The moment I carried River into my chambers, the world narrowed to a single point: her.
Not the chaos in the Blood Garden. Not Malrik’s ambush, his blade aimed at my throat, his eyes cold with centuries of hatred. Not the Council’s demands, the Fae whispers, or the political firestorm that would erupt when word spread that an Elder had attacked the king—and his fated mate—on neutral ground.
None of it mattered.
Only her.
She was light in my arms, but not fragile. Her body was taut with pain, her breath shallow, her scent sharp with blood and adrenaline. The wound on her shoulder was deep—clean, no poison, but still dangerous. A mortal would be unconscious. A lesser wolf would be feral with rage. But River? She was silent. Still. Watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes, as if she were measuring how far I’d go to keep her alive.
And I would go all the way.
I laid her gently on the black silk sheets of my bed, my hands lingering just a second too long on her waist. The bond flared between us—hot, insistent—pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It had been screaming since the moment she stepped in front of that blade. Not just from proximity. Not just from danger.
From *need*.
“Don’t,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her wound as I reached for the edge of her tunic. “I don’t need your help.”
I didn’t answer. Just knelt beside the bed, my fingers brushing the fabric. “You’re bleeding. The wound is deep. Your magic is unstable. And your wolf is weak from the Heat.” I met her gaze, my voice low. “You *do* need me.”
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t want you to—”
“Then don’t look.”
Before she could protest, I tore the fabric open, baring her shoulder. The cut was clean, but angry—edges torn, blood still seeping. My fangs ached. Not from hunger. From something deeper. Something primal.
I leaned in, slow, deliberate, and pressed my mouth to the wound.
She gasped.
Not from pain.
From *pleasure*.
Her body arched, just slightly, her breath catching as my tongue dragged over the torn flesh. Vampire saliva had healing properties—more than that, it carried a trace of our blood-bond, a spark of shared energy that could mend flesh, soothe pain, and—when exchanged in intimacy—ignite desire.
And River? She was already trembling.
Her scent spiked—wolf, witch, *need*—filling the room like a storm. Her pulse jumped beneath my lips. Her fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white.
“Stop,” she breathed. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I said, lifting my head just enough to meet her eyes. Blood stained my lips. My fangs were fully out, my control frayed. “I want to taste you. To heal you. To *know* you.”
“This isn’t about me,” she said, voice shaking. “It’s about the bond. About power. About *ownership*.”
“No,” I said, pressing my mouth back to her skin. “It’s about *this*.”
I sucked gently, drawing a moan from her throat. Her hips shifted. Her thighs pressed together. The bond flared—white-hot, electric—and for a heartbeat, I thought she might push me away.
But she didn’t.
She stayed still. Let me be. Let me *feed*.
Not from her throat. Not in claiming. But from her wound—slow, intimate, *necessary*.
And gods, it was intoxicating.
Her blood was rich—dark, laced with magic, alive with her witch’s power. It burned through my veins like fire, lighting up the bond, making it pulse like a living thing. I could feel her—her pain, her fear, her *wanting*—all of it rushing into me, settling in my bones.
And I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
Not until the wound began to close. Not until the edges knit together, the bleeding slowed, the flesh sealed with a faint silver scar.
Only then did I pull back.
She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, her skin flushed. Her eyes were wide, dark with something I couldn’t name—fear, yes. But also *hunger*.
“Better?” I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
She didn’t answer. Just stared at me, her breath unsteady.
I reached for the basin of water on the nightstand, dipped a cloth, and began cleaning the blood from her skin. My movements were slow, deliberate. Every brush of the cloth sent a jolt through her. Every touch made the bond flare.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, voice tight.
“I did.”
“You could’ve had a healer.”
“They wouldn’t have healed it like I can.”
“And you wouldn’t have let them touch me.”
I paused, meeting her gaze. “No. I wouldn’t.”
She exhaled, sharp. “You’re possessive.”
“I’m protective.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
I set the cloth aside and reached for the vial of healing salve—rare, Fae-made, infused with moonlight and wolf’s bane. I unscrewed the cap, dipped two fingers into the cool, silver gel, and pressed them to the scar.
She flinched.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why did you move?”
“Because you’re *touching* me.”
“And you don’t like it?”
“I don’t *want* to like it.”
The sigil on her hip flared—just a whisper, a warning burn. She didn’t flinch. Just pressed a hand to the mark, jaw clenched.
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Liar.”
She glared. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I spread the salve in slow circles, my fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone. Her breath hitched. Her pulse jumped. Her scent spiked again—sharper, sweeter, *mine*.
“You’re not helping,” she said, voice trembling.
“I am.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because the truth was—she didn’t want me to.
I leaned in, close enough that my breath ghosted over her skin. “Your body knows the truth,” I murmured. “It knows you’re mine. It knows you *want* me.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie,” I warned. “The sigil will burn you raw.”
She stayed silent.
But her body answered for her.
Her hips shifted. Her thighs parted, just slightly. Her core clenched. And the bond—God, the *bond*—it flared so hot it stole my breath.
I pulled back, forcing myself to stop. To *breathe*. To *think*.
Because if I didn’t—if I gave in to the hunger, to the need, to the centuries of control that were crumbling beneath her touch—I’d take her. Right here. Right now.
And I wouldn’t stop.
Not until she screamed my name.
Not until she begged.
Not until she *claimed* me back.
But I couldn’t.
Not like this.
Not when she was hurt. Not when she was vulnerable. Not when the world was watching, waiting for us to fall.
I stood, walked to the wardrobe, and pulled out a clean black tunic. I tossed it onto the bed beside her. “Put this on.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re staying here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“You’re my mate.”
“And I’m not staying in your bed.”
“Then stay on the floor.”
She glared. But she didn’t argue. Just sat up, wincing as she pulled the torn tunic over her head. Her skin was pale, flawless, marked only by the fresh scar on her shoulder and the sigil on her hip. Her breasts were full, her nipples tight from the cool air. My fangs ached again.
She caught me looking.
“Enjoying the view?” she snapped.
“Immensely.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the flush creep up her neck. She pulled on the tunic—mine, too big, slipping off one shoulder—and lay back down.
I didn’t offer to cover her. Just stood there, watching. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The bond pulsed, low and insistent. Outside, the storm had returned—rain lashing the cliffs, thunder rolling through the night.
And inside?
It was worse.
Because the real storm wasn’t outside.
It was between us.
“You should rest,” I said, voice rough.
“You should leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then I will.”
She tried to sit up, but I was beside her in an instant, one hand pressing her shoulder down. “Don’t,” I said, voice low. “Not yet. Not until the bond stabilizes.”
“The Touch Pact was this morning.”
“It’s not about the Pact,” I said. “It’s about *this*.” I pressed my hand to her chest, right over her heart. “You’re weak. Your magic is unstable. And if you leave, the bond will flare. You’ll feel it—pain, weakness, *need*.”
“I can handle it.”
“You *can’t*.”
She glared. But she stayed down.
I didn’t move. Just kept my hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat, slow and steady, but racing beneath my touch. Her breath hitched. Her skin prickled. The bond flared—hot, insistent—pulling us together, even as she fought it.
“You don’t get to decide for me,” she whispered.
“I do,” I said. “Because I’m not just your enemy. I’m not just your captor. I’m your *mate*.”
“I don’t want you.”
“You do.”
“I hate you.”
“And I’ll still keep you safe.”
She turned her face away, tears spilling down her temples. “You didn’t protect my mother.”
“I wasn’t there,” I said, voice rough. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
She didn’t answer.
But I felt it—the shift in her. The doubt. The *softening*.
I lifted my hand, slow, and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. My fingers grazed her skin—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet.
“Sleep,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes, her breath slowing, her body relaxing into the mattress.
I stayed beside her, watching. The fire burned low. The storm raged outside. The bond pulsed, steady, strong.
And for the first time in centuries, I didn’t feel like a king.
I felt like a man.
And that terrified me more than any war, any rebellion, any blade ever could.
Because if I wasn’t just Kaelen Duskbane, Vampire King—
Then what was I?
And what would I become for her?
Hours passed.
I didn’t sleep. Didn’t move. Just watched her breathe, listened to her heartbeat, felt the quiet hum of the bond between us. She stirred once, murmuring in her sleep, her hand lifting to her shoulder. I caught it, pressed a kiss to her palm, and let her drift back into dreams.
Then—
She woke.
Not with a start. Not with fear. But slowly, like she’d been aware of me all along. Her eyes opened—dark, wary, *alive*—and locked onto mine.
“You’re still here,” she said, voice rough with sleep.
“I said I would be.”
“Why?”
“Because you needed me.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You do.”
“Not like this.”
“Like *what*?”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at me, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You fed from me,” she said. “You healed me. You *touched* me.”
“And?”
“And now the bond is stronger.”
“It always was.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“I’m making it *real*.”
She sat up slowly, wincing as she moved her shoulder. The scar was faint now, almost gone. Her magic was stabilizing. Her wolf was calm. But the bond—God, the *bond*—it was louder, deeper, *hungrier*.
“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Even if I break the Oath?”
“Then I’ll burn with it.”
She stared at me. This vampire king, this predator, this *killer*—who had denied his nature, who had held her through the Heat, who had refused to take what he could have.
And for the first time since she’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, she didn’t see a monster.
She saw a man.
And that terrified her more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“Neither are you.”
She looked down at her hands. “I came here to destroy you.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I want.”
My breath caught.
Because that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Not hate.
Not fury.
But *doubt*.
And I knew—
If she doubted…
She might just survive this.
And if she survived—
She might just break me.
I reached out, slow, and brushed my thumb over her lower lip. “Then let me show you,” I said, voice low. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t speak.
Just stayed still.
And when I leaned in, when my lips hovered over hers, when my breath ghosted over her skin—
She didn’t say no.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.