The first time I saw our bath chamber, I thought it was a tomb.
Carved from black marble veined with silver, lit by floating orbs of fae-light that pulsed like slow, sleeping hearts. Steam rose from a sunken pool in the center, its surface shimmering with oil-slick iridescence, the scent of winter pine and iron thick in the air. Torches lined the walls, their flames dyed crimson, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like wraiths across the stone.
It was beautiful.
And I hated it.
Because this was where it had begun.
Where the ritual had forced us to stand bare in the Moon Spring, skin glistening, breath mingling, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. Where his hand had grazed my thigh beneath the water, slow, deliberate, *teasing.* Where I’d hissed, *“Don’t look at me like that,”* and he’d answered, *“Or I’ll make you regret it.”*
That night, I’d still believed I could kill him.
That night, I’d still thought the bond was a curse.
Now?
Now, I stood at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the warm stone, my gown pooled around my ankles, my gloves discarded, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The dagger was still in my boot—of course it was. Not for protection. Not for vengeance.
For *memory.*
Kael stood behind me, his coat whispering against the floor, his presence a wall at my back. He hadn’t spoken since we left the Veil. Just followed, silent, steady, his crimson eyes burning in the dim light. The bond pulsed between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice low.
“And yet,” I said, stepping into the water, “I do.”
The heat rose around me, seeping into my skin, loosening the tension in my muscles, the weight in my chest. I sank down until the water lapped at my collarbones, the steam curling around my shoulders like a lover’s breath. The oil on the surface caught the light, shifting colors—crimson, violet, gold—like a living thing.
Kael didn’t move. Just stood there, watching me, his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back.
“You’re thinking,” I said.
“I’m always thinking,” he replied.
“Not like this,” I said, turning to him. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to war. Or worse—peace.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and began to unbutton his coat. The fabric whispered to the floor. Then his shirt. Then his boots. Each piece of clothing a layer of armor, discarded. And when he stood before me—bare, powerful, *real*—I felt the bond *flare,* a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
He stepped into the water.
Not with shadow-walk. Not with speed.
With *intention.*
He moved toward me, the water parting around his body, the steam curling around his shoulders. His eyes never left mine. And when he reached me, he didn’t touch me. Just knelt, the water rising to his waist, his face level with mine.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline, his voice rough. “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.
—
He didn’t kiss me.
Not yet.
Just reached for the vial on the edge of the pool—black glass, stoppered with silver, filled with a thick, amber oil. The scent rose as he uncorked it—jasmine, night-blooming, sharp with something darker, something *wild.*
“This is from your mother’s garden,” he said, pouring a drop into his palm. “The one in the ancestral hall. I had it preserved. For years. I didn’t know why. Only that it felt… important.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t press. Just turned me gently, so my back was to him, and began to massage the oil into my shoulders.
His hands were warm. Strong. *Certain.* Each stroke deliberate, slow, deep. The oil sank into my skin, carrying with it the scent of her—of home, of childhood, of a life I thought I’d lost forever. My muscles loosened. My breath slowed. My head fell back against his shoulder.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his breath warm against my neck. “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.
And then—his hands moved lower.
Down my spine. Over the curve of my hips. Then under the water, fingers brushing the inside of my thigh, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his arms 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 water.
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 arms. 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 arms, 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 sat there, pressed against him, the water warm around us, 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 edge of the pool.
Not with shadow-walk. Not with speed.
With *intention.*
He laid me down slow, the warm stone beneath my back, the steam curling around us like a shroud. His mouth found 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.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.
“I already do,” he said, his mouth crashing down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.* “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 the water, 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 stone, 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 convulsed, 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 stone. Not for making me come with his fingers through the water.
For the years.
For the silence.
For the way he’d let the world try to break her.
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, barefoot 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.