The morning after Crimson healed me, Nocturne awoke under a sky washed clean of storm. Pale gold light cut through the spires, glinting off obsidian and bloodstone, painting the streets in sharp contrasts of shadow and fire. The city breathed differently now—slower, deeper, as if it had held its breath for centuries and only now dared to exhale.
But I didn’t feel peace.
I felt the silence before the strike.
Crimson slept beside me, her head on my chest, her fingers tangled in the fabric of my shirt. 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 healing. 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.
Not just my body.
My soul.
And that terrified me more than any failure, any betrayal, any loss.
Because loving her meant I could lose her.
And that—more than any oath, more than any magic—was the one thing I couldn’t survive.
—
She stirred at dawn.
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 didn’t speak.
Just pulled her closer, my arms tight around her waist, my face buried in her neck. The scent of her—storm and iron—filled my lungs. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For everything.”
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.”
—
We didn’t speak of it again.
Not then. Not later. Not when Riven arrived with reports of increased vampire activity along the southern border. Not when Torin sent word of a suspected spy in the Bloodfang Clan. Not when the courier from Nocturne returned, this time bearing a sealed scroll from the Council.
We worked.
Side by side. Silent. Efficient. Like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The way her hand brushed mine when passing a map. The way her breath hitched when I leaned over the table. The way her eyes burned when I challenged her on troop deployment. It was all there—beneath the surface, simmering, *waiting.*
And then—
She came.
Nyx.
Not in chains. Not in rags. Not even in the high cell.
She walked into the war room like she owned it—barefoot, dressed in a sheer black gown that left nothing to the imagination, her crimson eyes glowing, her hair a curtain of ink-black waves. Her wrists were bandaged—fresh, clean linen—but she moved like a queen, not a prisoner.
“You’re out,” I said, voice flat.
“On Council order,” she said, her voice like smoke. “They deemed my confinement unjust. Said I was a victim of *political manipulation.*” She glanced at Crimson. “Isn’t that right, my queen?”
Crimson didn’t react. Just steepled her fingers, her expression unreadable. “The Council has spoken. You’re free to move within the keep. But if you approach Kael again, I’ll have your tongue.”
She laughed—a low, honeyed sound. “Oh, I won’t need to. The truth will do that for me.”
The room stilled.
Even Riven tensed.
“What truth?” I asked, my blood running cold.
“That you’re not just his betrothed,” she said, stepping closer to Crimson. “You’re his *whore.*”
Crimson didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward. “You have no proof.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, lifting her wrist. The bandage had slipped, revealing not a healing wound—but a *bite mark.* Deep. Fresh. Purpled with blood. “He marked me last night. In his chambers. On his bed. He begged for it. He screamed my name. He *came* inside me.”
Lies.
All of it.
I’d been with Crimson. In her room. On the war table. In his bed.
I hadn’t left.
But the mark was real.
And the Council didn’t need truth.
They needed scandal.
“You’re lying,” Crimson said, stepping forward. “He was with me. All night.”
“And who will believe you?” she asked, smiling. “The half-breed witch with a blood debt? Or the king’s former blood-mate, the woman who’s worn his ring for decades?”
Crimson’s breath caught.
She was right.
In their eyes, I was the interloper. The outsider. The weapon. The *threat.*
And she? She was the past. The legacy. The bloodline.
“I don’t need them to believe me,” Crimson said. “I need *him* to.”
All eyes turned to me.
I didn’t flinch. Just studied Nyx, my crimson eyes unreadable. “Remove the bandage,” I said.
She hesitated. Then, slowly, unwound the linen.
The bite mark was there—deep, ragged, unmistakable. But something was wrong.
“That’s not my mark,” I said, voice low.
“What?” she asked, her smile faltering.
“My bite doesn’t bruise like that,” I said. “It leaves a silver scar. A crescent. You know that.”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re saying I forged it?”
“I’m saying you’re lying,” I said. “And if you don’t leave this room, I’ll have you dragged back to the high cell and this time, I’ll *personally* ensure you never speak again.”
She didn’t move. Just turned to Crimson, her eyes burning. “You think you’ve won? You think he’ll always defend you? He let me wear his ring. He let me into his bed. He let me *scream* his name. And one day, when he’s tired of your defiance, when he’s sick of your lies, he’ll come back to me. And you’ll be nothing but a footnote in his reign.”
“And you’ll be nothing but a corpse,” Crimson said, stepping forward. “Because if you ever touch him again, if you ever speak his name, if you ever *breathe* near me—I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to the wolves.”
She laughed—a broken, hollow sound. “You’re already losing him. Can’t you feel it? The bond is weakening. He’s starting to see you for what you are. A weapon. A tool. A *mistake.*”
“Get out,” I said, voice like ice.
She didn’t argue. Just turned and walked out, her bare feet silent on the stone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The war room fell silent.
And then—
“You should have killed her,” Crimson said, voice low.
“And prove her right?” I asked. “That I’m ruled by desire? By vengeance? By *you?*”
“She’ll keep coming,” she said. “She’ll keep lying. She’ll keep trying to break us.”
“Let her,” I said. “The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do I.”
But the damage was done.
I could feel it—the bond, pulsing, *uneasy.* Not broken. Not severed. But… strained. Like a thread pulled too tight.
And worse—
I could feel *her.*
Nyx.
Not in the keep.
In the Council.
She’d already spoken. Already poisoned the well. Already turned the knives toward me.
And soon, they’d come for me.
Not with enforcers.
Not with warrants.
With *truth.*
—
They came at dusk.
The summons arrived on silver parchment, sealed with the Council’s sigil—a black sun eclipsed by a crescent moon. I was to appear before the Fae High Court at dawn. To answer for my conduct. To prove my loyalty.
“It’s a truth-ordeal,” Crimson said, staring at the scroll.
I didn’t look up. Just continued reviewing troop reports. “Then you’ll pass.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will,” I said. “Because you’re not a traitor. You’re not a liar. You’re not a whore.”
Her breath caught. “And what if they ask about last night?”
I looked up then, my crimson eyes burning. “Then you tell them the truth. That I took you. That you let me. That you *wanted* me. And that you’d do it again.”
“And if they exile me?”
“Then I’ll burn the Court to the ground,” I said. “And crown you queen over the ashes.”
Her heart stopped.
She wasn’t joking.
I’d do it. For her.
And gods help me, I believed him.
—
I didn’t sleep.
Instead, I walked the keep—silent, deadly, a shadow in leather and crimson. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, aching throb, like it knew what was coming. I passed the crypts where Nyx had been caught with the serum. The courtyard where I’d collapsed from the poison. The war room where he’d taken me.
And then—
A flicker.
Not in the torchlight.
In the bond.
A pulse. Sharp. Sudden. Like a scream.
I turned.
And there she was.
Elara.
My mentor. My mother’s closest friend. The Seelie witch who’d gone into exile rather than swear allegiance to the Council. She stood in the corridor, her form shimmering like mist, her silver eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
“You’re late,” I said, voice tight.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve been hard to reach. The bond—it mutes your thoughts. Like a veil over your mind.”
“It’s not a veil,” I said. “It’s a *leash.*”
“Or a lifeline,” she countered. “Depends on how you wear it.”
“They’re calling me to the Fae High Court,” I said. “A truth-ordeal. To prove I’m not a traitor.”
She nodded. “And are you?”
“No,” I said. “But they’ll ask about Kael. About the bond. About last night.”
“And what will you say?”
“The truth.”
“Then you’ll survive,” she said. “But not unscathed. The ordeal will hurt. It will show them everything—your memories, your desires, your fears. They’ll see your mother’s execution. They’ll see your vow to kill him. They’ll see… *him.*”
“And if they exile me?”
“Then you’ll have to choose,” she said. “Vengeance. Or love. And whichever you pick—it will cost you everything.”
My breath caught. “And if I choose both?”
She smiled—a real one this time. “Then you’ll be the first.”
And then she was gone—dissolving into mist, leaving only the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine in the air.
I stood there, trembling, my skin still humming from her touch. The bond pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. I could feel Kael—he was in his chambers, awake, restless. Pacing. Thinking. *Feeling.*
And I could feel the truth in Elara’s warning.
The ordeal would happen at dawn.
And I had to be ready.
—
I didn’t go to him.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t call.
Just stood outside his door, my hand hovering over the handle, my breath steady, my heart a locked vault.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not with desire.
With *need.*
His need.
For me.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a mission.
As *his.*
I opened the door.
He was there—standing by the window, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned, his face pale, his jaw tight. He didn’t turn. Just whispered, “You’re here.”
“You called me,” I said.
“I didn’t have to,” he said. “The bond did.”
I stepped closer. “They’ll ask about us.”
“Then tell them,” he said. “Tell them I’m yours. That I’ll burn the world for you. That I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
My breath caught. “And if they exile me?”
“Then I’ll follow,” he said. “And if they kill me, I’ll rise from the ashes just to find you.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away. Just reached up, my fingers brushing his cheek, his jaw, the scar at his lip. “You don’t get to die,” I whispered. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Then stay,” he said. “Stay with me. Fight with me. *Live* with me.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his 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 his shoulders for balance.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“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 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 door, 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.
“You were right,” I said, my voice raw. “But I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
“And I don’t know if I can trust you either,” he said. “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.