The kiss didn’t last.
It couldn’t.
Because the moment his lips met mine—soft at first, then desperate, hungry, *needing*—the bond *exploded.* Not with heat. Not with lust.
With *memory.*
Flashes tore through my skull like shrapnel: Kael on his knees, hands bound behind his back, face bloodied, eyes hollow as Vexis stood over him, laughing. My mother’s voice, raw and defiant: *“You’ll fail her too, Hollow King. But when you do, don’t let her hate you.”* The pyre. The silver ink burning. The silence where her name used to be.
I gasped, wrenching back, my hands flying to my temples. The visions faded, but the ache remained—a deep, hollow throb behind my eyes, like a wound that would never close.
Kael didn’t move. Just watched me, his chest rising and falling fast, his crimson eyes wide, unguarded. For the first time, I saw it—*fear.* Not of me. Not of the bond.
Fear of *losing* me.
“You felt it,” he said, voice rough. “The truth.”
“You didn’t just fail her,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You were *punished* for trying to save her.”
He didn’t deny it. Just nodded, slow, his jaw tight. “Vexis wanted me broken. He wanted me to learn my place. And when I refused to bow, he made me watch as they erased her. As they called her a traitor. As they told the world she died alone.”
My breath caught. “She didn’t.”
“No,” he said. “She died with her head high. And she made me promise—before they took her—that I’d protect you. That I wouldn’t let the same lie destroy you.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have believed me?” he challenged. “If I’d said, *‘I tried to save your mother, but I failed—now let me claim you as my queen’*? You’d have called it manipulation. A lie. And you’d have been right to.”
I stared at him. The bond pulsed between us, no longer a leash, no longer a curse.
A *lifeline.*
Because he hadn’t just tried to save her.
He’d *loved* her.
Not in the way of kings and nobles—cold, political, transactional.
>But in the way of survivors. Of warriors. Of those who’d seen the dark and still chose to stand.And now, he was standing with *me.*
My throat tightened. All this time, I’d thought he was the monster. The one who’d signed her death warrant. The one who’d let her burn.
But the real monster had been smiling from the Council dais, whispering lies into his ear, playing him like a puppet.
Vexis.
And I’d been so focused on hating Kael that I’d nearly missed it.
“You knew,” I said, voice low. “You knew the bond would form. You knew I’d come. You *let* it happen.”
He didn’t flinch. “I didn’t know. But I hoped. Because the moment I saw you, I *recognized* you. Not just as her daughter. As *mine.* And when our hands touched—” He lifted his, staring at his palm. “I felt it. Like a door long sealed had cracked open. Like I could finally *breathe.*”
I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to scream. To slap him. To remind him that he’d let me believe he was the villain, that he’d used my pain as a weapon, that he’d *claimed* me without consent.
But the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
He hadn’t claimed me.
He’d *saved* me.
Because if I’d stayed in the Obsidian Spire, Vexis would have killed me. Quietly. Cleanly. Another half-breed witch, gone in the night, her death blamed on rogue werewolves or a failed spell.
But Kael had pulled me into the light.
Into the fire.
And now, I was burning.
Not from hate.
From *grief.*
Tears spilled down my cheeks—hot, silent, unstoppable. I didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t try to hide. Just let them fall, my body trembling, my breath ragged.
He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for me.
Just waited.
Because he knew—this wasn’t about him.
This was about *her.*
My mother.
The woman who’d taught me to fight. To lie. To survive.
The woman who’d looked me in the eye the night before her trial and said, *“They’ll try to break you. But you must stay whole. No matter what.”*
And I had.
Until now.
Until I realized she hadn’t died alone.
Until I realized someone had *fought* for her.
And failed.
And carried that failure like a wound for over a century.
And now, he was carrying it for *me.*
I stepped forward.
Then another.
Until I was close enough to feel his breath on my skin, close enough to smell the blood on his hands, the grief in his bones.
And then—I *slapped* him.
Not a light strike. Not a warning.
A full-force blow, sharp and wet, that snapped his head to the side. My palm stung. His skin reddened. A thin line of blood welled at the corner of his lip.
He didn’t react. Didn’t raise a hand. Just turned back, slowly, his eyes burning into mine.
“You let me hate you,” I hissed, my voice raw. “You let me believe you were the monster. You let me *blame* you.”
“And if I hadn’t?” he asked, voice low. “Would you have let me near you? Would you have let the bond form? Would you have *lived?*”
“You don’t get to decide that!” I shouted, shoving him. “You don’t get to play martyr and expect me to *thank* you!”
He didn’t budge. Just caught my wrists, twisted them behind my back, and *pinned* me against the weapon rack—hard, fast, *final.*
My breath came in gasps. His chest pressed against mine. His eyes—crimson, wild, *alive*—bored into me.
“No,” he growled. “I don’t get to decide. But I *do* get to protect you. To fight for you. To *burn* for you.”
“You don’t owe me anything!”
“I don’t *owe* you,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I *want* you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you. And I’ll be damned if I let Vexis take you from me too.”
My pulse spiked.
The bond flared—a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
And then—his mouth crashed down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A *claim.*
Hard. Desperate. *Needing.* His tongue slid against mine, his hands fisting in my hair, his body pressing me into the rack. A dagger clattered to the floor, but neither of us moved. The bond roared, a surge of heat so intense I thought I’d combust. My hands clawed at his back, my nails scraping over scars, over muscle, over skin that burned like fire.
He groaned into my mouth, deep and rough, and I felt it—the press of his erection against my thigh, thick and insistent. My breath caught. My body responded, heat pooling low, my core tightening, my thighs pressing together.
This wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged. “You don’t get to run,” he whispered. “You don’t get to hide. You’re *mine,* Crimson. And I’m not letting you go.”
“You don’t own me,” I breathed.
“No,” he said. “But the bond does. And so does your heart.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“Liar,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “You don’t hate me. You *need* me. Just like I need you.”
My breath hitched.
And then—his hand slid down, over my hip, my thigh, then under my dress, fingers gripping the back of my knee, lifting my leg around his waist. I gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his mouth crashing back onto mine.
This time, I didn’t fight.
Didn’t resist.
I arched into him, my mouth opening wider, my tongue tangling with his. He tasted like blood and power, like danger and *home.* I hated it. I hated *him.*
But I couldn’t let go.
His other hand slid up my side, beneath my arm, until his fingers tangled in my hair. He tilted my head back, his eyes burning into mine. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“No,” I whispered.
He kissed me again—harder, deeper, *fiercer.* His hips ground against mine, his erection a brand through the fabric. I moaned into his mouth, my body arching, my hands clawing at his coat.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough, his breath hot against my lips. “Or I’ll keep you like this—pressed against this wall, aching, *needing,* until you beg for me.”
“You’re a monster,” I breathed.
“And you love it,” he said, his hand sliding up my thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of my panties. “You love how I touch you. How I *take* you. How I make you feel *alive.*”
My breath caught.
And then—his thumb pressed against my clit, slow, deliberate, through the fabric.
I *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* My back arched, my hips grinding against his hand, my body trembling. The bond flared, 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 thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him again.
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 weapon rack, 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.
I lifted my head, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his crimson ones. “You don’t get to ruin me,” I whispered, my voice raw. “You don’t get to *break* me.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just stared at me, his gaze burning. “No,” he said. “But I’ll *love* you. And if that ruins you—” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then I’ll ruin you every damn day until you can’t remember a time you weren’t mine.”
The bond flared, a surge so intense I thought I’d combust.
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.
He lowered my leg slowly, his hand sliding from beneath my dress, his fingers brushing my inner thigh as he pulled away. The loss was immediate—aching, *needy.* I wanted to pull him back. To demand more. To beg.
But I didn’t.
Just straightened my dress, my hands trembling, my skin still humming from his touch.
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his expression unreadable.
“We have a saboteur to interrogate,” I said, voice steady. “And a war to stop.”
He nodded. “Together.”
“Not as king and co-ruler,” I said. “As *partners.*”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat.
Just reached out, slow, and took my hand.
Our fingers intertwined.
The bond flared—a slow, steady pulse, like a heartbeat.
Not a leash.
Not a curse.
A *promise.*
“Partners,” he agreed.
And as we walked out of the armory, hand in hand, I knew—
The game had changed.
And this time, I wasn’t just playing for survival.
I was playing for *us.*