The first thing I feel when I wake is warmth.
Not the dull ache of healing flesh, not the phantom sting of the blade that nearly killed me in the Chamber of Binding, not the cold weight of vengeance that used to press against my ribs like a second heart. No—this is different. This is *alive*. Kaelen. His body pressed along the length of mine, his arm slung heavy across my waist, his face buried in my hair, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hums between us, steady and insistent, a second heartbeat that pulses in time with my own.
I don’t move. I don’t open my eyes. I just breathe. In. Out. Slow. Deep. Like I’ve forgotten how to do anything else. Like I’ve spent my life holding my breath, waiting for the next betrayal, the next lie, the next blade in the dark—and now, for the first time, I can *stop*.
Because I’m alive.
And I’m not alone.
The sun is rising—just barely—casting a soft, silver glow through the cracked stained-glass windows. The chamber is a wreck. The headboard is splintered. The mirrors are shattered. The chandelier lies in pieces on the floor, black crystal glittering like frozen stars. The sheets are tangled, stained with sweat, with blood, with the scent of sex and magic so thick it clings to the air.
And the vines—
They’re still there. Curled around the bedposts, the nightstand, the doorframe. Thorns embedded in the wood. Leaves glistening with dew. My magic didn’t retreat. It *claimed*.
Just like I did.
Kaelen stirs, his arm tightening around me, his breath hitching against my neck. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“You’re holding me like I’ll disappear.”
“You almost did.”
I turn in his arms, facing him. His golden eyes are open now, burning into mine, dark with something I’ve never seen before. Not hunger. Not possession. Not even love.
Fear.
“You were dying,” he says, voice low. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off, jaw clenching, fingers tightening in my hair. “I couldn’t lose you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t let go.”
I lift my hand, brushing my thumb over his lip. “You cried.”
He stills.
“I felt it. On my skin. Hot. Real. You cried for me.”
His breath hitches. “I haven’t cried in three hundred years.”
“Not since my mother died.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.
But the peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
A knock at the door.
Cassien steps in, his expression grim. “My lord. The Court is in chaos. The nobles are demanding answers. The Night Guard is divided. And there are whispers—”
“Of what?” Kaelen asks, sitting up, his hand still on my hip.
“Of rebellion. Of a new power rising. They’re calling it the Hollow Court.”
My stomach drops.
The Hollow King. The revenant Alpha. Orin’s puppet. He survived the Blackthorn Vale. He’s regrouping. And now, with the Council in ruins, he’s stepping into the void.
“He’s using the chaos,” I say, sitting up. “He’s rallying the werewolves. The disloyal. The desperate.”
“And he’ll come for us,” Kaelen says, standing. “He’ll come for the bond.”
“Then let him,” I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “We’ve already broken one king. We can break another.”
Kaelen turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “You’re still healing.”
“And I’m still dangerous.”
He stares at me.
And then—
He nods.
We dress quickly—me in a fresh gown of deep crimson, him in black silk—and follow Cassien through the halls to the war room. The tension is thick, the air charged with magic and suspicion. The Night Guard are already assembled, their weapons drawn, their eyes sharp. Maps are spread across the table. Scrolls of ancient bloodlines. Ledgers of troop movements.
And in the center—
A sigil.
Etched into the floor. Drawn in blood.
The Hollow King’s mark.
Kaelen steps forward, his boots crunching on the stone. “He’s testing us,” he says, voice low. “Seeing if we’re weakened. If we’re divided.”
“We’re not,” I say, stepping beside him. “We’re stronger.”
“Then we answer,” he says, turning to the Night Guard. “We strike first. We take the Blackthorn Vale. We end him before he can rally the packs.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Cassien asks.
“Then we walk into it anyway.”
The Night Guard bows. Disperses. Prepares.
And I—
I follow Kaelen to the armory.
He selects a sword—long, curved, its edge glowing faintly with runes—and hands me a dagger—black steel, thorned hilt, its blade etched with sigils of binding. “You don’t have to fight,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve already bled for this war.”
“And I’ll bleed again,” I say, taking the dagger. “Because this isn’t just your war. It’s mine. It’s *ours*.”
He studies me for a long moment, then—
He nods.
We ride at dusk, a small contingent of Night Guard flanking us, our cloaks drawn tight against the chill. The Blackthorn Vale is even darker than before—trees twisted, roots blackened, fog so thick it feels like drowning. The air is thick with the scent of decay, of magic gone wrong, of old blood and older pain.
Kaelen rides beside me, his presence a constant hum through the bond. I can feel his tension, his focus, the way his magic coils beneath his skin, ready to strike. But I can also feel something else.
Possessiveness.
Not just over the land. Over me.
And I don’t hate it.
We reach the clearing by midnight.
The Hollow King is waiting.
He stands in the center of the vale, his skeletal frame wrapped in shadows, his crown of thorns dripping with sap like blood. Behind him—fifty werewolves, fully shifted, eyes glowing amber, fangs bared.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” he rasps, his voice like dry leaves. “You should have stayed dead.”
“And you,” I say, stepping forward, “should have stayed buried.”
He laughs—a sound like cracking bone. “You think your vines can stop me? You think your bond can save you?”
“No,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “I think *this* will.”
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I cry out, my magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the ground, the air, the blackened roots, lashing out like whips, wrapping around the nearest werewolves, yanking them off their feet, thorns digging into flesh, drawing blood.
They howl.
They fight.
But they’re not fast enough.
Kaelen moves—blindingly fast—his fangs bared, his claws out, tearing through the ranks, a whirlwind of death. The Night Guard engages, swords flashing, magic flaring. The battle is chaos—snarls, screams, the clash of steel, the crackle of magic.
And I—
I burn.
My magic surges with every heartbeat, every breath, every pulse of the bond. Vines erupt from my skin, from the ground, from the air, wrapping around werewolves, snapping necks, impaling chests, tearing through flesh. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I just destroy.
And then—
The Hollow King charges.
He’s fast. Strong. But I’m faster.
I sidestep, my magic flaring, a vine lashing out, wrapping around his ankle, yanking him off his feet. He hits the ground hard, snarling, rolling, lunging at me with claws out.
I don’t flinch.
I press my palm to the mark.
And the bond explodes.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I scream, my magic erupting in a storm of thorned vines, wrapping around the Hollow King, lifting him off the ground, squeezing, crushing, until he goes still.
And then—
Silence.
The last werewolf falls. The clearing is littered with bodies. The air is thick with blood and magic.
We won.
But it doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like a warning.
Kaelen steps beside me, his hand landing on my shoulder. “You were incredible.”
“So were you.”
He turns me, his hands framing my face. “You’re bleeding.”
I hadn’t noticed. A shallow cut on my cheek, just below my eye. Blood trickles down my skin.
His gaze drops to it. His pupils dilate. His breath hitches.
And then—
He leans in.
His tongue sweeps over the cut, warm, wet, possessive. A jolt of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous.
“Kaelen—”
“Shh.” His hands slide down, over my neck, my shoulders, my waist, pulling me against him. “Let me taste you.”
My breath hitches.
“We’re not alone.”
“I don’t care.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not slow.
Desperate. Furious. A claiming. His mouth crashes against mine, teeth scraping my lip, his tongue sweeping in, tasting blood, tasting me. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his neck, binding us together. He doesn’t stop. He deepens the kiss, one hand fisting in my hair, the other sliding down, over my hip, pulling me flush against him.
And I feel it—
Not just desire.
But hunger.
Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just mine.
It’s his too.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “I need you,” he growls. “Now.”
“Here?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
He lifts me, carrying me toward the ruins of a house, his mouth crashing back to mine. We stumble inside, the door slamming shut behind us. The room is dark, the air thick with dust and decay. He pins me to the wall, one hand fisting in my hair, the other sliding up my thigh, beneath the fabric of my dress.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “For me.”
“Liar,” I breathe, but my hips arch into his touch, betraying me.
He smiles—dark, knowing. “Liar.”
His fingers slide higher, beneath the edge of my panties, tracing the slick heat between my thighs. I gasp, my head falling back, my magic flaring—vines erupting from the wall, curling around his wrists, his biceps, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He groans into my mouth, his fangs grazing my lip, sharp, dangerous. “You want this.”
“I want you to *want* me,” I whisper. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because your body responds to mine. But because you can’t imagine your life without me.”
“I can’t,” he growls. “I’ve tried. I’ve fought it. But you’re in my blood. In my bones. In my soul.”
My breath catches.
And then—
He grinds against me, his hardness pressing into my thigh, his fingers slipping inside me, two, then three, curling, stroking, driving me insane. I cry out, my body arching, my magic erupting—vines lashing out, cracking the walls, shattering the windows, wrapping around us, pressing us together.
“Kaelen—”
“Say it,” he demands, his voice a growl. “Say you want me.”
“I hate you.”
He bites my neck—just below my ear, sharp, possessive—and I scream, my back arching. “Liar.”
“I hate you,” I whisper again, but my hips grind against his, betraying me.
“Then hate me,” he growls, his fingers moving faster, deeper, “while you burn for me. While you come apart in my arms. While you mark me as yours.”
And then—
The door bursts open.
We freeze.
Cassien stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his hand still on the doorknob. His gaze flicks to us—pinned to the wall, my dress hiked up, his fingers buried inside me, blood on his arms—and for a heartbeat, I think he’ll say something. Scold us. Warn us. Bow and retreat.
But he does none of those things.
He just nods.
Once.
And closes the door.
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen exhales, his forehead dropping to mine. “We’re being watched.”
“I know.”
“And you still want this?”
I lift my hand, brushing my thumb over his lip. “I don’t *want* it.” I press closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I *need* it.”
He stills.
And then—
He pulls his fingers free, stepping back, adjusting his coat. “We’ll finish this later.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re stopping?”
“I’m not stopping,” he says, stepping closer, his hand sliding to my waist, pulling me against him. “I’m just delaying the inevitable.”
And then—
He’s gone—striding out of the ruin, Cassien falling into step beside him.
I stay against the wall, trembling, my body aching with the loss of contact, with the unsated heat, with the knowledge that I just came within seconds of surrendering completely.
And I realize—
I don’t want to wait.
I don’t want to fight.
I want him.
Now.
And worse—
He knows it.
As we ride back to the Obsidian Court, the bond hums between us, a live wire of unspent desire. I don’t look at him. I don’t speak. I just feel.
The heat. The hunger. The love that’s been growing in the shadows, in the silence, in the space between hate and desire.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
When we reach the chambers, he closes the door behind us, then turns to me, his golden eyes burning.
“You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.