The first thing I feel when I wake is the echo of her kiss.
Not the soft, tentative one from this morning—the one that tasted like fear and forgiveness, like a door cracking open after centuries of being sealed shut. No, this is the other one. The one that came after. The one that burned through me like wildfire, fierce and desperate, her lips crashing into mine as if she could devour me whole. The one that made the bond explode, fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring like a brand on my palm.
And gods help me, I still taste her.
Jasmine and iron. Wildblood and wolf. Power and fury and something deeper, something real. Her scent clings to my skin, to my sheets, to the very air in my chambers. The fire in the hearth burns low, casting long shadows across the obsidian walls, but I don’t need light to see her. I can feel her—her presence like a storm rolling in, her breath warm against my neck, her body curled against mine, one leg tangled with mine, one hand resting on my chest, just above my heart.
She’s still here.
Not just in my bed.
But in my arms.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any poison, any war.
I press my fingers to my side, where the wound still aches—dull, deep, healing. The poison is gone, purged by her magic, by her blood, by the furious pulse of her hands on my skin. But the scar will remain. A reminder. A testament. A mark of the moment she stopped fighting me and started fighting for me.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to survive that.
Because if she fights for me—
—she’ll become a target.
And if she becomes a target—
—I’ll lose her before I’ve even had her.
She stirs, her lashes fluttering, her breath hitching. I don’t move. Just watch as her storm-dark eyes open, dazed with sleep, then sharpen as she remembers where she is. Who she’s with. Her hand tightens on my chest, her fingers pressing into my skin like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“You’re awake,” she murmurs, voice rough.
“So are you,” I say, because I can’t stop myself. Because I need to hear her voice. Need to know she’s real.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Not anymore. “Don’t start with the fae charm. I’ve seen you at dawn. You’re not charming. You’re… rumpled.”
I smirk. “You’ve seen me at dawn?”
“Unfortunately,” she says, sitting up, the sheets sliding down to reveal the curve of her breast, the pale skin of her shoulder. My breath catches. Her eyes flash. “Stop looking.”
“I can’t,” I say, voice low. “The bond won’t let me.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Then let it curse me,” I say, reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “As long as it’s with you.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just watches me, her eyes searching mine, her breath coming too fast.
And for a single, fragile second—I think she believes me.
Then she does the one thing I don’t expect.
She leans in.
Just slightly. Just enough for her lips to brush mine—soft, warm, real. A whisper of a kiss. A promise. A test.
And the bond screams.
Not in pain. Not in protest. In recognition. Like it’s been waiting for this. Like it knows she’s mine. Like it’s sealing the truth in fire and ice.
She pulls back, her eyes wide, her lips slightly swollen. “I… didn’t mean to—”
“Liar,” I say, cupping her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. “You meant to.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Just closes her eyes, leaning into my touch, her breath warm against my palm.
And gods help me, I want to kiss her again. Want to pull her into my arms, taste her, claim her, make her forget every reason she ever had to hate me.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Because the wound still aches. Because the Council still watches. Because Vexis is still out there—smiling, sharp, waiting for a misstep.
So I let her go.
“We have to move,” I say, rising. “The Unseelie delegation is still in the city. And if they think I’m weak—”
“You’re not weak,” she snaps, standing, pulling on a black gown—long sleeves, high collar, a slit up the thigh. She ties her hair back with a strip of leather, tucks her dagger into her sleeve. The blade I took from her. The one she stole back. The one that’s hers.
And I love that she still carries it.
Because it means she still fights.
And if she still fights, she’ll survive.
We walk through the palace in silence, our boots echoing on marble. The corridors are alive with tension—servants bowing, nobles watching, whispers curling through the air like smoke. They know something is coming. They can feel it. The balance is shifting. The Wildblood has returned. The bond is strong. And the High King—cold, merciless, untouchable—is smiling.
They don’t understand.
They think I’ve been weakened. That she’s broken me. That the monster has fallen.
But they’re wrong.
I’m not weaker.
I’m stronger.
Because now I have something worth fighting for.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just walks beside me, her spine straight, her chin high, her storm-dark eyes scanning the room like a predator. And I love her for it.
Because she’s not just my consort.
She’s my equal.
My match.
My mate.
We reach the war chamber—my private sanctum, where I’ve ruled, plotted, bled for centuries. The obsidian desk is untouched, the maps of Elarion and the mortal world still spread across its surface, the silver pins marking territories, alliances, threats. The fire in the hearth burns low, the air thick with old magic, with secrets, with the weight of what we’re about to do.
“You said you’d show me the truth,” she says, stepping into the room. “About the grimoire. About the ritual. About what Vexis did.”
I nod, closing the door behind us. “I did.”
She turns to me, her eyes dark, intense. “Then show me.”
I don’t answer. Just walk to the desk, press my palm to the sigil etched into the wood. The surface shifts—stone turning to liquid, then solid again—and beneath it, a hidden compartment opens. Inside—a single, silver-bound book. Wildblood Restoration Ritual. The runes on its spine pulse faintly with dormant magic.
She takes it, her fingers trembling. “This is it?”
“Yes,” I say. “The ritual to bring back your bloodline. To restore what was lost.”
“And the cost?” she asks, voice low.
I don’t answer.
Just watch her, my breath coming too fast.
And she knows.
“It’s you,” she whispers. “The ritual requires a king’s blood. A king’s life.”
I nod.
“And you’d do it?” she asks, voice breaking. “You’d die for this? For us?”
“I’ve already lived for it,” I say, voice rough. “For three hundred years, I’ve searched for a way to undo what was done. To bring back what was lost. To honor her. To wait for you.”
She stares at me.
And for the first time—
—I see it.
Not just belief.
Not just understanding.
Love.
And it terrifies me.
Because if she loves me—
—then she’ll fight for me.
And if she fights for me—
—I’ll lose her.
“Then prove it,” she says, voice low. “Show me the ritual. Let me see it for myself.”
I take the grimoire, open it to the final page. The sigils are complex—ancient, deadly, beautiful. The incantation is written in Old Fae, the language of blood and oath. And at the center—
A single line.
The life of a sovereign, freely given, shall awaken the blood of the lost.
She reads it. Then looks up at me, her storm-dark eyes wide. “You’d really do it?”
“I already have,” I say. “The ritual is ready. The magic is stable. All it needs is the final act. My blood. My death.”
She doesn’t speak.
Just stares at me, her breath coming too fast.
And then—
—she does the one thing I don’t expect.
She slaps me.
Hard.
The sound echoes through the chamber, sharp, final. My head snaps to the side, my cheek stinging, my vision blurring. But I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just stand there, my breath steady, my hands at my sides.
“You idiot,” she snarls. “You absolute fool.”
“I’m the king,” I say, voice low. “It’s my job to be a fool for you.”
She slaps me again.
Harder.
“Don’t you dare talk like that,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare act like your life means nothing. Not after everything. Not after the truth. Not after—”
“After what?” I ask, turning to face her, my storm-lit eyes locking onto hers.
She doesn’t answer.
Just glares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hands trembling.
And then—
—she breaks.
She collapses into my arms, her body shaking, her breath coming in ragged sobs. “You’re not allowed to die,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Not after everything. Not after the truth. Not after… me.”
I hold her.
Tight. Close. Like I’ll never let go.
Because I won’t.
Not as long as she still wants me.
Not as long as she still loves me.
“I told you,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers. “I’ll wait however long it takes.”
She pulls back, her eyes blazing. “Then don’t die waiting.”
And I don’t.
Just pull her into my arms, holding her like I’ll never let go.
And for the first time—
—she doesn’t pull away.
She just whispers the truth into the darkness.
“You’re not allowed to die.”
And I promise—
“I won’t.”
Not as long as she’s still breathing.
Not as long as she still wants me.
Not as long as she still loves me.
The fever comes at dusk.
Not the bond fever—the kind that wracks her body when we’re apart, that burns through her veins like fire. No, this is something else. Something deeper. Older. Primal.
She’s in the solar when it starts—pretending to read a scroll on ancient treaties, but her eyes keep drifting to the window, to the city beyond, to the stars that pulse like living veins. I can feel it—the shift in her. The way her breath hitches. The way her pulse spikes. The way her wolf stirs beneath her skin, restless, eager.
And then—
—she gasps.
Her hand flies to her stomach. Her back arches. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating, her storm-dark gaze turning feral.
“Riven,” she whispers, voice breaking. “It’s… it’s starting.”
My breath stops.
“The heat cycle,” I say.
She nods, her body trembling. “I can’t— I can’t control it. It’s too strong. I need—”
“I know,” I say, stepping toward her. “I’ll help you.”
“No,” she says, backing away. “You can’t. You shouldn’t. It’s not—”
“I don’t care,” I say, closing the distance between us. “You’re mine. And I’m not letting you suffer alone.”
She shakes her head, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “It’s not safe. I might hurt you. I might—”
“Then let me,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “Let me take the pain. Let me take the fire. Let me be your anchor.”
She doesn’t fight.
Just collapses against me, her body trembling, her breath hot against my neck. I carry her to the bed—my bed, our bed—the same one where she first woke in my arms, where we’ve fought, where we’ve bled, where we’ve kissed like we’re starving.
I lay her down gently, my hands lingering on her shoulders, her waist, her hips. Her eyes are wide, feral, her lips parted, her breath coming too fast. The heat is rising—sharp, jagged, wrong. Her wolf howls beneath her skin, not in warning, not in rage—but in need.
Mate, it whispers. King. Ours.
“Stay with me,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Please. Just… stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, stripping off my coat, my shirt, until I’m in just my trousers, my chest bare, my skin glowing faintly with fae magic.
She reaches for me—her hands trembling, her fingers brushing my chest, my stomach, my hips. Her touch burns. Her breath hitches. Her body arches.
And gods help me, I want her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of her.
So I climb onto the bed, pulling her into my arms, my body caging hers in, my breath warm against her skin. Her hands fly to my chest, her nails digging into my skin, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
“Riven,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need—”
“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers. “I’ve got you.”
And then—
—she grinds against me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Her hips roll against mine, her body seeking friction, seeking release, seeking me. My breath catches. My hands tighten on her hips, holding her there, not letting her pull away. The bond pulses, deep and hungry. My magic surges. My body responds—hard, aching, ready.
“Say my name,” I growl, my voice rough.
She arches, her back bowing, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “Riven.”
“Again.”
“Riven,” she gasps, grinding harder. “Please—”
“Please what?” I ask, my voice low, dangerous.
“I need you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need—”
“Not like this,” I say, pulling back, my hands on her shoulders, holding her still. “Not while you’re like this. Not while the heat controls you.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, feral, her breath coming too fast. “But I want you.”
“I know,” I say, cupping her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. “But I won’t take you unless you choose me. Unless you’re clear. Unless you’re mine—not because of magic, not because of need, but because you want me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her storm-dark eyes searching mine, her breath coming too fast.
And then—
—she does the one thing I don’t expect.
She flips me.
In one fluid motion, she twists, using my own grip against me, rolling us until she’s on top, her body caging me in, her knees on either side of my hips, her hands pressing into the mattress beside my head.
Her eyes blaze—storm-dark, furious, pleased.
“Then make me,” she says, voice low, dangerous. “Make me choose you.”
And gods help me, I want to.
But I don’t.
Just watch her, my chest rising and falling too fast, my hands at my sides.
“I don’t have to,” I say. “You already did.”
She doesn’t move.
Just watches me, her breath coming too fast, her body trembling.
And then—
—she leans down.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle. But hard, desperate, real. Her lips crash into mine, teeth and tongue, claiming me like she’s starving, like she’s been holding back for centuries and can’t take it anymore. My breath catches. My body arches. My hands fly to her face, pulling her closer.
And the bond explodes.
Fire and ice tearing through my veins. The Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand. The room trembles. The windows rattle. The fire in the hearth surges, flames turning violet, then gold, then white.
And still, she kisses me.
Like she’s trying to devour me. Like she’s trying to prove something. Like she’s trying to break me.
And gods help me, I let her.
Because for the first time—
—I don’t have to be the monster.
I can just be hers.
She pulls back, her breath ragged, her lips swollen, her eyes blazing. “I want you,” she says, voice raw. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because of you.”
And I believe her.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of the way her voice breaks on the last word.
Because of the way her hands tremble.
Because of the way her eyes—those storm-dark eyes—look at me like I’m the only light in her darkness.
So I do the only thing I can.
I flip her.
In one smooth motion, I reverse our positions, my body caging hers in, my hands pinning hers above her head, my hips pressing between her thighs. She doesn’t fight. Just arches into me, her breath hot against my neck, her body trembling.
“Say it again,” I growl, my voice rough.
“I want you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I want you, Riven. I want—”
“Not yet,” I say, pulling back, my hands releasing hers, my body hovering above hers. “Not until you’re ready. Not until the heat passes. Not until you’re clear.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. “But I am ready.”
“No,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers. “You’re not. And I won’t take you unless you are.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her storm-dark eyes searching mine, her breath coming too fast.
And then—
—she does the one thing I don’t expect.
She smiles.
Slow. Dangerous.
Then she reaches up, her fingers brushing my cheek, my jaw, my lips.
“Then I’ll wait,” she says, voice low. “However long it takes.”
And for the first time—
—I let myself hope.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of her.
Because she’s here.
Because she’s mine.
And because, gods help me, I’m finally hers.