TIDE
The wound is still warm.
Not bleeding—Kael’s vampire blood has already sealed the puncture, the flesh knitting shut with unnatural speed—but the heat lingers, a dull throb beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. I can see it where the black silk is ripped open, just below his ribs: a jagged tear, the edges dark with coagulated blood, the skin around it flushed, pulsing. The blade that pierced him wasn’t just steel. It was enchanted—Fae glass, poisoned with something that slows regeneration, that makes even immortality ache.
And he took it for me.
I don’t look at him as I enter his chambers. I keep my spine straight, my boots silent on the stone, my hands clasped behind my back like a soldier reporting for duty. The black flames in the hearth burn low, casting long shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, reacting to the magic in the air, to the bond stretching between us. I can feel him—his presence, his pain, his *hunger*—like a second heartbeat.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt gone, coat discarded, chest bare. Scars crisscross his ribs—old battles, ancient wounds—some faded, some still pale. But this one is fresh. Angry. A violation.
And it’s my fault.
“You’re late,” he says, voice rough.
“I had to think.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, eyes like frozen fire, fangs barely visible behind his lips. His chest rises and falls slow, controlled. But I can see it—the strain. The way his fingers tighten on the edge of the mattress. The way his jaw clenches when he breathes.
“Let me see it,” I say.
He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head, watching me. “Why?”
“Because you’re hurt.”
“I’m immortal.”
“And still bleeding.” I step closer. “That blade was laced with Fae venom. It’s slowing your healing. If you don’t treat it, the wound could fester. Even for you, that’s dangerous.”
“Then why do you care?”
My breath hitches.
He sees it. Smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “You came here to destroy me. To sever the contract. To *end* me.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping closer, “you’re still here.”
He freezes.
I’ve used his words against him. And they land like a blade.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The bond hums, low and insistent, a current beneath my skin. I can feel his pulse, his breath, his *need*—not just for healing, but for *me*. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. But as something else.
Something I don’t want to name.
“Sit,” I say, voice steady. “Let me clean it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just leans back, propping himself on one arm, his body stretched out on the bed. The wound is exposed now, a dark tear in the pale skin of his side. I kneel beside the mattress, pull a silver basin from the nightstand, fill it with water from the pitcher. My fingers tremble as I dip a cloth in, wring it out, press it gently to the wound.
He hisses.
Not loud. Not weak. Just a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of his muscles. But I feel it—the jolt of pain through the bond, a flare of heat beneath my skin.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my wrist. Just a touch. Just a spark. “You’re the first person to touch me like this in over a century.”
My breath hitches.
“Not as a lover,” he says, voice low. “Not as a servant. Not as a healer. But as someone who *cares*.”
“I don’t care,” I lie.
“Liar.” He watches me, eyes dark. “Your hands are gentle. Your breath is slow. Your rune is glowing. You’re not just cleaning a wound. You’re *tending* to me.”
I don’t answer.
Just press the cloth harder, wiping away the blood, the grime, the poison. The water turns red. I rinse the cloth, dip it again, press it to his skin. His chest rises and falls faster now. His fangs descend. His hand tightens on my wrist.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s not.” He leans up, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck. “You’re drenched. You’re aching. You *want* me.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” He shifts, just enough to expose more of the wound. “You could have let me die. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. You healed me. You fed me your blood. You *kissed* me. And now you’re here, touching me, tending to me. Why?”
“Because you saved my life,” I say, voice tight. “I owed you.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m repaying the debt.”
“Debts don’t make you tremble,” he murmurs. “Desire does.”
I press the cloth harder, wiping the last of the blood. The wound is clean now—dark, but sealed. The skin around it is still inflamed, still hot to the touch. I reach for the salve—a thick, silver ointment made from crushed moonstone and night-blooming jasmine—and dip my fingers in.
“This will sting,” I say.
“Good.”
I press my fingers to the wound.
He groans.
Deep. Rough. *Mine*.
The sound tears through me, a jolt of heat pooling low in my stomach. My fingers tremble. My breath hitches. My thighs press together. The bond flares, a surge of magic rippling between us, my rune blazing beneath my collar.
“You like that,” he says, voice rough.
“I don’t.”
“Liar.” He lifts his hand, fingers brushing my cheek. “Your pulse jumps. Your skin flushes. Your hands are shaking. You’re not just healing me. You’re *feeling* me.”
I don’t pull away.
Just keep spreading the salve, slow, deliberate, my fingers pressing into the warm skin of his side. His body is hard beneath my touch—muscle and bone and ancient power—but the wound makes him vulnerable. Human, almost. And that terrifies me.
Because I don’t want to see him weak.
I don’t want to *care*.
But I do.
“Why did you do it?” I ask, voice quiet. “Why take the blade?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches me, eyes dark, unreadable. Then—
“Because you’re mine,” he says. “And I protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“You are.” He reaches up, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head down so I have to look at him. “You could have fought. You could have screamed. You could have used your magic. But you didn’t. You *leaned* into me. You *begged* for it. You *came* in my arms. And when I carried you back here, you held on like you were afraid I’d let go.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re not hiding from them,” he murmurs. “You’re hiding from *yourself*. From what you feel. From what you *want*.”
“I want you dead,” I whisper.
“And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t want to leave.
I finish spreading the salve, smooth it over the wound, then press a clean bandage over it. My fingers linger on his skin—warm, alive, *his*.
“It’ll heal in a day,” I say, pulling back. “Maybe two.”
“And you?” he asks, not letting go of my hair. “How long until you stop fighting me?”
“I’m not fighting you.”
“You are.” He pulls me closer, just enough that our breaths mingle. “You fight me with your words. With your silence. With your *touch*. You heal me like it’s a punishment. Like you’re doing me a favor. But it’s not. It’s *truth*.”
“What truth?”
“That you care.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “That you *want* me. That you’re *falling*.”
My breath hitches.
“And I’m not letting you go,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”
I pull back.
Fast.
But not fast enough. My fingers are still in his hair. His hand is still in mine. The bond hums, louder now, a live wire beneath my skin.
“Tell me about the contract,” I say, desperate for distance. “Why does it drain you?”
He exhales, long and slow. Lets me go. Sits up, wincing as the wound pulls.
“It’s not just a bond,” he says. “It’s a chain. My ancestors bound the Fae and the Blooded with blood magic—forced servitude, eternal loyalty. But magic demands balance. For every life bound, a life must be given. For every year of power, a year of strength must be taken.”
“So you’re weakening,” I say.
“Yes.” He looks at me. “And only a Seablood heir can renew it. Or break it.”
My breath stops.
“You knew,” I whisper. “You knew what I was.”
“I suspected.” He reaches out, fingers brushing my jaw. “The moment you touched the parchment. The rune on your back flared. The magic responded. And your scent—salt and storm—it triggered something in me. Something *primal*.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have stayed if I had?”
“I wouldn’t have come.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, chest rising and falling, the bond humming between us.
“You could break it,” he says. “The contract. Sever the chain. Free your bloodline. But it would kill me.”
My breath hitches.
“The magic is tied to my life force,” he continues. “If the contract is destroyed, the backlash will tear through me. I’ll burn from the inside out. And I’ll die.”
“And if I renew it?”
“Then I live. But you become bound. My servant. My weapon. My *slave*.”
“And if I rewrite it?”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “Then we rule. Together. As equals. But that’s never been done. The magic resists change. It demands sacrifice.”
“And you’re asking me to choose.”
“No.” He leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “I’m telling you the truth. The rest is up to you.”
My chest tightens.
Because I came here to destroy him.
To sever the chain.
To avenge my mother.
But now?
Now I’m not sure I can.
“You’re not like him,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“The vampire king who took her.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, eyes dark, fangs bared.
“You’re not a monster,” I say. “You’re not a predator. You’re… *more*.”
“And you?” he asks. “Are you still just a weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then stop fighting,” he murmurs. “Stop hating. Stop pretending. Let me in. Let *us* in.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
A knock.
“Sovereign,” Mara’s voice, low and steady. “The Council requests your presence. They’re demanding answers about Lira’s claims.”
“Tell them I’ll be there,” Kael says, not looking away from me.
“And Tide?”
“She’s with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The footsteps fade.
He stands, wincing as the wound pulls. “We should go.”
“I’m not your puppet.”
“No.” He steps closer, one hand lifting to my jaw. “You’re my equal. My partner. My *future*.”
My breath hitches.
“And I’m yours,” he says. “Whether you admit it or not.”
I don’t answer.
Just look at him—shirtless, wounded, lethal, *mine*.
And for the first time—
I believe it.
—
The Council chamber is colder than usual. The torches dim. The air thick with tension. Lira sits at the far end, arms crossed, a smirk on her lips. Elric watches us, eyes sharp. Borin leans back, golden eyes narrowed. Mara stands by the door, silent, observant.
And then—
“Well?” Lira asks, voice sharp. “Did he take you? Did he *claim* you? Or are you still pretending to resist?”
All eyes turn to me.
Kael doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches her, his expression unreadable.
I lift my chin.
“No,” I say, voice clear. “He didn’t.”
“Then why does your rune glow?” Lira snaps. “Why does the bond hum? Why do you *tremble* when he looks at you?”
“Because the bond is strong,” Elric says, cutting in. “Not because of consummation. The magic responded. That’s enough.”
“It’s not enough,” Lira hisses. “A bond without completion is unstable. It will fray. It will break. And when it does—war begins.”
“Then let it break,” I say, stepping forward. “If the bond is so fragile, then perhaps it was never meant to be.”
“You’re lying,” Lira spits. “You’re drenched in him. I can smell it. Your skin hums. Your pulse jumps. You’re *marked*.”
“And you’re desperate,” I reply, voice cold. “You wear his shirt like a trophy, but you’ve never been near him. You spread lies like poison. And the Council lets you.”
“Enough,” Kael says, stepping between us. “The bond stands. The alliance holds. Tide is under my protection. If anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me—*personally*.”
The threat hangs in the air.
No one speaks.
“Meeting adjourned,” he says.
We leave in silence.
Back in his chambers, he finally speaks.
“You told them no,” I say, whirling on him. “You told them the bond wasn’t consummated.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t.”
“You *bit* me! You *claimed* me!”
“Claiming isn’t consummation,” he says. “Not fully. Not completely. Not the way I want it.”
She stares at me. “You want it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why stop?”
“Because I want you to *choose* it,” he says. “Not because the bond forces you. Not because magic compels you. But because *you* do.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns and walks to the window, arms crossed, back to me.
And then—
Soft, so soft I almost miss it—
“Maybe I do.”
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Just listen.
“Maybe I *do* want you,” she says, voice quiet. “Maybe I *do* want this. Maybe I’m just… *afraid*.”
I step closer. Slow. Deliberate.
“Then don’t be,” I murmur, stopping just behind her. “Let me in. Let me *have* you. Not as a prisoner. Not as a pawn. But as *yours*.”
She doesn’t turn.
Just stands there, breathing fast, her rune glowing faintly.
And then—
She leans back.
Just an inch.
Just a breath.
But it’s enough.
I wrap my arms around her. Pull her against me. Press my lips to her neck, just above the bite.
And the bond?
It *sings*.