Amara’s POV
“Step back.”
The words came out rougher than I intended.
Not a request.
He didn’t move.
His palms stayed flat against the stone wall on either side of my head, caging me into the cold surface.
Up close, his eyes weren’t the clean green I remembered from our first meeting.
They kept bleeding darker at the edges.
Crimson.
Then green.
Then crimson again.
Like something inside him was clawing for control.
Caius.
His blood spirit was fighting to surface.
“Answer me,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made Mist whimper in the depths of my mind.
“The blood servant.
Why does his scent cling to you.”
“He pulled me from that alley.” The words scraped my throat raw.
“That’s why.”
“Try again.”
“That’s the answer.”
His nose almost brushed my jaw.
I felt him breathe me in, sampling my blood through the thin barrier of skin.
A low growl rolled from his chest, and Mist pressed herself deeper into the shadows of my consciousness, trembling.
“His name,” Killian demanded.
“Oscar.”
“Oscar.” The name came out flat and venomous.
“Where does he serve.”
“The kitchens at Cramer’s tavern.
He scrubs blood chalices there.
That’s all I know about him.”
“And yet his scent is woven through your hair.”
“Because he carried me to safety.”
Killian’s jaw locked.
The tendons in his neck went rigid.
I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them.
I would not let this pureblooded prince pin me to the infirmary wall and call me a liar.
Not today.
“Step back,” I said.
“Please.”
He didn’t.
But he shifted his weight, the ancient stone beneath us groaning.
His hands left the wall and curled into fists at his sides, knuckles bone-white.
A thrall slipped through the heavy wooden door behind him, eyes fixed on the floor, and replaced the iron-bound vial hanging from the IV apparatus.
The mixture of herbs and diluted vampire blood would accelerate my healing.
She whispered something I couldn’t catch.
“Burn it,” Killian said.
“Master?”
“Her clothing.
In the sack by the chair.
Burn all of it.
Don’t let anyone handle the fabric with bare skin.”
“Yes, Master.”
The thrall gathered the leather pouch containing my torn garments and fled.
My stomach dropped like a stone.
“Those belonged to me,” I said.
“They reeked.”
“Of the man who kept me breathing.”
“Of a man who is not your fated mate.”
Mist’s distress echoed through our mental bond.
I forced her deeper into silence.
The door groaned open again.
The clan’s blood healer entered with his scrolls, glanced at Killian, then at me, and cleared his throat like he’d swallowed silver shavings.
“Miss Wellington.
How do you fare.”
“Fine.”
“You are decidedly not fine.” He consulted his parchment.
“My examination revealed a fractured skull, multiple broken ribs, severe internal bleeding, a shattered ankle, and a crushed wrist.
Your blood shows signs of prolonged malnourishment.
Dehydration.
Given your…
diluted bloodline, I would expect slower regeneration.
Not faster.”
“Faster?”
He turned a page.
Turned it back.
“The swelling at your temple is already receding.
The ribs are mending.
I have never witnessed a half-blood heal at this rate.
I cannot account for it.”
Killian didn’t look at the healer.
His crimson-flecked gaze burned into mine.
And I felt it.
Beneath the ache in my bones, under the throbbing in my skull, something warm pulsed through my veins.
A tether, pulled taut.
Growing stronger every moment he stood close enough for our blood bond to spark.
I looked away first.
“What’s the cost,” I said.
The healer blinked.
“Cost of what.”
“The private chamber.
The blood infusion.
All of it.
What do I owe the clan.”
His quill stopped scratching.
“Miss Wellington, perhaps we should discuss payment later—”
“Now.”
He named a sum.
The room tilted.
My good hand went numb around the rough blanket.
I could work in those tavern kitchens every night until the sun burned out and never earn that amount.
My human mother could scrub floors until her knees shattered and not touch it.
I sat up.
Pain exploded behind my left eye.
I ignored it.
I peeled the blood-feeding tube from the back of my hand.
The needle withdrew with a bead of crimson.
I stripped the monitoring patches from my chest, one by one.
The device beside me shrieked in protest.
“Miss Wellington—”
“I’m leaving.”
“You cannot—”
“Watch me.”
I swung my legs over the stone slab.
Bare feet met frigid floor.
The infirmary gown hung open at my back and I didn’t care.
I stood.
My ankle buckled.
The ground rushed toward me.
He caught me.
One arm circled my waist, one braced my shoulder, and my entire body went electric.
Heat.
Not the burning hunger of blood thirst.
Something cleaner, more primal.
It raced down my spine, pooled in my injured ankle, and the screaming pain…
quieted.
Not gone.
Muted.
Like someone had turned down the volume on agony itself.
I gasped.
He felt it too.
I knew because his chest went rigid against my shoulder and his breathing stopped for several heartbeats.
“Release me.”
He didn’t.
“Killian.
Let go.”
He set me back on the slab.
His hands lingered at my elbow one beat too long.
When he pulled away, the cold rushed back and the ankle resumed its dull throbbing.
The healer stared at us both like we were a riddle missing crucial pieces.
“I’m going home,” I said.
“Miss Wellington, your ankle alone—”
“Is my burden to bear.”
Killian reached into his long coat.
Retrieved something.
Placed it on the blanket beside my hand.
My father’s pocket watch.
Silver.
Worn leather chain.
The crystal face was cracked in one corner, exactly as I remembered.
My throat closed.
“Where,” I whispered.
“The blood servant who pulled you from that alley had it.
He gave it to me.”
My fingers closed around the familiar weight.
Still warm from Killian’s body heat.
Heavier than memory suggested.
I didn’t thank him.
I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
I stood again, slower this time.
Killian didn’t touch me, but he stayed close enough that the bond between us hummed with warmth, and I hated how grateful my broken body was for it.
A thrall brought cloth slippers and a donated cloak.
I pulled them on over the gown.
I walked toward the door on an ankle that should have collapsed and somehow held.
In the corridor, heels clicked sharp against stone.
“Killian!”
Lydia.
Crimson dress.
Crimson lips.
Kohl smudged beneath one eye, as if she’d wept in her carriage and repaired the damage poorly.
“Killian, I have been waiting in that courtyard all evening, do you have any concept—”
I kept walking.
“—and you ignore my messages, what has possessed you, what could possibly be more important in this place than—”
Her voice struck my back like thrown daggers.
I didn’t turn.
I wouldn’t look at the pureblooded princess in her silk slippers.
Let her shriek.
Let her scream the entire castle down.
I walked out into the moonlit courtyard with my father’s watch pressed hard against my palm.
The journey home drained what little strength remained.
Our cottage sat crooked at the border of clan lands, where the protection wards grew thin.
The wooden step groaned under my weight.
I pushed through the door and the scent of dried herbs and tallow candles nearly brought me to tears.
I collapsed onto the threadbare couch like a felled tree.
From the kitchen, my mother’s voice.
Thin and worried.
“Rough night, Amara.”
Mist stirred in the depths of my mind.
My blood spirit, weak and frightened but alive.
“Mm,” I managed.
I closed my eyes.
I don’t know how long I kept them shut.
Long enough for the ache to settle deep in my bones.
Not long enough for the door to cool from my touch when it slammed open against the wall.
Boots.
Expensive leather.
On our splintered wooden floor.
I sat up.
Killian filled the doorway of our tiny parlor.
His formal jacket was gone.
His shirt hung open at the throat.
His eyes were doing that thing again, green, crimson, green, crimson, and the crimson was winning.
“Get up.”
“You have no right to be here.”
“Get up, Amara.”
I rose.
Slowly.
My ankle screamed in protest.
I ignored it.
He crossed our cramped room in several strides.
His hand fisted in the front of my nightgown and he walked me backward until my shoulders struck the wall.
The thin fabric bunched in his grip.
“How many,” he said.
“How many what.”
“How many have touched what belongs to me.
The blood servant.
The males in that alley.
How many, Amara.”
“None of them claimed me in any way.”
“Liar.”
“I was in that alley,” I hissed, “because my human mother works multiple positions to pay your clan taxes.
Taxes you increase on our dwelling because we are the lowest scum in your hierarchy.
I was taking a shortcut home from your manor.
That’s it.
That’s the entire truth.”
His eyes flickered.
Something in his expression cracked for one fleeting moment.
Then it sealed again.
He smiled.
It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen on a vampire’s face.
His hand slid up from the gown.
Fingers found my collarbone.
Then higher.
Then wrapped around my throat.
He didn’t squeeze.
Not yet.
He simply rested his palm there, enormous and burning hot, and watched my eyes.
I felt his thumb find my pulse.
My breath caught.
Mist screamed in the depths of my mind.
The blood bond between us flared white-hot and terrible.
His fingers tightened.
Gradual.
A fraction.
Then more.
Killian’s mouth curved in that cold, predatory smile, his hand settling around my throat like a collar.
He was savoring the fear flickering in my eyes—already I wondered if this pureblooded prince would actually end my half-blood existence tonight.