The silence after Lysara’s intrusion is worse than the explosion.
It’s not silence at all—just the absence of sound, the breath caught in my throat, the pulse screaming in my ears, the bond still shrieking from the rupture of that moment, that *almost*—but inside me, there’s a storm. Not of rage. Not of fear.
Of *want*.
My body is still on fire. My cock throbs, aching with need, still slick with her, still buried in the memory of her heat, her tightness, the way she came around me like she was made for this, like she was built to burn under my touch. My skin is too tight. My fangs ache. My chest is raw with restraint. I was *inside* her. Not just in the way I’ve dreamed of—her body taking mine, her voice screaming my name, her soul syncing with mine—but in the most intimate way possible. My cock. My hands. My voice, growling *“You’re mine”* like it was a vow.
And she believed me.
For one terrible, traitorous second, she believed me.
Until the door exploded.
Until Lysara stood there, dagger in hand, eyes blazing with hate, screaming about broken things.
And now?
Now I don’t know what to believe.
Gold still stands between us—tall, fierce, her back to me, breath ragged, her scent—jasmine and storm, with the wild musk of a wolf in heat—wrapping around me like a shroud. She’s holding her knife, etched with Silvershade runes, the blade still warm from knocking Lysara’s weapon aside. Her hair is wild, her lips swollen, her body trembling—not from fear, not from pain, but from *arousal*, from *need*, from the aftershocks of what we almost had.
And I—
I want to finish it.
I want to carry her back to the bed, strip her bare, and bury myself inside her until she forgets her own name, until she only knows mine. I want to claim her neck, bite down, and seal the bond with blood and fire. I want to make her scream, make her beg, make her *mine* in every way possible.
But I don’t.
Because she’s wounded.
Not physically. Not yet.
But in the worst way.
She took the blade for me.
When Lysara lunged—fast, vicious, the silver dagger aimed at my throat—Gold didn’t hesitate. She rolled off the bed, slashed upward, knocked the weapon from Lysara’s hand. But in the chaos, in the blur of motion, Lysara twisted, driving the blade sideways—not at me, but at Gold.
And she took it.
In the shoulder. A clean, shallow cut, but deep enough to bleed. The fabric of her shirt is torn, dark with blood, her skin glistening where the wound weeps. She hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t flinched. Hasn’t even looked at it.
But I feel it.
Through the bond.
The pain. The heat. The *wrongness* of her blood spilling, of her body breaking, of her strength being used to protect *me*.
And it’s tearing me apart.
Lysara smirks, stepping back, her eyes flicking to the wound. “You always did prefer broken things,” she spits. “But you’ll never have her.”
Gold doesn’t answer.
Just stands there, knife in hand, breath steady, eyes blazing.
And in that moment—
I see it.
Not just the lie.
The *truth*.
Malrik didn’t just frame me.
He’s been using Lysara all along.
And now?
He’s coming for her.
For *us*.
“Get out,” I say, voice low, deadly. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Lysara laughs—short, bitter. “You won’t. Because you need me. To keep her doubting.”
“I don’t need you,” I snarl. “I don’t want you. And if you touch her—”
“You’ll what?” she challenges, stepping closer. “Kill me? Go ahead. But she’ll never believe you then, will she? She’ll think you’re silencing me. Hiding the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
Gold won’t believe me.
Not now.
Not after this.
But I don’t care.
Because I know the truth.
And one day, so will she.
Gold turns—just enough to meet my eyes over her shoulder.
She’s watching me. Not with fear. Not with anger.
With *recognition*.
She knows.
She *feels* it.
Through the bond.
Through her blood.
Through her soul.
And when she finally turns back?
I’ll be waiting.
Not as a king.
Not as a monster.
But as the man who would burn the world for her.
Even if it costs me everything.
—
She’s gone—vanishing into the shadows, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
The door hangs broken on its hinges. The bond hums, raw and frayed. The air is thick with scent—her arousal, my desire, the metallic tang of violence, and now—blood.
Gold’s blood.
And it’s driving me *mad*.
I don’t speak. Don’t move. Just step around her, closing the distance in two strides, and turn her to face me. My hands are gentle—too gentle, maybe, for a monster—but I can’t help it. She’s wounded. She’s *bleeding*. And I can’t stand it.
“Let me see it,” I say, voice rough.
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s *not* nothing,” I growl. “You took a blade for me. Again.”
“I was defending myself,” she says, but her voice wavers.
“Liar,” I whisper, fingers brushing the torn fabric. “You were defending *me*. Just like in the Chamber of Vows. Just like when you stopped the blood oath. You keep doing it. You keep *choosing* me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, eyes dark, breathless, *wanting*.
And then—
I rip the shirt.
Not carefully. Not gently.
With a single, sharp motion, I tear the fabric open, exposing the wound—a jagged cut across her shoulder, blood welling, dark and thick. My fangs extend, aching, *needing*. Not to feed. Not to claim.
To *heal*.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, stepping back.
“Saving you,” I say. “If I don’t, the wound will fester. Silver taints the blood. Even a scratch can kill a hybrid.”
Her breath hitches. “You’re going to… *lick* it?”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to heal it with my blood.”
Her eyes widen. “You can’t. The bond—”
“Will survive,” I say. “But you won’t if I don’t do this.”
She hesitates—just for a second—then nods.
And that’s all the permission I need.
I press my palm to the wound, feeling the heat, the pulse, the *wrongness* of it. Then, with my other hand, I slice open my wrist—clean, deep, the blood welling instantly, dark and thick. I press it to her shoulder, letting my blood drip onto the cut, into her skin, into her veins.
She gasps.
Not from pain.
From *sensation*.
My blood is magic. Ancient. Alive. It doesn’t just heal—it *connects*. And as it seeps into her, as it mingles with her own, the bond *flares*, a surge of energy that makes the sigils on the walls glow, the air crackle with power.
And then—
Memories.
Not mine.
Hers.
Flashing behind my eyes like lightning.
Her parents’ house—burning. Smoke. Screams. A Purifier’s hound lunging, fangs bared—tearing into her shoulder. Her mother’s voice: “Run, Gold! Run!”
Her father—on fire, arms outstretched, calling her name.
Her vow—whispered over their ashes: “I’ll kill him. I’ll make him pay.”
Her first night in the enclave—crying, alone, clutching a knife.
Her training—punching, kicking, bleeding, until her body was a weapon.
Her arrival at the Obsidian Court—cold, determined, ready to die.
Our first kiss—fierce, desperate, *needy*.
The banquet—her dress ripping, the scar exposed, my hand on her shoulder, the bond flaring.
The blood oath—her lips on my wrist, her tongue tracing the scar, the bond screaming with truth.
The moment she believed me—when I offered my life to prove I wasn’t the monster she came to kill.
The way she looked at me when she said, “I want you.”
I see it all.
Not just her pain.
Her strength.
Her fire.
Her *heart*.
And it’s *beautiful*.
The wound closes—slowly, steadily, the skin knitting, the blood stopping, the silver neutralized. But I don’t pull away. I keep my wrist pressed to her, my blood feeding hers, the bond *singing*, stronger now, deeper, *truer*.
And then—
She licks it.
Just a flicker. Just once.
But it’s enough.
I *groan*, deep in my chest, my free hand flying to her waist, pulling her against me. The bond *flares*, a surge of energy that makes the lights flicker, the sigils on the walls glow. Her magic—dormant, controlled—shivers, *awake* at her touch.
“You taste like truth,” she murmurs, trailing her lips up my wrist, her tongue warm, soft, *hungry*. “Like *mine*.”
I laugh—low, dark, *dangerous*. “You already are.”
My hands slide under her torn shirt—up her thighs, over the curve of her ass, fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear. She gasps, arching, pressing her core against me. I can feel her—wet, hot, *ready*—and it nearly breaks me.
“You want me to show you pain?” I whisper, biting down—just enough to sting, not to claim. “I’ll show you pain. I’ll show you *everything*.”
My fingers slide under the fabric, skimming the soft skin of her inner thigh, then higher—until I brush the edge of her folds.
She *moans*.
Soft. Unintended. But it rips from her throat like surrender.
“Cassian—”
“Say it,” I growl, circling her clit with my thumb. “Say you want me.”
She shudders, head falling back. “I *hate* you.”
“Liar,” I whisper, pressing harder. “You’re dripping for me. You’re *aching*. You’re *mine*.”
She gasps, hips bucking. “No—”
“Yes,” I say, sliding one finger inside her. “And you know it.”
She cries out, back arching, nails biting into my shoulders. Her walls clench around me, wet and tight, *perfect*. I add a second finger, curling them, pressing against her sweet spot. She moans, grinding against my hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You feel that?” I murmur, watching her, memorizing every flicker of pleasure on her face. “That’s not the bond. That’s *you*. That’s *us*.”
She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Her body is on fire, her magic pulsing, her core clenching around my fingers. I stroke her, slow then fast, teasing then relentless, until she’s trembling, on the edge.
“Come for me,” I growl. “Let me feel you.”
And then—
She does.
Her back arches, her head falls back, a cry tearing from her throat as she comes—hard, violent, *beautiful*. Her walls pulse around my fingers, wet heat soaking through my hand, her scent—her *arousal*—filling the room.
I don’t stop.
I keep stroking, drawing it out, making her ride through the waves until she’s gasping, trembling, *broken*.
And then—
I pull my hand back.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like I’m savoring the moment.
She stares at me, eyes dazed, lips parted, chest heaving. Her shirt is torn, her hair wild, her skin flushed. She looks like she’s been fucked.
And she has.
Just not the way she wanted.
“You’re cruel,” she whispers.
“No,” I say, bringing my fingers to my mouth, licking them clean. “I’m patient. And I’m not done with you.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate. Her core *clenches*.
“You don’t get to do that,” she says, voice shaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me like that and then stop.”
“I don’t?” I murmur, stepping closer. “Then what will you do about it?”
She shoves me—hard—but I don’t move. I let her push, let her rage, let her fight. But when she tries to shove me again, I catch her wrists, pinning them to her sides.
“Let go,” she hisses.
“No.”
“Did you *want* her?” she demands, voice breaking. “Did you *desire* Elara?”
“I loved her,” I say, voice low. “And I failed her. But I’ve never *ached* for anyone like this. Never *burned* for anyone like you.”
She trembles. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to *feel* that.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I say. “And neither do you.”
Her breath comes fast. Her chest rises and falls. Her scent—her *arousal*—fills the room.
And then—
She surges forward.
Not to strike.
Not to fight.
To *kiss* me.
Her lips crash against mine—fierce, desperate, *needy*. Her hands—now free—dig into my shoulders, nails biting through fabric. I groan, my grip tightening, pulling her against me. Her body is fire, her mouth is war, her thighs clamp around my waist, grinding against my erection.
I kiss her back like I’m starving.
Like I’ve waited centuries for this.
Like if I stop, I’ll die.
My hands slide to her waist, lifting her, pressing her back against the wall. Her legs wrap around me, thighs clenching, grinding against my cock. The bond *flares*, a surge of energy that makes the lights flicker, the sigils on the walls glow. My magic shivers, *awake*, pulsing in time with our kiss.
She breaks the kiss, trailing her lips to my neck, teeth scraping my pulse. “Show me,” she growls. “Show me the truth.”
I don’t answer.
I just move.
I carry her to the bed—across the room in three strides, laying her down with terrifying ease. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t resist. Just watches me, eyes dark, breathless, *wanting*.
I kneel beside her, peeling off my shirt, then hers. Her dress slides over her head, revealing her in black lace—bra, panties, the sigil on her hip glowing faintly gold. I trail my fingers down her body—over her collarbone, between her breasts, over her stomach—until I reach the edge of her panties.
“Say it,” I murmur, hooking my fingers into the fabric. “Say you want me to take these off.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just lifts her hips, *begging*.
I smile.
And I pull them down.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like I’m savoring the moment.
And then—
I’m between her legs.
My hands on her thighs, spreading them. My breath on her core. My fangs—long, sharp, *hungry*—just above her.
“Cassian—”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Let me taste you.”
And I do.
My tongue slides through her folds—slow, deep, *thorough*. She gasps, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets. I lick her—up, down, circling her clit—until she’s trembling, moaning, *begging*.
“You taste like fire,” I murmur, looking up at her. “Like *mine*.”
She doesn’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I dive back in—faster, harder, relentless—until she’s coming again, screaming my name, her body convulsing beneath me.
And then—
I rise.
Unbuttoning my trousers. Sliding them down. My cock—hard, thick, *needing*—springs free. I crawl over her, pressing the tip to her entrance, watching her, *waiting*.
“Say it,” I growl. “Say you want me.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, breathless, *broken*.
And then—
She whispers—
“Yes.”
And I—
—
CRASH.
The door explodes inward.
Wood splinters. Stone cracks. The bond *screams*—not in pleasure, but in *pain*.
I roll off her, shielding her with my body, fangs bared, shadows writhing around me. She gasps, scrambling back, pulling the sheets over her, eyes wide with shock.
And there she is.
Lysara.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in black leather, a silver dagger in her hand, her eyes blazing with fury.
“You always did prefer broken things,” she spits, stepping inside. “But you’ll never have her.”
Gold freezes.
And in that moment—
I see it.
Not just the lie.
The *truth*.
Malrik didn’t just frame me.
He’s been using Lysara all along.
And now?
He’s coming for her.
For *us*.
I rise, slowly, deliberately, pulling my trousers up, buttoning them. I don’t look at Gold. Don’t speak to her.
Just step in front of her—between her and the blade.
“Get out,” I say, voice low, deadly. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Lysara laughs—short, bitter. “You won’t. Because you need me. To keep her *doubting*.”
“I don’t need you,” I snarl. “I don’t want you. And if you touch her—”
“You’ll what?” she challenges, stepping closer. “Kill me? Go ahead. But she’ll never believe you then, will she? She’ll think you’re silencing me. Hiding the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
Gold won’t believe me.
Not now.
Not after this.
But I don’t care.
Because I know the truth.
And one day, so will she.
I turn—just enough to meet Gold’s eyes over my shoulder.
She’s watching me. Not with fear. Not with anger.
With *recognition*.
She knows.
She *feels* it.
Through the bond.
Through her blood.
Through her soul.
And when she finally turns back?
I’ll be waiting.
Not as a king.
Not as a monster.
But as the man who would burn the world for her.
Even if it costs me everything.