The first thing I feel when I wake is the absence.
Not of her—she’s still there, curled on her side of the bed, her back to me, the black silk sheets pooled around her waist, her dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink. No, it’s not her absence. It’s the absence of the storm.
For eight centuries, I’ve woken to silence. To emptiness. To the cold weight of a crown I never asked for and a throne I’ve bled to keep. I’ve ruled with ice in my veins and fire in my eyes, never flinching, never faltering, never feeling. But since she came—since Zara, with her storm-dark eyes and her silver wolf’s fury—something has shifted.
The storm is gone.
Not the magic. Not the power. Not the endless war of politics and blood and betrayal that gnaws at the edges of my reign. No, that’s still there, louder than ever. But the internal storm—the one that’s raged inside me since I was a boy forced to kill his father to claim the throne—that’s quiet. For the first time in centuries, I wake to stillness. To warmth. To the soft, even rhythm of another’s breath.
And it terrifies me.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch her. The rise and fall of her chest. The slight part of her lips. The way her fingers curl into the sheets, like she’s holding onto something even in sleep. She doesn’t look like a queen. Doesn’t look like a weapon. Doesn’t look like the woman who threatened to slit my throat in my sleep.
She looks… peaceful.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I remember last night. How she came to me—silent, barefoot, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just climbed into bed, pressed her back to my chest, and whispered, Stay with me. Three words. That’s all it took to shatter me.
I didn’t touch her. Not beyond holding her. I know what she fears. I know what she thinks I am—a monster. A tyrant. The man who signed her mother’s death order. And maybe I am. Maybe I was. But not with her. Not like this.
So I held her. Felt her body relax against mine. Felt her breath slow. Felt the bond settle, no longer screaming in conflict, but humming, low and steady, like a promise.
And for the first time—
—I let myself believe it.
That maybe, just maybe, I’m not alone.
But now, in the pale light of dawn, with the city of Elarion stretching below like a dream no mortal will ever remember, I wonder.
Was it real?
Or was it the bond? The fever? The desperation of a woman who’s been fighting for so long she doesn’t know how to stop?
I reach out—slow, careful—brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm. Soft. Her breath hitches, just slightly, but she doesn’t wake. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, down to her throat, where her pulse flutters beneath my fingers. Strong. Steady. Alive.
And mine.
The thought comes unbidden, sharp and possessive. I try to push it down, but it’s too late. The bond hums beneath my skin, answering, Yes. Ours.
I pull my hand back.
Too much. Too fast. I’ve already crossed too many lines. I’ve already let her in too deep. If she wakes and sees me like this—watching her, touching her, wanting her—she’ll run. She’ll shut down. She’ll retreat behind that wall of fury and fire, and I’ll lose her before I’ve even had her.
So I rise.
Quietly. Carefully. I pull on my trousers, my boots, my coat edged with silver thorns. I don’t wake her. Don’t speak. Just leave the note on the nightstand—simple, direct, no emotion. Breakfast is in the solar. The Council meets at noon. Don’t be late.
And then I go.
The study is silent when I enter, the fire reduced to embers, the obsidian desk untouched. I pour myself a glass of wine—dark, bitter, laced with enough magic to keep me awake for days. I don’t drink. Just hold it, watching the liquid swirl, thinking.
She came to me.
Not because I forced her. Not because the bond demanded it. Not because she was feverish or delirious.
She came because she wanted to.
And that’s the most dangerous truth of all.
Because if she wants me—if her body, her wolf, her very soul is beginning to recognize me as her mate—then I can’t afford to fail. I can’t afford to slip. I can’t afford to be the monster she thinks I am.
I have to be better.
For her.
For us.
Malrik appears in the doorway, silent as a shadow, his eyes sharp with concern. “She’s still asleep?”
“Yes,” I say, not looking up.
“And?”
“And nothing,” I say. “She came to me last night. That’s all.”
He studies me. “You look different.”
“I feel different.”
“She’s dangerous,” he warns. “She’ll destroy you.”
“Maybe,” I say, finally turning to face him. “But if she does, let it be with my heart in her hands.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he nods and leaves.
Alone again, I rise and walk to the window. The city glows below, a tapestry of light and shadow. Fae nobles glide through the air on wings of illusion. Vampires move through the alleys like smoke. Werewolves patrol the outer walls, their eyes sharp, their loyalty unwavering. And at the center of it all—me. The High King. The monster. The man who signed the order to purge the Wildbloods.
But I didn’t.
I signed it. But I didn’t give the order. I was forced. Threatened. And if I hadn’t complied, they would have executed me instead.
But that doesn’t absolve me.
Because I still signed it.
And her mother still died.
And now, the woman who should hate me more than anyone—Zara, with her silver hair and her storm-dark eyes—came to me last night and whispered, Stay with me.
And I don’t know if I can survive that.
Not because it’s weakness.
But because it’s hope.
And hope is the most dangerous thing of all.
She arrives in the solar an hour later, dressed in black silk, her hair pulled back, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just takes her seat across from me, her spine straight, her jaw tight.
“You could’ve woken me,” she snaps, her voice sharp.
“I could’ve,” I agree, pouring wine. “But you were sleeping. Peacefully. For once.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity,” I say, offering her the goblet. “It’s protocol. My consort doesn’t eat alone.”
“I’m not your consort.”
“You signed the contract,” I remind her, eyes glinting. “For thirty days, you are. And unless you want the Council questioning your commitment, you’ll play the part.”
She glares at me. “And what if I don’t care?”
“Then you’ll die,” I say simply. “And I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”
Her breath catches.
Just slightly.
But I catch it.
And I see it—
The flicker in her eyes. The tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table. The way her pulse jumps at her throat.
Jealousy.
She hates it. Hates that she feels it. Hates that I see it.
And gods help me, I love it.
“Fine,” she snaps. “Breakfast. Then the archives.”
“The archives aren’t open yet,” I say. “They won’t be for another hour. Until then, you’re mine.”
“You don’t own me.”
“The bond says otherwise,” I murmur, stepping closer. “But if you’d like a reminder…”
I reach out, not to touch her face, not to grip her arm—but to brush my fingers along the inside of her wrist, just above the pulse point.
The contact is light.
But the effect is devastating.
Heat surges through me, sharp and sudden. My breath catches. Her skin burns where I touch her. The bond on my palm flares, pulsing in time with her racing heart.
And for a single, traitorous second—
I forget the throne.
I forget the Council.
I forget everything except the feel of her skin on mine.
She yanks her arm back. “I feel nothing.”
“Liar,” I say, but there’s no bite to it. Just amusement. “Eat. Then we’ll go to the archives.”
She forces herself to eat, to keep her hands steady, to not look at me. But I can feel her—every flicker of her pulse, every hitch in her breath, every time her wolf stirs beneath her skin. And I like it. Like knowing she can’t hide from me. Like knowing the bond sees her truth, even when she lies.
When breakfast ends, I rise. “Come. I’ll take you to the archives.”
She follows me in silence, her boots echoing on marble. The palace is waking—servants bowing, nobles watching, the air thick with whispers. I don’t care. Let them watch. Let them wonder. Let them see that she is mine.
The archivist greets us at the gate, wary. “High King. Consort.”
“She has clearance,” I say. “Full access to public records.”
He hesitates. “Even the Blood War files?”
“Even those.”
Her breath catches.
I turn to her. “One hour. Then I expect you at the morning council.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then the bond will remind you,” I say, stepping close. My hand brushes her lower back—just a whisper of contact—but it sends heat spiraling through me. “Painfully.”
Then I leave.
I don’t go far. Just to the corridor outside, where I can watch through the enchanted glass. I see her—her dark eyes scanning the shelves, her fingers trembling as she asks for the Wildblood records. I see the archivist lead her to the cabinet. See her press her palm to the glass. See her freeze when she sees it—
The grimoire.
Wildblood Restoration Ritual.
My breath stops.
She wasn’t supposed to see that.
It’s not ready. Not yet. The ritual is incomplete. The magic unstable. The cost—
Too high.
But now she knows.
And when she turns and sees me standing there, her storm-dark eyes wide, her lips slightly parted—
I know.
This changes everything.
“You lied to me,” she says, stepping out into the corridor.
“I didn’t lie,” I say. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“You have a book on restoring the Wildbloods,” she hisses. “Why? If you wanted us dead, why keep a ritual to bring us back?”
“Because I didn’t want you dead,” I say, stepping closer. “I never did. I signed the order because I was forced. But I’ve spent the last three hundred years trying to undo it. To fix what was done. To bring back what was lost.”
She stares at me. “And the cost?”
I don’t answer.
Because the cost is me.
The ritual requires a king’s blood. A king’s life.
And I’d give it.
Without hesitation.
But I can’t tell her that.
Not yet.
“You don’t have to believe me,” I say. “But the truth is in that book. And when the time comes—when you’re ready—I’ll show you everything.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her eyes searching mine, her breath coming too fast.
And then—
—she does something I don’t expect.
She reaches out.
And takes my hand.
Her fingers are warm. Her pulse races beneath my skin. The bond pulses, deep and hungry.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she whispers.
And for the first time—
—I let myself hope.