The war room was silent when I entered, the obsidian table gleaming under the low light of the floating runes that hovered above it like captive stars. Maps of the Blood District, the Fae Quarter, and the northern border were etched into the stone floor, their lines pulsing faintly with residual magic. The air was thick with the scent of ink, old paper, and something sharper—fear. The elders had been here. The Fae Queen had been here. Malrik had been here.
And now, so was she.
River stood at the far end of the table, her back to me, dark hair pulled into a tight braid, hands braced against the obsidian surface. She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just stayed still, her spine straight, her breath steady, like she was already bracing for battle.
But not against me.
Against *them*.
Against the lie.
Against the truth.
And for the first time since she’d walked into Blackthorn Keep with a blade in her boot and murder in her heart, she wasn’t standing alone.
She was standing with me.
“You’re late,” she said, voice low.
“I was securing the perimeter,” I replied, stepping forward, boots silent on the stone. “Malrik’s spies are everywhere. If he suspects we’re planning a countermove, he’ll strike before we’re ready.”
She turned then, those dark eyes locking onto mine. Not with hatred. Not with fury. But with something quieter. More dangerous.
Assessment.
She was measuring me. Testing me. Seeing if I was still the monster she’d come to destroy—or if I was something else now.
Something real.
“You trust Mira?” I asked.
“With my life,” she said. “She’s the only one who’s never lied to me.”
“And me?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at me, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You told me the truth about my mother.”
“I did.”
“And you’re not fighting me on this.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The bond flared—hot, insistent—but I didn’t reach for her. Didn’t touch her. Just stood there, close enough to feel the heat of her, to smell the faint trace of salt on her skin, to hear the quiet hitch in her breath.
“Because I love you,” I said, voice low. “And because if the Oath has to be broken to set things right, then let it burn. But not by *their* hands. Not through *their* lies. Through *yours*. Through *ours*.”
Her breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed.
Not with pain.
Not with need.
With *recognition*.
Like it knew.
Like it had been waiting for this.
She didn’t look away. Just stared at me, those dark eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. “You’re not what I expected,” she whispered.
“Neither are you.”
“I came here to destroy you.”
“And now?”
She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the table, her fingers tracing the edge of a map—the Blood District, where Malrik’s influence was strongest. “Now I want to rewrite the Oath,” she said, voice steady. “Not as revenge. As justice. My mother didn’t want to destroy it. She wanted to *change* it. To free the bloodlines without killing the king.”
“And you think you can?”
“I know I can.”
“Then do it.”
She turned, glaring. “You’re not going to stop me?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to fight me? To command me? To *own* me?”
“I already do,” I said, voice low. “But not the way you think. I don’t own you through fear. Or force. Or blood. I own you because you *let* me. Because you saved my life. Because you kissed me in the tower. Because you’re still here.”
Her breath hitched.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not until this is over. Not until *we’re* free.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stayed where she was, her chest rising and falling with each breath. And then—
She stepped forward.
Not away.
Not back.
Forward.
Until our bodies were nearly touching. Her scent—wolf, witch, *need*—filled the air, sharp and sweet. My fangs ached. My cock stirred. My hands clenched at my sides, resisting the urge to reach for her.
“Then help me,” she said, voice raw. “Not as the king. Not as my mate. As my *ally*.”
My breath caught.
Because that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Not the bond.
Not the Oath.
But the fact that she was asking me to stand beside her—not above her.
Not as her ruler.
But as her equal.
And I didn’t know if I deserved it.
But I’d earn it.
“Tell me what you need,” I said.
She exhaled, sharp, then turned back to the table. “Malrik’s been feeding Lyra intel. She’s been using glamour to manipulate the bond, to make you doubt me. But it’s not just about us. It’s about control. He wants the Oath’s power. And he’s using her to destabilize the bond so he can force you to choose—her or me.”
“And when I choose you?”
“He’ll strike,” she said. “He’ll try to capture me, force me to break the Oath under duress. Then he’ll kill you and claim the power for himself.”
“And if I choose Lyra?”
“He still wins. You’d be weakened. The bond would fracture. The Oath would destabilize. And he’d move in.”
I pressed a hand to the obsidian table, where the map of the Blood District pulsed faintly. “So he’s counting on us to tear each other apart.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to rewrite the Oath before he can.”
“Yes. But I can’t do it alone. I need access to the Bloodstone Chamber. I need the original runes. I need time.”
“And protection,” I said.
She nodded. “While I work, you draw him out. Make him think the bond is breaking. Make him think you’re turning to Lyra.”
My fangs bared. “You want me to *pretend* to choose her?”
“Just enough,” she said. “Just enough to make him believe it. Just enough to make him move.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, *painful*.
But I didn’t flinch.
Because I knew—
This wasn’t betrayal.
This was strategy.
This was *trust*.
And if she trusted me with this—
Then I’d trust her with everything.
“And when he comes for you?” I asked.
“That’s when we strike,” she said. “You intercept him. I rewrite the Oath. And when it’s done—” her voice dropped to a whisper—“we burn his lies to the ground.”
I stared at her.
This woman.
This warrior.
This *queen*.
She wasn’t here to destroy me.
She was here to save us.
And for the first time in a century—
I didn’t feel like a king.
I felt like a man.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
“You’re brilliant,” I said, voice rough.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at me, those dark eyes seeing too much. “And you’re learning to listen.”
My breath caught.
Because she was right.
I *was* learning.
Not to command.
Not to control.
But to *follow*.
For once.
For her.
I stepped closer, slow, and brushed my hand over hers—just once. A jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet. The bond flared. Her breath hitched.
“Then let’s do it,” I said. “Let’s end this.”
She didn’t pull away. Just stayed where she was, her fingers trembling beneath mine. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to claim me in the Bloodstone Chamber? To mark me as yours?”
“Not unless you ask me to,” I said. “This isn’t about ownership. It’s about freedom. Yours. Mine. Ours.”
Her breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
She lifted her hand, slow, and brushed her fingers over my cheek. Just once. Just enough.
“Then let’s go,” she said. “Before they realize we’re already one step ahead.”
I nodded.
And for the first time since she’d walked into Blackthorn Keep with a blade in her boot and murder in her heart, I didn’t feel like a predator.
I felt like a partner.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if she wasn’t the weapon I’d believed her to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, her hand still on my cheek, her breath warm against my skin, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want her to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met her eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into her.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let her touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when she finally leaned in, when her lips hovered over mine, when her breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into hers.
And then—
She stepped back.
Not far.
Just enough.
And smiled.
Slow.
Dangerous.
“You’re learning,” she said.
And I was.
Not just to listen.
But to wait.
To trust.
To *love*.
And for the first time in a century—
I didn’t feel like a king.
I felt like a man.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if she wasn’t the weapon I’d believed her to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make *us*?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, her hand still on my cheek, her breath warm against my skin, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want her to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met her eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, *hungry*—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into her.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let her touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when she finally leaned in, when her lips hovered over mine, when her breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into hers.