The first time I saw the royal gardens of the Obsidian Spire, they were dead.
Not neglected. Not overgrown.
*Dead.*
Blackened vines choked the trellises. The fountains had long since dried, their basins cracked, their statues of ancient kings crumbling into dust. The trees—once said to be gifts from the Fae High Court—stood like skeletons, their branches clawing at the sky, their roots exposed like bones. No birds sang. No insects hummed. Even the wind seemed to avoid this place, as if it feared what silence might whisper back.
It suited him then.
The Hollow King. The man who drank the blood of liars. The immortal who ruled from shadow, untouched, unfeeling, unbroken.
I’d stood at the edge of that ruin during my first week here, my dagger hidden in my boot, my breath steady, my heart a locked vault. I hadn’t come to mourn the gardens.
I’d come to plan his funeral.
Now—
Now, I walked barefoot across the same path, my leather boots discarded at the gate, my gloves gone, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and night-blooming cereus—flowers that hadn’t existed here a year ago. The fountains flowed again, their water clear, their songs soft, rippling through the night like whispered secrets. The trees stood tall, their leaves shimmering with a faint silver sheen, their roots cradled in rich, dark soil.
And beside me—
Kael.
Not in his coat. Not in his armor.
In a simple black tunic, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his fangs retracted, his crimson eyes reflecting the moonlight like twin pools of blood. He didn’t speak. Just walked beside me, his hand brushing mine with every step, his presence a wall at my back. The bond pulsed between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
“You’re quiet,” I said, breaking the silence.
“I’m always quiet,” he replied, his voice low, rough.
“Not like this,” I said, turning to him. “This is the kind of quiet that leads to war. Or worse—peace.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped closer, slow, deliberate, and reached up to brush a strand of hair from my face. His touch was warm, steady, *certain.* “And if I want both?” he asked. “War when it’s needed. Peace when it’s earned.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t press. Just let his fingers trail down my cheek, to my jaw, to the pulse at my throat. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb circling my pulse point, 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.
—
We reached the heart of the garden—where the dead oak once stood, its roots cracked, its crown split by lightning. Now, in its place, a new tree rose: slender, silver-barked, its leaves shaped like crescent moons, their edges glowing faintly with fae-light. At its base, a single plaque—etched in Unseelie script, translated in blood-ink beneath:
For Seraphine Veyra—cleared of all charges. Her legacy restored. Her name honored. Let it never be erased again.
I knelt, my fingers brushing the cool stone. The dagger was still in my boot—of course it was. Not for protection. Not for vengeance.
For *memory.*
For balance.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said, my voice low.
“And yet,” he said, kneeling beside me, “I did.”
I turned to him. “It’s not just about her, is it?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached into his tunic and withdrew a small vial—black glass, stoppered with silver. Inside, a single petal floated, preserved in amber oil. The scent rose as he uncorked it—jasmine, night-blooming, sharp with something darker, something *wild.*
“This was hers,” he said. “From the garden at her ancestral hall. I took it the night they sentenced her. I didn’t know why. Only that I couldn’t let it burn.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t press. Just poured a single drop of oil onto the plaque, letting it soak into the stone. “I failed her,” he said, his voice raw. “I stood there, and I let them silence her. And I’ve carried that failure every day since.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, “I plant her memory in living soil. Not to atone. Not to absolve myself. But to say: *She was here. She mattered. She was loved.*”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Not of grief.
Of *grace.*
I didn’t cry. Just pressed my palm to the plaque, feeling the warmth of the oil, the pulse of the earth beneath it. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his hand covering mine, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “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.
—
We didn’t stay long.
Just long enough for the oil to sink in. For the tree to shimmer in the moonlight. For the wind to carry the scent of jasmine through the garden.
Then we walked.
Not back the way we came.
Deeper.
Through the rose maze—rebuilt from thornless silver blooms, their petals glowing like embers. Past the reflecting pool, where the water no longer showed shadows, but memories: my mother’s face, smiling; Kael, kneeling before me, his voice raw with guilt; us, kissing in the war room, hard and desperate and *needing.*
And then—
The arbor.
Once a ruin, its beams collapsed, its vines withered. Now, it stood whole, its arches woven with living crystal, its ceiling a canopy of stars—real ones, drawn down from the sky by fae magic. Benches lined the path, carved from black diamond, their surfaces etched with the sigils of every species: vampire, werewolf, witch, fae, human.
We sat.
Not side by side.
Me on his lap, my back to his chest, his arms slung around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. The bond pulsed—slow, deep, *alive*—like a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
“You’re thinking,” I said.
“I’m always thinking,” he replied.
“Not like this,” I said. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to peace.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed a kiss to my shoulder, slow, deliberate, *reverent.*
And then—
He spoke.
Not about war. Not about politics. Not about the Council.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice low. “You were standing in the war room, your dagger drawn, your eyes like storm and iron. You didn’t flinch when I entered. Didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, like you were already calculating how to kill me.”
“And were you afraid?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I was… *awake.* For the first time in centuries, I felt something. Not desire. Not lust. Not even anger. *Curiosity.* Who are you? I thought. What do you want? And why do you smell like storm and iron and something I can’t name?”
My breath hitched.
He felt it. But he didn’t stop. “And then you touched me. In the ritual. And the bond—”
“—burned,” I finished.
“No,” he said. “It *woke.* Like a star collapsing in my chest. Like something I’d buried for centuries had finally found its way back to the surface. And I knew—”
“—that you were mine,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “That I was *yours.*”
My heart stopped.
He turned me in his arms, slow, deliberate, until I was facing him, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands pressed to his chest. His crimson eyes burned into mine. “I didn’t want it,” he said. “I fought it. I tried to control it. I even tried to hate you. But every time you walked into a room, every time you challenged me, every time you looked at me like I was just another monster to destroy—I felt it. Not just the bond. *You.* Your fire. Your fury. Your *truth.* And I knew—”
“—that you couldn’t live without me,” I said, my voice breaking.
He didn’t answer. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“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 into his tunic and withdrew a small, flat box—black wood, inlaid with silver serpents. He didn’t open it. Just held it out to me, his crimson eyes burning.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Open it,” he said.
I did.
Inside—
A ring.
Not gold. Not silver.
Black diamond, carved into the shape of a serpent, its fangs bared, its eyes set with twin rubies. Around the band, an inscription in Unseelie script: Equal. Eternal. Bound.
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t press. Just took the ring from the box and held it between us. “This isn’t a claim,” he said. “Not a possession. Not a vow sealed by magic. It’s a *choice.* Mine. Yours. Every day. Every breath. Every heartbeat. I don’t want you because the bond demands it. I want you because you’re *you.* Because you fight. Because you burn. Because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen a man, not a monster.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
But I didn’t cry.
Just held out my hand.
He slid the ring onto my finger—slow, deliberate, *reverent.* It fit perfectly.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
A *promise.*
His mouth moved over mine, gentle, searching, *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.”
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I stood before the mirror.
My gown was gone. My gloves were gone. My dagger was on the table, its blade still stained with blood.
And on my finger—the ring glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the bond.
Kael stood behind me, his arms around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I didn’t slap him.
Just leaned back into him, my body a furnace against his, my breath coming fast.
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.
But as I stood there, pressed against him, the bond pulsing beneath our flesh like a second heartbeat, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already had.
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.