The night after we sealed the Treaty of Thorns with Torin, I dreamed of my mother.
Not the memory of her—frozen in the moment of her execution, her voice steady as she denied the charges, her eyes burning with defiance as they dragged her to the pyre. Not the echo of her laughter, lost somewhere in the ruins of our ancestral hall. Not even the scent of her blood, thick and iron-rich, as it pooled on the cold stone beneath the Obsidian Spire.
No.
This was *her.*
Alive. Whole. Smiling.
She stood in a garden I’d never seen—tall silver trees with leaves like shattered mirrors, their reflections shifting with every breath of wind. The ground was black sand, warm beneath my bare feet, and the air hummed with the low, melodic trill of unseen insects. Above, the sky wasn’t night. It was twilight—eternal, bruised with violet and gold, the stars not distant points of light, but swirling constellations that pulsed like living things.
And there she was.
Seraphine Veyra.
My mother.
She wore a gown of woven shadow and starlight, its hem trailing behind her like smoke. Her hair—long, dark, threaded with silver—flowed around her shoulders, untouched by time. Her eyes, the same storm-gray as mine, locked onto mine with a warmth that made my chest ache.
“You’ve grown,” she said, her voice like wind through ancient trees.
I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight, my breath shallow. I wanted to run to her. To collapse into her arms. To scream, to weep, to beg her to tell me why she hadn’t fought harder, why she hadn’t run, why she’d let them erase her.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there, my boots sinking into the warm sand, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The bond pulsed beneath my skin—slow, steady, *alive*—a second heartbeat that reminded me I wasn’t alone.
“I’ve missed you,” I finally said, my voice raw.
She smiled. Not a sad smile. Not a pitying one.
A *proud* one.
“I’ve been watching,” she said. “From the Veil. From the echoes. From the places between breaths. I’ve seen every step you’ve taken. Every lie you’ve broken. Every wall you’ve burned.”
My breath caught. “And do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For hating the wrong man. For blaming Kael. For not seeing the truth sooner.”
She stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and reached out. Her fingers brushed my cheek—cool, real, *solid.* “You were never wrong to seek justice. You were wrong to let vengeance blind you. But you found your way. You chose truth. You chose love. And you did it without losing yourself.”
“I almost did,” I whispered. “When I found out he tried to save you… I almost killed him anyway.”
“And yet,” she said, her thumb tracing my jawline, “you didn’t. You stayed. You fought. You *won.* Not just for me. For all of them. For the ones they erased. For the ones they silenced.”
“And what about you?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Are you… at peace?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at the swirling constellations, her expression distant, as if listening to a song only she could hear. “Peace isn’t the absence of pain,” she said. “It’s the acceptance of it. I died unjustly. I was betrayed. I was erased. But I am not forgotten. *You* remembered. And that… that is my peace.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. I didn’t wipe them away. “I wish I could have saved you.”
“You did,” she said, stepping closer, her hands cupping my face. “Not from death. But from being erased. From being silenced. From being *nothing.* You gave me back my name. My legacy. My *truth.* And that—more than any life—was the gift I needed.”
My breath hitched. “And now?”
“Now,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine, “you must be ready.”
“For what?”
“The next storm,” she said. “Vexis is gone. Nyx is broken. The Council is shaken. But the balance is fragile. And there are those who will do anything to break it. To take what you’ve built. To burn what you’ve healed.”
My blood ran cold. “Who?”
She didn’t answer. Just stepped back, her form beginning to shimmer, like mist under moonlight. “Trust your instincts. Trust your bond. Trust *him.*”
“Kael?” I asked. “But he’s—”
“Not perfect,” she said, cutting me off. “But he is *yours.* And you are his. That is not weakness. It is power. The kind they cannot touch.”
“And if they come for us?”
“Then stand together,” she said, her voice fading, her form dissolving into the twilight. “Not as king and queen. Not as vampire and witch. But as *mates.* As equals. As the storm they cannot weather.”
And then—
She was gone.
Not with a whisper. Not with a sigh.
With silence.
—
I woke with a gasp.
My body arched off the bed, my hands flying to my chest, my breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the bond sigil on our foreheads—two serpents, intertwined, their eyes glowing crimson. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. My gown was half-off, one shoulder bare, the bruise from Kael’s teeth still faintly visible on my neck.
And then—
Warmth.
Not from the fire. Not from the bond.
From *him.*
Kael was already beside me, his arm slung over my waist, his body pressed against mine, his breath steady against my neck. He hadn’t woken. Hadn’t stirred. But his presence—his scent, his heat, his *weight*—was a balm.
“You called my name,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “In your sleep.”
My breath caught. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” he said, tightening his grip. “The bond did.”
I turned my head, my cheek brushing his shoulder. “I saw her.”
He didn’t ask who. Just shifted, rolling onto his side, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “Your mother?”
I nodded.
He studied me, his gaze tracing the lines of my face, the tear tracks on my cheeks, the way my fingers trembled where they gripped the sheets. “What did she say?”
“That I did well,” I whispered. “That she’s at peace. That I gave her back her name.”
He didn’t smile. Just reached up, slow, and brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “And you?” he asked. “Are you at peace?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him—his sharp jaw, his chiseled lips, the scar at the corner of his mouth, the way his hair fell across his forehead like a shadow. The man I’d come to kill. The man I’d tried to hate. The man who’d knelt before the Council and offered his life for me.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’m closer than I’ve ever been.”
He didn’t press. Just pulled me closer, his body a furnace against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Then rest,” he murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
“And if they come?”
“Let them,” he said, his voice low, guttural. “They’ll find the door locked. And me behind it.”
My breath hitched. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline, his touch feather-light, *reverent.* “And you? You *crave* it.”
My core clenched. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, pressed against him, my breath mingling with his, my body aching for more.
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 didn’t sleep again.
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.”