The first thing I feel is the weight of his blood on my hands.
Not metaphorically. Not in memory. But real—thick, warm, sticky, smeared across my palms, my fingers, the cuffs of my sleeves. It’s dried now, blackened at the edges, flaking like ash when I move. I haven’t washed. Haven’t dared. Because if I do, I’ll lose the proof. The proof that he bled for me. That he stood in front of a cursed blade meant for my heart. That he looked into Vexis’s smug, triumphant face and said, “You touch her, and I will burn your world down with my last breath.”
And then he collapsed.
Right into my arms.
I press my fingers to my chest, feeling the echo of his heartbeat against mine, the slow, steady thud of my own. The Mark of Twin Thrones pulses beneath my palm—not in pain, not in protest, but in quiet, insistent recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stopped fighting. When I stopped hating. When I finally let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the monster I came to destroy.
But I don’t know what to do with that.
Because the truth is—
—I don’t hate him anymore.
Not even a little.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any poison, any lie.
I’m in his chambers—the same room where the bond ignited, where he first touched me, where I woke in his bed for the first time. The fire in the hearth burns low, casting long shadows across the obsidian walls. The scent of storm and cedar lingers in the air, but beneath it—something darker. Blood. Magic. Need.
He’s asleep in the bed, his breathing slow and even, his face pale but peaceful. The wound in his side is bandaged, the blackened edges of the poison receding, but not gone. Not yet. I healed him as much as I could, channeling every drop of my wildblood magic through the bond, through my touch, through the desperate, furious pulse of my hands on his skin. But the venom was old. Cursed. Tied to Unseelie blood magic. It doesn’t heal easily. It doesn’t heal quickly.
And I can’t leave him.
Not now.
Not after what he did.
I rise from the chair where I’ve been watching him, my boots silent on the marble floor. My body aches—deep, bone-tired exhaustion from pouring magic into him, from fighting the poison, from holding back the tears. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to steady myself. The room tilts slightly. My vision blurs. The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum that flares every time he moves, every time his breath hitches.
And then—
—I see it.
On the nightstand.
A single, silver vial.
Its surface is etched with Old Fae runes—Memoria Sanguis. Blood Memory. A spell used to share memories through blood-to-blood contact. It’s rare. Dangerous. Only used in moments of truth, of war, of love. And it’s never been offered to me.
Until now.
I reach for it, my fingers trembling. The glass is cold, the liquid inside swirling faintly, like ink in water. My breath catches. Is this… an invitation? A test? A trap?
Or is it something else?
Something real?
I look at him—his storm-lit eyes hidden behind closed lids, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling too slowly. He looks younger like this. Softer. Human.
And I hate that I notice.
I uncork the vial. The air shimmers. The runes on the glass glow faintly. One drop. That’s all it takes. One drop of his blood. One drop of mine. And I’ll see what he’s seen. Feel what he’s felt. Know what he’s hidden.
And gods help me, I want to.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
Because I need to know if the man who took a blade for me is the same man who signed my mother’s death order. If the king who held me while I burned is the same monster who let her die.
Because I need to know if I can trust him.
Because I need to know if I can love him.
I press my palm to my thigh, slicing it with the edge of my dagger. Blood wells—dark, rich, alive. I hold the vial over the cut, letting a single drop fall into the swirling liquid. Then I step to the bed, pressing the glass to his bandage, to the wound beneath.
His blood mingles with mine.
The vial flares—bright, blinding, violet light filling the chamber. The bond screams, not in pain, but in recognition. And then—
—I fall.
Not physically. Not into darkness. But into memory.
And I see.
Three hundred years ago.
The High King’s chambers. Riven, younger, harder, his eyes colder, his expression unreadable. He stands at the window, watching the city burn in the distance—the aftermath of the Blood War. The air is thick with ash, with magic, with grief.
And then—
—she appears.
My mother.
She’s tall, fierce, her silver hair braided with black thorns, her storm-dark eyes sharp with power. She wears a cloak of wolf fur and fae silk, her dagger at her hip, her scent wild and untamed. She steps into the room like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged.
“You look like hell,” she says, voice low, amused.
He turns. And for the first time—
—he smiles.
Not a smirk. Not a threat. But a real smile. Warm. Human. Alive.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Traffic,” she replies, stepping closer. “The Northern Pack is restless. They don’t trust you. They think you’ll purge us next.”
“I won’t,” he says. “I’ve already lost too much.”
She studies him. “You signed the order.”
“I was forced,” he says, voice rough. “If I hadn’t, they would’ve executed me. And then there’d be no one left to protect you. No one left to fight for your bloodline.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just watches him, her eyes searching his. “And do you believe that? That you’re protecting us?”
“I have to,” he says. “Because if I don’t… then her death was for nothing.”
“Her?”
“The first Wildblood queen,” he says. “The one they killed before you were born. The one they erased from history. I swore I’d bring her back. That I’d restore what was lost.”
She doesn’t answer. Just steps closer, pressing her palm to his chest, over his heart. “Then don’t stop fighting. Not for me. Not for them. For you.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m so tired.”
“Then let me carry you,” she says. “Just for a moment.”
And he does.
He leans into her, his forehead resting against hers, his breath mingling with hers. And for the first time—
—he’s not the king.
He’s just a man.
A man who’s been fighting for centuries.
A man who’s lost everything.
A man who’s waiting for someone to save him.
And she sees it.
And she stays.
The memory shifts.
Dawn.
The Council Chamber. The Supernatural Council gathered. Vexis steps forward, holding the execution order. “The Wildbloods are a threat,” he says. “And if we do not act now, we will all pay the price.”
Riven watches. Silent. Still. His jaw tight. His hands clenched.
And then—
—my mother walks in.
Not as a prisoner. Not as a traitor. But as an ally. As a friend.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, stepping toward him. “You can fight them. You can—”
“And get us both killed?” he says, voice low. “No. I have to sign it. To survive. To wait.”
“Then let me go with you,” she says. “Let me stand beside you. Let me—”
“No,” he says, stepping back. “You’re too valuable. Too powerful. If they kill you, the bloodline dies. But if I sign… if I let them believe I’m weak… then I can wait. I can fight from the shadows. I can bring you back.”
She stares at him. “And if they kill me anyway?”
“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making them pay,” he says. “And I’ll wait for your daughter. For the one who will rise from the ashes.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just nods. “Then make it worth it.”
And she walks away.
Not in fear.
Not in anger.
In trust.
The memory shifts again.
Night.
The Unseelie Wastes. My mother, standing in the rain, her silver hair clinging to her face, her storm-dark eyes filled with something I can’t name. Vexis steps out of the shadows, his dagger in hand.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” he says.
“You should’ve stayed afraid,” she replies.
They fight—fast, brutal, deadly. She’s strong. Faster. But he’s cunning. And he’s not alone.
More shadows move.
More blades appear.
She fights—wild, furious, alive.
But she’s outnumbered.
And then—
—the final blow.
Vexis’s dagger sinks into her chest.
She doesn’t scream.
Just looks up at the sky, her lips moving—
—whispering a name.
Zara.
And then she falls.
The memory shifts one last time.
Riven.
Alone.
In his chambers.
Kneeling.
Weeping.
His hands stained with blood. His heart shattered. His crown heavy on his brow.
And he whispers—
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll wait for her.”
“I’ll make it right.”
“I’ll bring her back.”
And then—
—he opens a hidden drawer.
And takes out a locket.
Inside—her picture.
And a single silver hair.
And he presses it to his heart.
And swears—
“I’ll wait for her daughter.”
“I’ll keep her safe.”
“I’ll burn the world down for her.”
The vial shatters.
I fall back, gasping, my hands flying to my face, my breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. Tears stream down my cheeks—hot, endless, real. My wolf whimpers—wrong, wrong, wrong—and I hate myself for it.
Because I was wrong.
So wrong.
I came here to destroy him. To expose the High King as my mother’s murderer. To burn his world down and walk through the ashes.
And instead—
—I found the man who loved her.
The man who mourned her.
The man who waited for me.
And gods help me, I love him for it.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of his heartbeat, the burn of the bond, the traitorous beat of my heart.
And I whisper the truth to the silence.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“You tried to save her.”
“You’ve been waiting for me.”
And then—
—he stirs.
His storm-lit eyes flutter open, hazy with pain, with exhaustion, with something deeper. He looks at me—really looks at me—and sees the tears, the vial, the shattered glass.
“You saw,” he says, voice rough.
I don’t answer.
Just nod.
He closes his eyes. “I didn’t want you to. Not like this.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know if you’d believe me,” he says. “Because I didn’t know if you’d still want to kill me. And because—” He opens his eyes, his gaze dark, intense. “I didn’t want to lose you before I had you.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
And then—
—the bond screams.
Not in pain.
Not in conflict.
In recognition.
Because for the first time—
—I believe him.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of the way his voice breaks on the last word.
Because of the way his hands tremble.
Because of the way his eyes—those cold, storm-lit eyes—look at me like I’m the only light in his darkness.
I move before I can stop myself.
I climb onto the bed, straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands pressing into the mattress beside his head. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his breath coming too fast, his pulse hammering beneath my palms.
“You loved her,” I say, voice low.
“Not like that,” he says. “Not as a lover. But as a friend. As an ally. As the only one who ever saw me.”
“And me?” I whisper.
“You’re not her,” he says. “You’re you. And I love you for it.”
My breath stops.
He sees it.
“I know you don’t believe me,” he says. “I know you’re afraid. But I’ve waited three hundred years for this. For you. For the truth. For the war to end. And if you walk away now—”
“I won’t,” I say.
He doesn’t speak.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense.
And then—
—I do the only thing I can.
I lean down.
And kiss him.
Not soft. Not gentle. But hard, desperate, real. My lips crash into his, teeth and tongue, claiming him like I’m starving, like I’ve been holding back for centuries and can’t take it anymore. His breath catches. His hands fly to my waist, pulling me closer. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand.
And still, I kiss him.
Like I’m trying to devour him. Like I’m trying to prove something. Like I’m trying to break him.
And gods help me, I let him.
Because for the first time—
—I don’t have to be the weapon.
I can just be his.
I pull back, my breath ragged, my lips swollen, my eyes blazing. “Don’t you ever take a blade for me again,” I say, voice raw. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you—”
“I’ll do it a thousand times,” he says, cupping my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Because you’re worth it. Because I’m worth it. Because we’re worth it.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I see it.
Not just desire.
Not just need.
Love.
And it terrifies me.
Because if he loves me—
—then he’ll fight for me.
And if he fights for me—
—I’ll lose him.
But I don’t say that.
Just press my forehead to his, my breath mingling with his, the bond humming beneath our skin, in the quiet, fragile hope of something real.
And I whisper the truth into the darkness.
“You’re not allowed to die.”
And he promises—
“I won’t.”
Not as long as I’m still breathing.
Not as long as I still want him.
Not as long as I still love him.