Page 52

“Especially them. My father does not know I carry the Spear.” He meets my eyes, letting me see the weight of what he’s revealed. “No one knows except you and my sister.”

I file that nugget of information away for later. Both nuggets.

The responsibility settles on my shoulders like molten lead. I’m one of the only living witnesses to power that could reshape kingdoms, topple courts, rewrite the political map of both realms.

The only one who could destroy him with a single word to the right person.

“Why show me?”

The Spear begins dissolving back into his chest, sinking beneath skin like it was never there. But the process costs him—fresh blood blooms where manifestation tears flesh from within, his face contorting as the weapon settles back into whatever space it occupies inside his ribcage.

“Because some secrets are too heavy to carry alone.” His voice roughens with pain and something deeper. “I have been carrying this one for nearly twenty years—the real reason I am at this Academy. The price I pay to keep someone I love safe from my father’s reach.”

I catch him as his knees buckle, his weight solid and warm against my chest. “Shit! Kieran?”

More blood than I’d realized soaks through his shirt. Each manifestation tears him apart from the inside, wounds layering on wounds until his body becomes a map of sacrifice.

“I am fine,” he mutters, but his skin has gone gray and his hands shake with more than exhaustion.

“You’re bleeding out. Infirmary?—”

“No.” His hand closes around my wrist with surprising strength. “Cannot let them see the extent of injuries. Questions I cannot answer.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The kind that reveal why the Unseelie prince has wounds matching Treasure manifestation patterns.”

Understanding dawns like sunrise over a battlefield. “You’ve been planning something.”

“Smart girl.” He tries to straighten, fails as his legs refuse to support him. “Always too smart for your own good.”

“Then how do I help?”

“My quarters,” he says, voice dropping to something raw. “I can shadow walk us there, but it will cost me everything I have left.” His ice-blue eyes search mine. “I’ll have to trust you completely. Can you handle that responsibility?”

The question carries weight beyond medical necessity. He’s asking if I’ll protect him when he can’t protect himself.

“Yes.”

Shadows surge around us with desperate intensity—his power burning through reserves like a dying star.

The walk feels like drowning in velvet darkness, his grip on my hand the only anchor as his magic gutters and fails.

We crash-land in his quarters, his body going limp against mine as the last of his strength bleeds away.

His quarters reflect their owner—elegant furniture arranged at precise angles, temperature noticeably colder than the hallways, shadows pooling naturally in corners like they belong there. No personal items except a locked cabinet radiating magical signatures that make my enhanced senses recoil.

“Guardian supplies,” he explains, gesturing toward the cabinet with a hand that leaves bloody fingerprints on dark wood. “Second drawer. Blue vials.”

I retrieve the healing draughts, trying not to notice how his hands shake when he reaches for shirt buttons. The fabric clings to torn skin, blood acting like adhesive.

“Let me.”

He goes absolutely still, ice-blue eyes meeting mine with an intensity that steals breath from my lungs. “Ash...”

“Medical necessity. Nothing more.”

His laugh is rough as granite grinding against granite. “If you say so, troublesome thing.”

I focus on clinical assessment—wound depth, blood loss, entry points where the Spear forced through flesh. But it’s impossible to ignore the lean strength revealed, the way shadows automatically caress his exposed skin like they’re offering comfort.

The wounds are worse than they appeared through blood-soaked fabric.

Not cuts but tears where the Spear forced its way through tissue never meant to accommodate such violence.

Four parallel gashes across his chest, deep enough to reveal dark lines beneath—the tattoo housing one of the most powerful artifacts in either realm.

“Gods, Kieran. The Spear does this every time?”

“Manifestation always costs.” His voice carries the weight of prices paid repeatedly. “The Treasures take their price in blood and years of your life. Each use ages me, weakens me. Eventually...”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

I uncork the blue vial with fingers that shake despite my attempts at steadiness. Contents glow with soft silver light, warmth radiating through the glass like captured starlight.

“This might hurt.”

“I can handle pain. The question is whether you can handle what comes after.”

Heat races up my spine at the dark promise in his voice. “What comes after?”

His smile turns predatory despite the agony carved across his features. “Guardian magic requires direct application. Skin to skin contact until the magic takes hold.” His voice drops to gravel. “Long enough for the Spear to recognize your magical signature. To decide if you are a threat or ally.”

My breath catches in my throat. “How long?”

“Long enough for magic to recognize magic, Ash. Healing bonds create connections that go deeper than flesh.” His eyes burn with intensity that makes my knees weak. “Are you prepared for that?”

No. Absolutely not. But his blood stains my hands, and something fierce in my chest demands I help him regardless of consequences.

“Yes.”

I pour the potion across the wounds, watching it seep into torn flesh with gentle hiss of regenerative magic. Then, before I can lose nerve, I press my palms against his skin.

Lightning explodes through my nervous system.

Power floods between us—shadow and Wildfire finding impossible harmony. The connection from our earlier encounters deepens, becoming something reaching beyond surface contact into places I didn’t know existed within my own soul.

His wounds knit with visible speed, flesh mending as magic flows between our joined hands like liquid starlight. But it’s more than healing. It’s recognition—the Spear itself acknowledging my presence, my right to touch its guardian, my worth as potential ally rather than threat.

Ancient magic tastes like winter storms and midnight honey as it flows through our connection, carrying information that bypasses conscious thought.

I understand things I shouldn’t know—how the Spear chose him, how it’s been protecting someone he loves, how it’s slowly killing him with each manifestation.

A bond forming whether we want it or not.

When the wounds close, leaving only pale scars, I try to pull away.

His hands cover mine, holding me in place with gentle pressure that somehow feels like iron chains.

“Not yet. The magic is not finished.”

“Finished with what?”

“With marking us.”

Silver light erupts from our joined hands—not painful but overwhelming, like lightning made of captured starlight. The illumination spreads up our arms in intricate patterns, weaving through skin and settling into bone with weight that speaks of permanence.

When it fades, thin silver lines trace across both our wrists like delicate jewelry. They pulse with gentle light matching our synchronized heartbeats, creating a visible connection that anyone with magical sight could detect.

Fae bond marks. Unmistakable. Undeniable. Political dynamite waiting to explode.

“What did we just do?”

“Created a connection that will make both our courts very unhappy.” His thumb traces the mark on my wrist with devastating gentleness, the simple touch sending electricity racing through my entire nervous system. “But also something I have wanted since the moment I saw you.”

The admission hangs between us raw and dangerous, weighted with implications that could reshape everything.

I should pull away. Should put distance between us before this spirals beyond control.

Instead, I lean closer, drawn by something stronger than tactical wisdom.

“Kieran...”

“Say my name again. Like that. Like you mean it.”

“Kieran.”

His mouth crashes into mine like he’s claiming territory in a war that’s already been decided.

Not gentle. Not careful. Pure possession wrapped in winter fire and the taste of secrets that could destroy kingdoms. His hands fist in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and I let him because every cell in my body is screaming mine right back at him.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting copper and something darker—power and danger and promises that should terrify me.

He groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest like a struck bell, and suddenly I’m pressed against the wall with his body caging me in.

The silver marks on our wrists flare with each desperate kiss, magic responding to the friction between us like it’s been waiting for this moment since creation began.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my throat, teeth scraping skin that’s never felt this sensitive before. “You taste like?—”

“Don’t.” I drag his mouth back to mine before he can finish that thought, before either of us can think at all beyond the fire building between us.

When we finally break apart, both breathing like we’ve been drowning, the air crackles with power that makes my thorns writhe beneath my skin in response.

“This changes everything.”

“Good. I was getting tired of pretending I didn’t want you.”

Despite everything—the attack, the blood, the bonds we’ve forged—laughter bubbles up from my chest. “You’re insane.”

“Probably. But I am your particular brand of insane now, troublesome thing.”

The word your sends molten honey pouring through my veins. Possessive. Claiming. Dangerous in ways that should send me running.

Relief crashes over me like a breaking wave. He’s alive. He’s safe. Whatever we’ve created feels right in ways I can’t explain or justify.

Before I can stop myself, gratitude spills from my lips:

“Thank you.”

Magic detonates between us—not gentle silver but something darker, more binding. Golden threads materialize around my wrist, settling into my bones with weight that steals my breath and makes my soul ring like a struck bell.

Kieran goes absolutely still, horror dawning in his ice-blue eyes as he stares at the golden chain now binding us together.

“No. Ash, no?—”

But it’s too late. The Fae debt binding settles with finality that rewrites something fundamental in my chest, creating an obligation that burns like a brand around my wrist.

“What just happened?”

“You gave me a debt.” His voice is hollow with devastation and something that might be self-loathing. “Fae magic binds gratitude into obligation. You owe me now—one favor, to be collected when I choose.”

The golden thread around my wrist pulses once, acknowledging its presence with weight that makes my bones ache.

“If you call it in?”

His smile turns sharp as broken glass, eyes holding something like grief and terrible possibility.

“Then you owe me one favor, troublesome thing. Anything within reason. The question is what I will ask for—and when.” His thumb traces my jawline with gentleness that contradicts the power he now holds over me. “Some debts are worth more than others.”

I step back, putting distance that feels like tearing flesh from bone.

“I need to go.”

“Ash—”

“Don’t.” The word cuts through whatever explanation he was about to offer. “Don’t explain it. Don’t justify it.”

“What is this?” He gestures to the space between us, to the silver marks and golden debt that bind us in ways neither fully understands.

I meet his eyes one final time, memorizing the way they burn with hunger and regret and something that might be love if we were different people in a different world.

“A mistake I’ll learn from.” I pause at the door, hand trembling on the handle. “The debt. Once only?”

His silence stretches long enough to count heartbeats. Then, “The debt binds both ways, troublesome thing. Think about what that means.”

The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like finality.

I make it exactly three steps before my knees give out, the weight of everything crashing down like an avalanche.

The bond marks on my wrists pulse with silver light that anyone with magical training could recognize.

The debt thread burns like a brand—visible as a thin golden chain stretching back toward his quarters through stone and darkness.

One favor. One perfectly timed request that could destroy everything I’ve built or become.

But his words echo through my skull: The debt binds both ways.

What did he mean?

Five days until extraction. Five days to figure out how to live with the knowledge that I’ve bound myself to someone who holds my debt like a weapon.

Or perhaps, like something else entirely.

The silver marks pulse once more, and I swear I feel his heartbeat echoing mine across the distance between us.