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CALCULATE THE RISK-REWARD RATIO (OF ANCIENT RITUALS AND DESK ACTIVITIES)

KAZIMIR

The columns of numbers blurred into nonsense.

Somewhere between “Siege-Engine Repair Fund” and “Boot-Stipend(mercenary)” my thoughts wandered to the taste of Arabella’s skin and refused to come back.

Runes pulsed beneath my shirt, throbbing in wicked counter-rhythm to the quill scratching parchment.

War demanded coin; my body demanded her.

The door opened without so much as a perfunctory rap. Arabella stalked in—no apology, no hesitation—wearing a forest-green dress that weaponized every curve. My ledgers never stood a chance.

“Someone’s flouting healer’s orders about rest,” she said, sliding a slim, cobalt book across the desk.

“I’ll rest when the treasury stops hemorrhaging.” I folded my hands to keep from hauling her onto the desktop. “Or when I invent a breathing tax, whichever arrives first.”

She arched a brow. “It’s your mind that’s hemorrhaging, not the coffers.”

I smirked, but the book’s goldleaf title snagged my attention —Sacrificial Restorations: The Healer’s Burden . A scarlet ribbon marked a chapter headed The Lifeweave Ritual: Healing the Tethers of Arcane Vessels.

Arabella perched on the desk, ankles crossing. “Magister Vellum gave it to me just before our little library adventure. I forgot about it until now.”

I skimmed. Third Age… Great Magical Drought…

cabal of artifact-keepers —gods, this thing was older than half my nightmares.

As the title promised, it was a ritual to feed healing magic into the artifact’s fissures, to stitch the fractures with living essence.

The dangers section dripped in cheerful understatement—SoulTethering, EssenceDrain, Wraithification—followed by delightful case studies of healers who either shriveled into jerky or slept for centuries.

I snapped the book shut. “Absolutely not.”

Arabella didn’t flinch. “Kaz, every other repair method you’ve suggested involves demon lords, royal bloodletting, or both. This is cleaner.”

“Cleaner?” I tapped the cover. “One attempt restored the CrownofTides and burned out her magic forever. Another user became a décor item— a withered husk , Arabella. The Twins of Callahan are still snoring in a glass coffin. If the Heirloom rejects you...”

I lose you.

Something twisted in my chest. A thought threatened to coalesce—unthinkable, realm-shaking—and I slammed the mental door before it could take shape.

Her gaze softened, but only for a heartbeat.

“And if we do nothing, the crack widens, ley lines unravel, and half the Western Realm is gone. My heroic bloodline gives me better odds, and the Heirloom already half-recognizes me through the marriage bond. This might be the one gamble stacked in our favor.”

I rose, circling the desk until I stood in front of her. “You could end up chained to that crown for the rest of your life. If someone chips it, you’ll bleed. If it’s stolen, you’ll wither. I will not allow that.”

She tilted her chin, stubborn light sparking in hazel eyes.

“ Allow ? You abducted me, remember? Stole me away to power your precious Heirloom. I’ve adapted, I’ve cooperated, and I’ve even.

.. desired things I never thought I would.

Because I decided to. On my terms. You do not get to pick and choose when my autonomy matters. ”

Damn her for being right. “And if it fails? If the ritual drains you until there’s nothing left but a withered husk? Am I supposed to stand by and watch while you sacrifice yourself for an artifact I dragged you into this citadel to activate?”

Her hand came to rest over my sternum.

“Then don’t stand by,” she said softly. “Stand with me. We study the rite together, build safeguards, draft contingencies. You of all people should be able to keep me safe. If the crown tries to devour me, you drag me out. If I falter, you steady me. What you don’t get to do is lock the door because the risk frightens you. ”

She slid the tome back into my hands.

I exhaled through my teeth. “We study it—in detail—before either of us bleeds into ancient jewelry. Agreed?”

A fractional nod. Tension eased enough for a darker, hungrier current to surface. The memory of her hand that morning—and the glorious loophole we’d discovered—flooded my mind.

“Argument time is over,” I murmured, dropping the book on the desk and sliding my hands up her calves. “Come here.”

Her breath caught. “Here? Now?”

“Consider it practical research. If the Heirloom objects, it can file a complaint.”

She laughed—low, eager—and scooted fully onto the desk.

I knelt, pushing the dress to her hips. It’d been too long since I’d tasted her properly.

Warm, intoxicating scent drowned the scent of ink and parchment.

Easing her undergarments aside, I ran a finger down her slit, then replaced my finger with my mouth.

She sucked in a sharp breath and braced her hands on the desk.

My grip tightened on her hips as I dragged my tongue through her folds and across her clit in a deliberate circle.

Her fingers found my hair, tugging me closer.

I rewarded her with dipping my tongue inside before replacing it with my fingers.

The tug of her wild, golden magic curled around me—sweet, perilous temptation. In response, my runes glowed faintly with raw, wicked pleasure. I drew back a fraction. “Steady. Control it.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped, hips rolling. “Stop lecturing.”

I eased my fingers back inside. Her magic lunged for mine, hungry and intoxicating, wrapping my shadows in molten gold. The rush was exquisite—and catastrophically unsafe.

A pulse of power skittered across my nerves. It was too much for the Heirloom. Ignoring her whimper, I pulled away and stood, rearranging her dress with shaking restraint.

Arabella grabbed a fistful of my shirt and yanked me toward her. She glared, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“I’ll bring the knife.” I gently disentangled myself from her grip. “But until you can control your magic?—”

A brutal knock saved me from retaliation.

Thorne barged in. “Mylord, an emissary from the Hero’sGuild awaits. Says it’s diplomatic.” His gaze flicked to Arabella’s rumpled state, but the bastard wisely kept silent.

War first, desire later—story of my cursed life. I ran a hand over my mouth. “Great Hall in ten. Shadow retinue, full armor.”

Thorne exited.

Arabella hopped down, smoothing her skirts, fire banked behind composed eyes. “We are not done discussing that ritual.”

“Or finishing what you started this morning,” I growled. “Lightning bridge in five minutes. Wear something that says touch her and die screaming .”

“Black and silver, then.” She left with the book clutched to her chest.

My possessiveness surged so fierce I could taste iron. The Lifeweave might save the Heirloom... or hollow Arabella from the inside. A chill scraped down my spine, and I locked the reason for it in the darkest vault of my mind.

I snatched the ledgers, shoved them into a drawer, and stalked after my wife. War could wait. Protecting ArabellaBlackrose could not.