The northern saboteur’s screams echoed through the lower vaults, sharp and wet, like a dog caught in a trap. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just watched as Riven carved another slice into the man’s thigh—slow, precise, surgical. The scent of blood filled the chamber, thick and coppery, but it wasn’t enough to mask the lie beneath it.
“Who sent you?” I asked, voice low, almost gentle.
The man spat at my boots. “Vexis can rot. You’ll never have me.”
I crouched, meeting his gaze. His eyes were wild, dilated with pain and defiance. Good. Fear made liars. Pain made truth. But defiance? Defiance was a challenge.
“You’re loyal,” I said. “I respect that. But loyalty is only as strong as the man who demands it. And Vexis doesn’t demand loyalty. He buys it. With gold. With promises. With the blood of others.”
The man’s jaw clenched. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “He gave me a purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?” I asked. “To die in a dungeon, forgotten? To be a footnote in a war you don’t even understand?”
“I serve the Seelie cause,” he growled.
“No,” I said, standing. “You serve a lie. The same lie that got your sister executed last winter. The same lie that left your nephew in a gutter with his throat slit.”
His breath hitched. I’d struck a nerve. Good.
“You think Vexis cares about you?” I asked. “He doesn’t. He uses you. Like he used the woman in the war room. Like he used the assassin in my chambers. Like he used *her mother.*”
The man went still. His eyes flickered—fear, recognition.
“You know about Lady Veyra,” I said. “Everyone does. But no one knows the truth. That I tried to save her. That I pleaded for clemency. That Vexis overruled me and made me watch as they burned her name from the archives.”
The man’s lips parted. He hadn’t known.
“You were sent to test us,” I said. “To see if the bond would break under pressure. But you made a mistake. You left blood on the map. You thought it was a warning. But it was a confession.”
He looked away.
I turned to Riven. “Enough. Lock him in the high cell. Let him think. Let him remember.”
Riven wiped his blade and nodded. “He’ll talk by morning.”
“He already has,” I said.
—
The keep was quiet when I returned, the corridors bathed in the dim, flickering glow of witch-lanterns. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a steady, insistent thrum—Crimson was awake. Agitated. Angry.
She’d seen Nyx in my chambers.
I’d felt it—the spike of jealousy, sharp and sudden, like a knife between my ribs. It had stolen my breath, made my vision blur. I’d known, then, that she cared. Not just about the mission. Not just about survival.
But about *me.*
And that terrified me more than any blade.
I’d wanted to go to her. To explain. To tell her that Nyx meant nothing. That the shirt, the ring, the bite—none of it was real. That it was all a performance, a desperate attempt to reclaim power she’d never truly held.
But I hadn’t.
Because the truth was, I *had* shared blood with her. Once. In the early years, when the loneliness was a living thing, gnawing at my bones. When the weight of the crown felt like a noose. I’d taken her to my bed, not out of love, but out of need. Out of *weakness.*
And when it was over, I’d known it was a mistake.
Not because she wasn’t beautiful. Not because she wasn’t skilled.
Because she wasn’t *her.*
And now, with Crimson, I wasn’t just bound by magic.
I was bound by *want.*
By hunger.
By the terrifying, undeniable truth that I didn’t just need her to survive the bond.
I needed her to survive *me.*
—
I didn’t go to my chambers. Not yet. Instead, I descended to the archives—a labyrinth of black stone and iron shelves, buried deep beneath the keep. The air here was cold, still, laced with the scent of old parchment and dried blood. This was where the past was kept. Where secrets were buried. Where I came to remember the things I’d rather forget.
The ledger was in the third vault, sealed with a blood-lock only I could open. I pressed my palm to the iron door, whispering the incantation—*Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat.* Blood opens, truth reigns.
The sigils flared crimson. The door groaned open.
Inside, the room was small, circular, lit by a single floating orb of witch-light. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it—the Blood Ledger. A massive tome bound in black leather and silver thread, its pages made from cured vampire skin, inked in the blood of every king who’d ever ruled.
I approached it slowly, my boots echoing in the silence. This was where the truth was kept. Not the lies the Council told. Not the propaganda the people believed.
The *real* truth.
I opened the ledger to the year of Crimson’s mother’s trial—387 of the Blood Era. The page was stained, the ink faded in places, but the words were still legible.
Lady Seraphine Veyra, of the Unseelie Blood, accused of treason: conspiring with rogue werewolves to assassinate Lord Vexis and destabilize the Council. Evidence presented: intercepted letters, witness testimony, fae-oath violation.
I skimmed the accusations, my jaw tight. All lies. Forged. Manufactured. The letters had been doctored. The witnesses—bribed. The oath violation? A technicality, twisted to serve Vexis’s ends.
And then—my own testimony.
King Kael Duskbane, Regent of the Eastern Vampires, speaks in defense of the accused. Cites prior alliance with House Veyra, service to the Council, lack of motive. Pleads for clemency. Motion denied by Seelie Councillor Vexis, supported by Werewolf Alpha Torin and Human Liaison Mirela. Sentence: Erasure from the archives. Public burning of name. No appeal.
I stared at the words. My plea. My failure.
I’d fought for her. Not because I owed her. Not because of politics.
Because I’d *known* her.
She’d been a woman of fire and iron, unbroken even in the face of death. She’d looked me in the eye during the trial and said, *“You’ll fail her too, Hollow King. But when you do, don’t let her hate you.”*
I hadn’t understood then.
Now, I did.
Because Crimson was her daughter. And I was failing *her* too.
Not because I wouldn’t protect her.
But because I *wanted* her.
And wanting her was the most dangerous thing I could do.
I turned the page. And there, in the margin—my own handwriting, scrawled in blood-red ink:
I failed you, Seraphine. But I won’t fail her.
I pressed my fingers to the words, my throat tight. I hadn’t meant for anyone to see that. It was a private vow, written in a moment of weakness, of grief, of guilt.
And now, Crimson had read it.
I could still feel it—the jolt in the bond when she broke the seal on the file, when her fingers traced those words. Shock. Confusion. A flicker of something softer: *hope.*
She didn’t trust me. Not yet.
But she was starting to *see* me.
And that was more dangerous than any blade.
Because if she saw me—truly saw me—she’d realize I wasn’t just a monster.
I was a man who’d loved and lost.
Just like her.
And that meant she might forgive me.
And if she forgave me…
I’d lose myself completely.
—
I closed the ledger and sealed it back in the vault. The bond pulsed stronger now—Crimson was moving. Fast. Agitated.
I left the archives and took the spiral stairs to the upper levels. The war room was dark when I entered, the maps still glowing faintly under the witch-lanterns. And there—on the table—was the map of the northern border.
The blood was gone. Wiped clean.
But the tube was open. The map unrolled.
She’d been here. Studying it. Planning.
And then I saw it—a note, scrawled in the margin in her handwriting:
Eastern ridge. Sabotage confirmed. Scouts returning at dawn. We move at first light.
I stared at the words. Not a request. Not a suggestion.
An *order.*
She wasn’t just challenging me.
She was *leading.*
And gods help me, I *liked* it.
Because she was right. The clans would come. The saboteur would talk. And we’d meet them together—king and co-ruler, bound by magic, by blood, by something deeper than either of us wanted to admit.
I turned to leave, but something stopped me.
A scent.
Not blood. Not fear.
*Hers.*
Storm and iron. Vengeance and truth.
But beneath it—something softer. Warmer.
Worry.
For *me.*
I closed my eyes. The bond flared, a slow, aching throb, like a star collapsing in my chest. I could feel her—her pulse, her breath, the way her magic flickered as she traced sigils in the air, testing wards, planning escapes.
She thought she was hiding it.
But the bond didn’t lie.
And neither did her heart.
—
I found her in the armory.
Not where I’d left her. Not where I expected.
But standing at the weapon rack, her back to me, her fingers brushing the hilt of my dagger—the one I’d been sharpening. The one that carried memories.
And then—she gasped.
Staggered back.
Her hand flew to her temple, her breath coming fast, her skin pale.
“Crimson?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at the dagger, her eyes wide, her lips parted.
“What did you see?” I asked, stepping closer.
She turned to me, her gaze searching mine. “You… you were on your knees. Bound. Vexis was laughing. He said—” Her voice cracked. “He said you couldn’t save her. And you wouldn’t save me.”
My blood ran cold.
The dagger wasn’t just a weapon.
It was a memory vessel. A relic of pain. I’d bled on it the night they took Seraphine. I’d carved my grief into the blade. And now, it had shown her the truth.
“It’s real,” I said, voice low. “I tried to save her. I fought for her. And when I failed, Vexis made me watch. Made me *remember.*”
She stared at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because the truth is a weapon,” I said. “And timing is everything. I didn’t want you to see me as a victim. I wanted you to see me as a threat.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, stepping closer, “I want you to see me as *yours.*”
She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at me—really looked at me—with those storm-colored eyes that saw too much, felt too deeply.
And then—her hand lifted. Slow. Hesitant. And she touched my face.
Not a slap. Not a strike.
A *caress.*
Her fingers traced the line of my jaw, then down to the scar on my neck—a thin, silver line from a battle long past. Her touch was warm. Alive. And it *burned.*
“You’re not what I thought you were,” she whispered.
“No,” I agreed. “I’m worse.”
“No,” she said. “You’re *human.*”
I laughed—a low, broken sound. “I haven’t been human in centuries.”
“But you feel,” she said. “You *grieve.* You *regret.* That’s not a monster. That’s a man.”
The bond flared, a surge so intense I thought I’d collapse. My hand lifted, slow, and I pressed it over hers, holding her against my skin. Her pulse jumped. Mine synced with it.
“I don’t want to be your enemy,” I said, voice rough. “I want to be your *king.* Your mate. Your *equal.*”
She didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, until our bodies were flush, until I could feel the heat of her, the scent of her, the way her breath hitched when I touched her.
And then—her lips brushed mine.
Not a kiss. Not a claim.
A *question.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My mouth crashed down on hers—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
Her hands flew to my chest, not to push me away, but to hold on. Her body arched into mine, her breath hot against my lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against hers, I whispered the only truth that mattered:
“I failed your mother. But I won’t fail you. I’d burn the world before I let you go.”
She didn’t speak.
Just nodded, her eyes glistening.
And in that silence, I knew—
The game had changed.
And this time, I wasn’t just playing for power.
I was playing for *her.*