TIDE
He’s dying.
The thought claws through me like a blade, sharp and relentless, each breath I take dragging the truth deeper into my bones. Kael lies on the obsidian bed in his chambers, shirtless, pale, his chest rising and falling too slow, too shallow. The wound on his side—where Malrik’s dagger had grazed him during the fight—should have healed by now. Vampires don’t scar. They don’t weaken. They don’t *fade*.
But he is.
And I know why.
The Blood Contract. I broke half of it. Burned my mother’s name, my grandmother’s, mine—reduced it to ash in the vault. But the other half remains, still pulsing with dark magic, still bound to Kael. And now, the balance is broken. The bond is unraveling. And he’s paying the price.
“You should rest,” I say, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. His skin is cold. Too cold. Like marble left in the snow.
“So should you,” he murmurs, voice rough. His eyes open—gold, dimmed, but still watching me. “You’re trembling.”
I am.
Not from fear.
Not from cold.
From the bond.
It’s screaming.
Not in sound. Not in words. But in sensation—a low, constant thrum beneath my skin, like a second heartbeat gone wild. My rune flares above my spine, reacting to the magic, to the separation, to the *need*. It’s been twelve hours since we last touched. Twelve hours since I pulled him into my arms after the fight. Twelve hours since I kissed him—soft, slow, *choosing*—and felt the bond *sing*.
Now, it’s *screaming*.
And it’s getting worse.
“You shouldn’t have stayed,” he says, closing his eyes. “You should have left. Gone to the surface. Found a life away from this place, from me.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You don’t have a choice.” He turns his head, just enough to look at me. “The bond fever will take you. In another twelve hours, you’ll be delirious. Hallucinating. In pain. And I won’t be able to help you.”
“Then let me stay,” I say. “Let me be here when it happens.”
“No.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my wrist. Just a touch. Just a spark. “You don’t deserve this. You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t *want* it.”
“I did,” I whisper. “I *do*.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just closes his eyes again, breath shallow, chest rising and falling too slow.
I press the cloth to his forehead again. Watch the way his fangs barely peek from beneath his lips. Watch the way his fingers twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. Watch the way his chest heaves, like every breath is a battle.
And I know.
I know what I have to do.
But I’m not ready.
—
The fever starts at dusk.
First, it’s just a tremor—my hands shaking as I pour water into a glass. Then a wave of heat, sudden and violent, tearing through my chest like fire. I drop the glass. It shatters on the stone floor, water pooling like blood.
“Tide?”
Kael’s voice is weak, but sharp. He’s sitting up now, one hand braced against the bed, eyes half-lidded but alert.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice steady. Too steady.
“Liar.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the wound pulls. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s the bond.” He stands, slow, deliberate, and takes a step toward me. “You’re feeling it. The separation. The imbalance.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t.” He’s in front of me now, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the pull of the bond. “I’ve seen it before. In others. The fever takes them. Makes them see things. Say things. Do things they don’t mean.”
“Then keep me locked up,” I snap. “Chain me to the wall. I don’t care.”
“I won’t.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek. “I won’t hurt you. Not even to save you.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice rough. “And I’d rather die than let the bond destroy you.”
“You’re not going to die,” I say, stepping back. “I won’t let you.”
“And you’re not going to suffer,” he says, stepping forward. “Not for me.”
“It’s too late.” The heat surges again, white-hot, unstoppable. I stumble back, clutching the edge of the table. My vision blurs. For a second, I see my mother—dragged into the vault, screaming, the vampire king biting her neck. Then Kael—pale, lifeless, blood on his lips.
“Tide!”
He catches me before I fall, one arm around my waist, the other cradling my head. His presence hits me like a physical force—cold, sharp, *alive*—and the bond *screams*, a jolt of heat tearing through my veins.
“Don’t fight it,” he says, voice low. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do.” He pulls me closer, his breath hot against my ear. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to be untouchable. You can *let* me in. You can *trust* me.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
I do.
I let him lead me to the bed, let him lower me onto the mattress, let his hands brush the hair from my face. The black flames in the hearth burn low. The runes on the walls pulse faintly. The air is thick with magic, with smoke, with something deeper, something ancient.
“Lie back,” he says.
I do.
My tunic is open at the collar, my fangs descending, my rune glowing above my spine. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The fever coils in my veins, slow, insidious, *deadly*.
“It’s the bond,” he says, kneeling beside me. “Not just magic. Not just fate. But *need*.”
“And you can stop it?”
“Yes.” He lifts his hand, fingers brushing my jaw. “But it won’t be clean. It won’t be easy. And it’ll *bind* us. Deeper than the contract. Deeper than the bond.”
“Then do it.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do.” I reach up, cup his face. “You’ll have to feed me your blood. Mouth to mouth. Skin to skin. And when you do, the magic will surge. The bond will *ignite*. And you’ll feel everything. My pain. My fear. My *need*. And I’ll feel yours. Your want. Your trust. Your *love*.”
His breath hitches.
“And you’ll hate me for it,” I say. “For making you do this. For forcing you to care.”
“I don’t hate you,” he whispers.
“Then do it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in.
And kisses me.
Not gentle. Not soft. Not slow.
A *claiming*.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard, desperate, *hungry*. His hands press against my chest, water rising from the stone, coiling, sealing the wound. I taste him—salt and storm and fire—and then—
His fangs.
Sharp. Precise.
He bites his own wrist. Blood fills his mouth. And then—
He feeds it to me.
Mouth to mouth. Blood to blood. Life to life.
The magic *erupts*.
A shockwave of heat tears through me, white-hot, unstoppable. My back arches. My fangs descend. My vision whites out. I feel it—everything. His pulse. His breath. His *fear*. His *need*. His *love*. And mine. My pain. My relief. My *hunger*. My *devotion*.
The bond *screams*.
Not just a tether.
Not just a current.
But a *storm*.
And we’re at the center of it.
His hands tremble on my chest. His breath hitches. His body presses closer. The water seals the wound. The blood heals the flesh. The magic *binds* us.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Gasping. Trembling. *Mine*.
“You’re healed,” he whispers.
“No,” I say, voice rough. “I’m *changed*.”
He pulls back. Eyes wide. “What did I do?”
“You saved me.” I reach up, fingers brushing his lip—still swollen, still bleeding. “You gave me your blood. Your life. Your *trust*. And in return, the bond deepened. It’s not just magic anymore. It’s *us*.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You did.” I pull him close, one arm around his waist, the other cradling his head. “You could have let me die. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. You *chose* me. You *saved* me. And now—”
“Now what?”
“Now,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his hair, “you’re not just mine. You’re *herself*. And I’m not just the Sovereign. I’m *yours*.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds on tighter.
And the bond?
It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t burn.
It *sings*.
—
Later, in the quiet, he speaks.
“Why did you let me heal you?”
“Because I trust you.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“I do now.” I lift my hand, brush a strand of hair from his face. “You could have killed me. You could have let the fever take me. You could have *left* me to die. But you didn’t. You gave me your blood. Your life. Your *trust*. And in return, the bond deepened. It’s not just magic. It’s *us*.”
He leans into my touch, his skin warm beneath my fingers.
“I came here to destroy you,” I whisper.
“And yet,” he murmurs, “you’re still here.”
And then—
I kiss him.
Not fierce. Not desperate. Not hungry.
Soft.
Slow.
Choosing.
My lips brush his—just a whisper of contact. But the bond *erupts*, a jolt of heat tearing through me, my fangs descending, my hands flying to his waist, pulling him closer. He doesn’t resist. Just opens for me, his tongue tangling with mine, her body pressing into mine, her hands sliding up his chest, into his hair.
I groan.
Deep. Rough. *Mine*.
And the world?
It tilts.
Spins.
Burns.
But this time—I don’t pull away.
I *lean* in.
Because the truth is—
I don’t know if she came here to destroy me.
But I know I’m not letting her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
—
The next morning, I wake to warmth.
Soft. Heavy. *Alive*.
I’m not alone.
I’m in his bed—still in my boots, my tunic half-off, my skin bare in places. And draped over me?
A black velvet coverlet.
And beside me?
He’s watching me.
Kael.
Lying on his side, head propped on one hand, eyes like frozen fire, hair a mess, shirt gone, chest bare. His gaze is dark. Intense. *Possessive*.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low.
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
My throat is dry. My body is heavy. My mind is fog.
And the mark—
It *pulses*.
Like a second heartbeat.
“You don’t remember,” he says.
I shake my head. “Remember what?”
“The kiss.” His fingers brush my lip—still swollen, still tender. “The bite.” His hand slides down, tracing the mark on my neck. “The way you screamed my name.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t remember,” he murmurs, “how you tore at my clothes. How you begged me to *take* you. How you *came* in my arms.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “And I let you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He pulls back, eyes locking onto mine. “Then why are you half-naked? Why is my shirt on the floor? Why is my blood on your lips?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And the worst part?
I *want* it to be true.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice rough. “And you always will be.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“You want me.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Soft. Slow. *Claiming*.
And I don’t pull away.
I *lean* in.
Because the truth is—
I don’t know if I came here to destroy him.
But I know I’m not leaving.
Not now.
Not ever.
And for the first time—
I don’t care.