The night after Kael offered his life and the Council spared him, I didn’t sleep.
Not because I was afraid.
Not because I was angry.
But because I was *awake.*
Truly, completely, terrifyingly *awake.*
For the first time since I’d walked into the Obsidian Spire with a dagger in my boot and vengeance in my heart, I wasn’t running from anything. Not from my past. Not from my grief. Not from the Hollow King. I was standing still. Breathing. Feeling. And the world hadn’t ended.
It had *changed.*
Kael had knelt before the Council. Offered his heart on the blade. And when I refused it—when I told him he didn’t get to die, not while I was still breathing—he hadn’t fought me. He hadn’t argued. He’d just looked at me, his crimson eyes burning with something raw, something broken, something *real.* And then he’d sworn his oath. Not to the Council. Not to the throne.
To *me.*
By blood and bone, by fang and flame, he’d sworn he’d never fail me again.
And gods help me, I believed him.
But belief wasn’t enough.
Not when the bond still pulsed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. Not when the memory of my mother’s death still clawed at my dreams. Not when the Hollow King still carried the weight of centuries on his shoulders.
He’d offered his life.
But I didn’t want his death.
I wanted his *healing.*
—
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 clear—no maps, no reports, no blood-ink ledgers. Just silence. And him.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just said, “You’re awake.”
Not a question.
A statement.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, stepping closer. “Too much has changed.”
“Not everything,” he said, finally turning. His crimson eyes burned, not with desire, but with something softer—*tenderness.* A word I didn’t think the Hollow King knew. “The Council still wants answers. The Bloodfang Clan still sees us as invaders. Nyx is still out there. And the world still thinks I’m a monster.”
“And yet,” I said, stepping closer, “you’re not working.”
“Because some things are more important than war,” he said. “Some things are worth stopping for.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t smile. Just stepped forward, his presence pressing against me, his voice low. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Crimson. Not with me. Not after what we’ve shared. Not after what I’ve sworn.”
“And what if I don’t want to stop pretending?” I challenged, lifting my chin. “What if I still want to hate you?”
“Then you’re lying,” he said, his hand lifting, slow, to brush my cheek. “Because your body knows the truth. Your blood knows it. Your *bond* knows it.”
My skin burned where he touched me. My core clenched, *aching.* My breath came fast. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb tracing my jawline, his touch feather-light, *reverent.* “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 arching, 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.”
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 table, 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.
—
He didn’t take me that night.
Didn’t carry me to his bed. Didn’t strip me bare. Didn’t claim me with teeth and fire and blood.
He just held me.
Pressed against the war table, his arms around my waist, his breath warm against my neck, his heartbeat steady beneath my palm. And when I finally pulled back, trembling, my skin still humming from the aftershocks, he didn’t follow.
Just stepped away, his crimson eyes burning, his voice low. “Go to bed, Crimson. Sleep. Heal. Be whole.”
“And you?” I asked, my voice raw.
“I’ll be here,” he said. “Always.”
I didn’t argue. Just turned and walked out, my boots clicking too loud in the silence, my body still aching, my breath still unsteady.
And I didn’t look back.
—
The next night, I came to him.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I *needed* to.
I was in my chambers, sitting by the hearth, the fire low, the scent of burning oak mingling with the iron in the air. I’d stripped off my gloves, letting them fall to the floor, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath the skin of my palm. My gown was unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, revealing the faint bruise where his teeth had grazed my neck.
I was thinking.
Not about war. Not about vengeance. Not about the Council or Vexis or Nyx.
About *him.*
His hands on me. His mouth on my skin. The way his breath hitched when I touched him. The way his voice broke when he confessed. The way he *kneeled.*
And then—
The door opened.
Not with a knock. Not with a call.
With silence.
He stepped inside, his coat whispering against the stone, his crimson eyes burning in the candlelight. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, watching me, his presence a wall at my back.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice low.
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “I am.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t smile. Just knelt before me, slow, deliberate, his coat pooling around him like a shroud. Not in surrender. Not in defeat.
In *offering.*
“I don’t want your penance,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I’m not offering penance,” he said, lifting his hands, palms up. “I’m offering *me.* Not as king. Not as savior. Not as penance. As yours. As the man who’s loved you since the moment our hands touched. Since the moment you walked into this keep with a dagger in your boot and fire in your eyes.”
My breath hitched.
And then—my hand moved.
Not to push him away.
Not to draw my blade.
To his wrist.
He turned it over, his fingers trembling, his jaw tight. And then—his pulse point.
“Blood-debt,” I 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.”
He looked up, his storm-colored eyes burning. “Then pay it.”
And before I could react—before I could speak—
No.
This time, *I* did it.
I drew my silver blade from my boot and sliced open my 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 him at arm’s length.
And then—I pressed my bleeding hand to his.
“Take it,” I 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.
He wasn’t asking for vengeance.
He wasn’t asking for justice.
He was asking for *me.*
And gods help me, I’d give it to him.
—
He didn’t hesitate.
Just pressed his palm to mine, 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. His own failures, his centuries of silence, the way he’d let the world try to break her.
And then—her voice, raw, broken: *“You don’t get to decide that.”*
And then—his, rough, desperate: *“I already did.”*
And then—
He spoke.
Not in words.
In blood.
His voice was low, guttural, the ancient tongue of the Duskbane kings rising from his 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.
I gasped, my body collapsing against him, my breath hot against his neck. He caught me, his arms tight around my waist, his face buried in my hair. The scent of him—winter pine, dark earth, iron—filled my lungs.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, my thumb brushing my jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
He didn’t slap me.
Just leaned in, my forehead resting against mine, my breath warm against my lips. “You don’t get to love me,” I said. “Not after what you let them do.”
“And yet,” he said, “I do. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
I didn’t answer.
Just kissed him.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
A *promise.*
And gods help me, he answered it.
His mouth crashed down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
My hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on. My body arched into his, my breath hot against his lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against his, 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.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, 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 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.
He didn’t move. Just stayed in my arms, my breath warm against my neck.
And then—softly—I said, “Prove it.”
—
He didn’t speak.
Just stood, pulling me with him, his hands sliding down to my waist, lifting me effortlessly. I wrapped my legs around his hips, my arms around his neck, my breath hot against his skin. 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—he carried me to the bed.
Not with shadow-walk. Not with speed.
With *intention.*
He laid me down slow, his body pressing mine into the mattress, his mouth never leaving mine. His hands moved—over my hips, my thighs, 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, my 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 arching, 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, my 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, my arms tight around my waist, my face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, my voice rough, my 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 lay there, pressed against the bed, my 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.
—
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t tear at my gown. Didn’t shove inside me. Didn’t claim me with fire and teeth and blood.
He *worshipped* me.
His hands moved slow—over my hips, my waist, my ribs, then up to the buttons of my gown. One by one, he unfastened them, his touch feather-light, *reverent.* The fabric slipped from my shoulders, pooling around my waist, revealing my skin—pale, scarred, *alive.*
He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, my mouth brushing my collarbone, then lower, to the curve of my breast, his tongue tracing the swell, his fangs grazing the peak. I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, my mouth closing over my nipple, sucking, biting, *claiming.* “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—his hand moved lower, under my gown, fingers brushing the inside of my leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
I *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* My back arching, 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, my 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, my arms tight around my waist, my face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, my voice rough, my 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 lay there, pressed against the bed, my 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.
—
And then—
He was inside me.
Not with force. Not with fire.
With *truth.*
His cock—thick, hard, *hot*—pressed against my entrance, then slowly, slowly, slid inside, filling me, stretching me, *claiming* me. I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his back, my nails digging into his skin.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, my hips pressing deeper, my breath hot against my neck. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—he moved.
Slow. Deep. *Relentless.*
Each thrust a confession. Each pulse a vow. Each breath a promise. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
And then—
I came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* My body convulsing, my thighs clamping around his hips, my nails digging into his shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And when he followed, my body shuddering, his fangs sinking into my neck, his blood mingling with mine, I didn’t fight it.
Just held 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.
—
When I woke, the sun was rising over Duskrend, its light cutting through the storm-heavy sky like a blade. Kael lay beside me, his arm slung over my waist, his breath steady, his face peaceful. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked… *whole.*
And I realized something.
He wasn’t the only one who’d been healed.
I had been too.
Not just my body.
Not just my heart.
But my *soul.*
And as I lay there, pressed against him, the bond pulsing beneath our flesh like a second heartbeat, I knew what I had to do.
Not for vengeance.
Not for justice.
But for *us.*
—
I drew my dagger.
Not to kill.
To *heal.*
And then I pressed the silver blade to my palm and sliced open the skin.
Blood welled—dark, rich, *powerful.* The scent flooded the air, 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 his heart.
“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 I let him feel 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 his chest, 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 arching, 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, my 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, my arms tight around my waist, my face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, my voice rough, my 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 healing took hours.
Not just of his body.
Of his soul.
And when it was done, 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 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.