The silence between us on the ride back to the Obsidian Court is thick, not with tension, but with something deeper—something that hums beneath the surface like a storm held at bay. Kaelen rides beside me, his presence a constant through the bond, a warmth against my skin even as the cold wind bites at my cheeks. I don’t look at him. I don’t speak. I just feel. The weight of what I’ve done. The truth I’ve unearthed. The blood that stains my family name.
I didn’t kill her.
I didn’t spill her blood on the sacred ground.
But I exposed her. I made the Court see. And in their world, that’s worse than death.
And still—
I don’t feel clean.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *him*. Kaelen. I can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding himself back, not just from me, but from the rage that wants to burn through his veins. He wanted to kill her. I saw it in the flash of his fangs, in the way his grip tightened on my wrist, in the growl that rumbled in his chest when she called me weak.
But he didn’t.
He stopped me.
Not to save *her*.
But to save *me*.
And that—
That undoes me.
When we reach the chambers, I don’t go to the bed. I don’t shed my cloak. I walk straight to the bathing room—a vast, circular chamber of black marble, its walls lined with silver veins that pulse faintly with ancient magic. At the center, a pool of steaming water glows with a soft, blue light, fed by a spring that runs deep beneath the Obsidian Court. The air is thick with the scent of crushed moonpetals and iron-rich minerals, the steam curling like ghosts around the pillars.
I don’t wait.
I start undressing.
My boots hit the floor first. Then my cloak. My tunic. My gloves. Each piece falls like a layer of armor being shed. I don’t look at Kaelen, but I feel him behind me, his gaze heavy on my skin, his breath steady, controlled. I know he’s watching. I know he sees every scar, every thorn-mark, every place where my magic has left its imprint.
And I don’t care.
Because for once, I don’t want to hide.
I step into the water.
It’s hotter than I expect—searing, almost painful—but I don’t flinch. I sink in slowly, letting the heat wrap around me like a second skin, the steam rising to veil my face. The water reaches my waist, then my chest, then my collarbones. I close my eyes. Breathe in. Out. Let the warmth seep into my bones, into the places that still ache with the memory of my mother’s blood, of Aurelia’s laughter, of the way the bond flared when I nearly let myself become a killer.
And then—
I hear the soft sound of fabric falling.
My eyes snap open.
Kaelen is undressing.
Not slowly. Not seductively. But with purpose. His coat slips from his shoulders. His shirt follows. His boots. His belt. Each movement precise, deliberate, like he’s preparing for battle. And when he steps into the water—bare, unashamed, his body a map of centuries—my breath hitches.
He doesn’t look at me.
Just sinks in across from me, the water rising to his waist, the steam curling around his shoulders, his golden eyes locked onto mine.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” I say, voice low.
“Yes,” he says, “I did.”
“I needed to be alone.”
“And now?”
I look away. “Now I’m not sure.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. The bond hums between us, not with desire, not with heat, but with something quieter. Something deeper. A current that runs beneath the surface, pulling us together even when we try to resist.
“You were right to stop me,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “I was right to stop *you* from destroying yourself. But I wanted to kill her. I wanted to tear her apart with my bare hands.”
“And if I hadn’t stopped you?”
“You did.”
“But I almost didn’t.”
He leans forward, the water rippling around him. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”
“I felt it,” I say, pressing my palm to my chest. “The darkness. The hunger. The need to make her *pay*. It was so close to the surface. So easy to give in.”
“And yet,” he says, “you didn’t.”
“Because of you.”
He stills.
And then—
He reaches out.
Not to touch me. Not to pull me to him. But to press his palm to the water, right where the mark on my wrist would be if I were closer. The surface ripples, glowing faintly where his fingers break the surface, the magic of the spring reacting to the bond.
“This,” he says, “is why I can’t let you go. Not just because the bond demands it. Not just because my body craves yours. But because you’re the only one who sees me. The only one who knows what I’m capable of—and still stays.”
My breath catches.
“And you,” I say, “are the only one who’s ever tried to save me from myself.”
The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. The steam curls between us, the water warm, the air heavy with the scent of minerals and magic. I watch him—his jaw tight, his eyes burning, his fingers still pressed to the water, like he’s afraid to reach for me.
And then—
I do it for him.
I move through the water, closing the distance between us, until I’m close enough to feel the heat of his skin, the way his breath hitches when I press my palm to his chest, right over his heart.
It’s not beating.
Not like mine.
But I can feel it—faint, steady, ancient. A rhythm older than time.
“You’re alive,” I whisper.
“Because of you.”
I lift my gaze to his. “You don’t have to hold back.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because if I touch you now,” he says, voice rough, “I won’t stop. And you’re not ready.”
“I’m *never* ready,” I say, stepping closer. “But I still want you.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
His hand lifts.
Not to my face. Not to my hair.
To my wrist.
He presses his fingers to the mark, his thumb stroking the raised skin, the sigil glowing faintly beneath his touch. A jolt of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous.
“You feel that?” he murmurs.
“I feel *you*.”
He leans in, his forehead pressing to mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just holds me there, our bodies close but not touching, the water between us humming with magic, with tension, with the weight of everything we’ve survived.
And then—
His hand slides up.
From my wrist, to my arm, to my shoulder, his fingers brushing the scar where a werewolf’s claw once tore through my flesh. He traces it slowly, reverently, like it’s a relic, a testament.
“You’ve bled for me,” he says, voice low.
“And I’ll bleed again.”
“I don’t want your blood.”
“Then what do you want?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He answers with touch.
His hand moves to my neck, his fingers brushing the pulse point beneath my jaw. My breath hitches. My magic flares—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves. He feels it. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning.
“I want *this*,” he says. “Your trust. Your fire. Your truth. I don’t want to own you. I want to *know* you.”
My heart stutters.
And then—
I reach for him.
My fingers trail down his chest, over the scars—old battles, ancient wounds, the kind of pain that doesn’t fade. I trace them slowly, one by one, feeling the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles tense beneath my touch.
“You’ve bled too,” I whisper.
“For centuries.”
“And no one ever saw it.”
“No one ever *stayed* long enough to look.”
I lift my gaze to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He stills.
And then—
He pulls me into him.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
One arm wraps around my waist, the other cradles the back of my head, pulling me against his chest, my ear pressed to his heart. The water ripples around us, the steam curling like smoke, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
And for the first time—
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.
“My lord,” Cassien’s voice calls from beyond the door. “The Council envoys have returned. They demand an audience.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Just holds me tighter. “Not now.”
“They say it’s urgent. About the Hollow Court.”
My stomach drops.
The Hollow King is dead. Orin is gone. But the name still sends a chill through my blood.
Kaelen exhales, his breath warm against my hair. “Then let them wait.”
“As you wish,” Cassien says, and his footsteps fade.
I lift my head, looking up at Kaelen. “You’re not going.”
“Not yet.”
“Good.” I press my palm to the mark. “Because I’m not done with you.”
He smirks—dark, knowing. “And what do you want, Rowan of the Thorned Blood?”
“I want,” I say, stepping back slightly, “to see you.”
“You do.”
“All of you.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods.
I reach for him—my hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, my fingers threading through his hair. I pull him down, not to kiss him, but to let my gaze trace every line of his face, every shadow, every scar. And then—
I press my lips to his neck.
Not a kiss. Not a bite.
A promise.
His breath hitches. His hands clench at my waist. The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just holds me tighter.
And when I pull 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*.
But as we rise from the water, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
And whatever comes next—
We’ll face it together.