I couldn’t survive.
—
She stirred at twilight.
Not with a gasp. Not with a cry. Just a slow, deep breath, her body shifting against mine, her fingers tightening in my shirt. Her eyes opened—storm-colored, sharp, *alive*—and locked onto mine.
“You’re still here,” she said, voice low, rough with sleep.
“I never left,” I said.
She didn’t smile. Just studied me, her gaze tracing the lines of my face, the shadows beneath my eyes, the way my breath hitched when her fingers brushed my jaw. “You didn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t need to,” I said.
“Liar,” she whispered. “You’re exhausted. I can feel it. The bond—it’s weak. Frayed. Like it’s been stretched too thin.”
I didn’t deny it. Just reached out, slow, and pressed the back of my hand to her forehead. Her skin was cool. No fever. No poison. Just *her.* “You’re alive,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”
“And you?” she asked, sitting up, her gown slipping off one shoulder, revealing the faint bruise where my teeth had grazed her neck. “You’re not. Not really. You’re just… surviving. And I’m tired of watching you do it.”
My breath caught. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did,” she said, echoing my words. “The moment I healed you. The moment I let you see me. The moment I stopped hating you.”
“And if I don’t want your truth?” I asked, voice rough. “If I don’t want your trust? If I don’t want your *love?*”
She didn’t flinch. Just leaned in, her storm-colored eyes burning, her breath warm against my lips. “Then you’re a coward.”
The word hit like a blade.
Not because it was untrue.
Because it was.
I *was* a coward.
I’d spent centuries building walls—around my heart, around my throne, around my soul. I’d let them execute my first love. Let them erase Seraphine. Let them frame Crimson. And every time, I’d told myself it was for the greater good. For stability. For peace.
But it wasn’t.
It was fear.
Fear of losing control.
Fear of being weak.
Fear of *loving* someone who could destroy me.
And now, here she was—Crimson Veyra, daughter of Seraphine, the woman I’d tried to save, the woman I’d failed, the woman I’d fallen for the moment our hands touched—and she was calling me out.
And I had no defense.
—
I stood.
Not to walk away.
To *kneel.*
Before her.
On the stone floor, my coat whispering against the cold stone, my head bowed, my hands open at my sides. Not in surrender. Not in defeat.
In *confession.*
She didn’t move. Just watched, her breath steady, her heart a locked vault. But the bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in her chest. She felt it. Knew it. Understood it.
“I’ve spent centuries telling myself I didn’t love,” I said, voice low, guttural. “That I couldn’t. That the Hollow King had no room for weakness. That love was a liability. A distraction. A *curse.*”
She didn’t speak. Just waited.
“And then I met you,” I said. “And the bond ignited. And I felt it—this fire, this need, this *hunger*—and I told myself it was magic. Fate. A trick of the blood. But it wasn’t.”
My breath hitched.
“It was *you.*”
She didn’t react. Just kept watching, her storm-colored eyes sharp, her body coiled like a spring.
“I’ve loved you since the moment our hands touched,” I said. “Since the moment you looked at me like I was nothing but a monster. Since the moment you saved me. Since the moment you let me touch you. Since the moment you healed me.”
“And if I hadn’t?” she asked, voice low. “If I’d walked away? If I’d killed you? If I’d chosen vengeance over you?”
“Then I’d have let you,” I said. “Because you’re not mine to keep. You’re not mine to command. You’re not mine to *own.* You’re mine to *love.* And if that love meant losing you, then so be it.”
Her breath caught.
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.
—
She moved first.
Not to touch me.
Not to speak.
To *kneel.*
Before me.
Her gown pooled around her, her gloves gone, her witch-mark glowing, her storm-colored eyes burning. She didn’t look away. Just reached out, slow, and pressed her palm to my chest, over my heart. The bond flared—a wildfire in my veins, burning through every wall, every lie, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
“You don’t get to love me,” she said, voice raw. “Not after what you let them do. Not after you stood there and watched them erase my mother. Not after you let me believe you were the enemy.”
“And yet,” I said, my hand sliding over hers, pressing it harder against my chest, “I do. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
“And if I don’t want it?” she challenged.
“Then I’ll live with the pain,” I said. “Because I’d rather feel it than lose you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm against my skin. “You don’t get to decide that,” she whispered. “You don’t get to play martyr and expect me to *thank* you.”
“I don’t want your thanks,” I 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 her eyes. She didn’t wipe them away. Just reached up, her fingers brushing my cheek, my jaw, the scar at my lip. “You don’t get to die,” she whispered. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
“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.”