But she's here. And tomorrow we start searching for a way to save our daughter from a curse my bloodline gave her.
That's enough. It has to be enough.
The rest—if there's going to be any rest—I'll have to earn.
31
Kess
The library feels different now.
I spent weeks here before—long afternoons curled up in reading chairs by the tall windows where light fell soft and golden across the pages. Those hours felt safe. Private. Mine. Just me and old books and dust, the quiet scratch of my pen, the way sunset painted everything amber before servants came to light the candles. I discovered what I was in this room, pieced together truths about warrior omegas that had been deliberately hidden for centuries.
Now Rhystan is here, and nothing feels safe anymore.
He's set up a workspace in the far corner of the restricted archives, as far from me as the room allows. Keeping his promise about space. About respecting my boundaries.
But I can feel him anyway.
Every time he shifts in his chair, my attention snaps toward the sound. Every time he turns a page, my skin prickles with awareness like static building before a storm. The bond hums between us constantly now—stronger without his tea dulling it, vibrating like a rope pulled tight between two fixed points.
And my body—traitorous, stupid thing—remembers everything.
The weight of him pressing me into the mattress. The heat of his skin against mine, dragon-fire warmth that sank into my bones and made me arch into him like I couldn't get close enough. The sounds he made against my throat when he came, rough and broken and desperately mine. Four months of heats and claimings and the slower times between, when he touched me like I was something precious instead of something to be conquered—and pregnancy hasn't dampened the memories at all. If anything, it's sharpened them into something unbearable.
I force my attention back to the manuscript. Ignore the awareness crawling under my skin. Ignore the way my pulse kicks every time he moves.
Three days since I returned. Three days of working in the same room, breathing the same dusty air, existing in this careful dance where we circle each other without touching.
Three days of wanting him while hating that I want him.
The sun sinks toward the horizon, painting the library in shades of honey and gold. Dust motes drift in the slanted light like tiny worlds suspended in amber. It should be peaceful—the kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you feel anchored to something solid.
Instead, every nerve in my body is strung tight enough to snap.
I pull another manuscript toward me, handling the brittle pages with careful reverence. This one is older than most—vellum yellowed with age, edges soft as moth wings, text written in an ancient dialect that makes my eyes ache. But the title caught my attention:On the Transfer of Divine Curses Between Bloodlines.
My pulse quickens as I lean closer.
When divine punishment afflicts a bloodline, the curse may be moved to a willing vessel through ritual binding. Blood must call to blood. The host must accept freely, without coercion or deception. The words must be spoken at the precise moment of transfer, when the connection between bloodlines burns brightest...
This is it. This has to be it.
I lean closer still, pregnant belly pressing against the table edge, one hand already reaching for paper and pen. The next section should have the ritual components, the specific requirements, maybe even the words themselves?—
But the next page is gone.
Not missing—torn out. I can see the ragged edge where someone deliberately removed it, probably centuries ago. The torn fibers still visible like a wound that never healed.
"Fuck." The word escapes sharp and frustrated, loud enough to carry across the library's hush.
"What?" Rhystan's voice comes from across the room. I hear him rise—the scrape of his chair against stone, footsteps approaching with measured pace.
"Found a reference to curse transfers. Someone ripped out the ritual itself."
He stops close enough that I catch his scent—smoke and stone and winter wind, something wild underneath that makes my hindbrain sit up and take notice. My body knows his scent the way it knows its own heartbeat. Knows it and wants it despite everything.
"May I?"
