The argument started over something small.
Stupid, even.
A report from the western border. A missing patrol. A single sentence in blood-ink script that read: *“No signs of struggle. No scent. No bodies.”*
And Kael wanted to send reinforcements. Immediate. Heavy. With me at the front.
“It’s a trap,” I said, tossing the parchment onto the obsidian table. “They’re drawing us out. Testing our response time. If we send half the guard, we’re thinning the city’s defenses. If we go ourselves, we’re walking into an ambush.”
“And if it’s not a trap?” he countered, his voice low, guttural. “If it’s a rogue faction? If it’s humans with stolen UV lenses and silver rounds? If they’re already inside the walls?”
“Then we respond with scouts,” I said. “Not the rulers. Not the *symbols.* You don’t get to risk yourself like some disposable enforcer.”
He stepped closer, his presence pressing against me, his crimson eyes burning. “And you do?”
“I’m not the one they want dead,” I snapped. “They want the Hollow King. They want the vampire who knelt. The one who let a half-breed witch claim his throne. You think they won’t come for you the moment your back is turned?”
“And you think I’ll let you walk into danger alone?” he growled, his hand slamming down on the table, the stone cracking beneath his palm. “You think I don’t feel every heartbeat you miss? Every breath you hold? Every wound you hide?”
The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest. I could feel his fear. Not for himself. For *me.* Raw. Unfiltered. Terrifying.
But I didn’t back down.
Just lifted my chin, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to protect me. Not like this. Not by throwing yourself into every fight like you’re still trying to atone.”
“And if I am?” he said, stepping closer, his voice rough. “If I *need* to? If every time I close my eyes, I see you bleeding? If every silence reminds me of the years I let you suffer? If I can’t breathe unless I know you’re safe?”
“Then you’re not leading,” I said. “You’re hiding. Behind duty. Behind fear. Behind *me.*”
He froze.
Not with anger.
With *hurt.*
And gods help me, that was worse.
Because I saw it—the crack in the armor. The man beneath the king. The one who’d knelt before the Council and offered his life. The one who’d let me heal him. The one who’d whispered, *“I can’t live without you.”*
And I’d just thrown it back in his face.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline, his touch feather-light, *reverent.* “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath hitched.
But I turned away. Just walked out of the war room, my boots clicking too loud in the silence, my heart pounding like a war drum. I didn’t look back. Didn’t stop. Just kept walking until I reached our chambers, slammed the door, and leaned against it, my body trembling.
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 hear him come in.
Didn’t feel the shift in air. Didn’t see the shadow at the edge of the room.
Just felt the *weight* of him.
His presence. His heat. His *need.*
And then—
His hands.
Not gentle. Not careful.
Hard. Possessive. *Furious.*
He spun me around, his body pressing mine against the door, his mouth crashing down on mine before I could speak, before I could breathe, before I could *think.* His kiss wasn’t soft. Wasn’t slow. Wasn’t a *promise.*
It was a *claim.*
Hard. Desperate. *Needing.*
Not to dominate.
Not to possess.
To *connect.*
My hands flew to his shoulders, 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.
“You don’t get to walk away,” he growled against my mouth, his fangs grazing my lower lip, drawing a bead of blood. “Not after what you said. Not after what you *are.*”
“And what am I?” I hissed, my nails digging into his coat. “Your weapon? Your shield? Your *penance?*”
He didn’t answer.
Just bit down—hard—on the pulse point of my neck, not breaking skin, but close enough that I felt the heat, the pressure, the *promise* of it. I gasped, my body arching, my core clenching, *aching.*
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough, guttural. “Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. Because you *fought* for me. Because you *stayed.* Because you *healed* me. And I won’t let you pretend otherwise.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
And then—his 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 hair 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 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.
—
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull back. Didn’t let me breathe.
Just lifted me—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and 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 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, his 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, his 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, 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 lay there, pressed against the bed, my body a furnace against his, 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, his hips pressing deeper, his 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, his 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.
—
Afterward, he didn’t pull away.
Didn’t roll off. Didn’t leave me gasping in the dark.
Just stayed inside me, his body heavy, his breath warm against my neck, his arms tight around my waist. The bond pulsed—slow, steady, *alive*—like a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
And then—
He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Not for taking me. Not for pinning me to the door. Not for making me come with his fingers through my gown.
For the fight.
For the fear.
For the way he’d tried to control everything, like he could keep me safe by force alone.
And gods help me, I believed him.
“I’m sorry too,” I said, my fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder—the one from a battle long before I was born. “For saying you were hiding. For making you feel like you weren’t enough.”
He didn’t answer. Just shifted, rolling onto his side, pulling me with him, my back to his chest, his arm slung over my waist. His skin was warm. His breath steady. His presence a wall at my back.
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.
—
Later, as dawn bled across the sky, I stood at the balcony, my bare feet on cold obsidian, my gown gone, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The city below was quiet, its streets empty, its people watching from behind shuttered windows and veiled balconies.
Kael came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You’re thinking,” he said.
“I’m always thinking,” I replied.
“Not like this,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to peace.”
I leaned into him, my body a furnace against his. “Then let’s make it last.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his breath warm against my skin.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to run.
Because I wasn’t alone.
I had him.
I had the truth.
And I had my mother’s name.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.