I shove the book toward him without looking up. Looking up would mean meeting his eyes, and I'm not ready for that. Not when I can feel the heat of him radiating against my arm, not when every breath fills my lungs with the smell of him.
He has to come closer to reach it. Close enough that I feel his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of my sleeve. Close enough that when his hand brushes mine as he takes the book, electricity shoots up my arm like lightning striking bone.
We both go still.
The bond flares between us, bright and demanding, and for a single heartbeat I feel everything he's feeling—fierce wanting held under iron control, determination that burns steady as banked coals, hunger so intense it could swallow us both whole if he let it off the leash. No guilt in this moment. No apology. Just raw need that matches my own.
Then he steps back. Deliberate. Controlled. His jaw tight when he studies the torn page.
"The War God's priests," he says, voice rougher than usual. "They did this to dozens of texts. Hundreds. Any knowledge that might break curses—destroyed. Can't have cursed alphas finding solutions when their suffering fuels the kingdom's military power."
"So we're looking for something they tried to erase completely." I lean back in my chair, putting distance between us that my body immediately resents. "Perfect."
"Not completely." He sets the book down, his fingers lingering on the damaged edge. A ghost of something crosses his face—wry, self-aware. "And for the record, this one wasn't me. The priests destroyed these texts centuries before I started hiding things from you."
I snort despite myself. It's not funny—none of this is funny—but there's something almost relieving about him acknowledging it directly. No dancing around what he did. Just dry acknowledgment and moving forward.
"Good to know you're not the only one who wanted me ignorant."
"Misery loves company." He moves on before I can decide how to feel about the exchange. "If they destroyed this text, there might be copies elsewhere. Temple archives they couldn't reach. Monasteries in the eastern valleys where the priests' authority never fully took hold." He pauses, something shifting in his expression. "I've had riders searching for weeks. Every archive within ten days' travel."
I didn't know he was doing that. Didn't know he'd been coordinating a kingdom-wide search while I was in the village bleeding and terrified, while I was lying in Yaern's narrow bed convinced I was losing our children.
"How long have you been looking?"
"Since the day you left." His eyes meet mine, gold and unwavering. "Since I felt your fear through the bond—not what you were afraid of, but the shape of it. The weight. I couldn't reach you, couldn't help you, couldn't do anything except search for answers to questions I didn't understand." He holds my gaze without flinching. "So that's what I did."
The bond pulses with his sincerity. I look away first.
"Find anything useful?"
He returns to his corner, comes back with a stack of papers covered in careful handwriting—neat, cross-referenced, every claim backed by sources. Sets them between us like a battle plan being laid before a general.
"Fragments. References scattered across three sources. Two mention warrior omegas specifically." He taps the stack. "A monastery in the eastern valleys might have the complete binding texts. I sent riders five days ago. They should return tomorrow."
Tomorrow. One more day while our daughter's time runs out.
"How long until the curse activates?" His voice is quiet but steady.
"Twelve weeks from conception. The mystic said month six is when the feral instincts emerge fully." I meet his gaze. "I'm past three months now. That gives us maybe ten weeks. Maybe less if the curse moves faster than expected."
Something shifts in his expression—not fear, but cold calculation. A predator assessing difficult terrain and deciding how to navigate it anyway.
"Then we work faster."
The riders return at dawn.
Grey light is seeping through the library windows, turning everything the color of old pewter, when Rhystan comes through the door. Leather satchel in hand, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face, but energy coiled tight in every movement. He looks like a man who's been awake all night and doesn't care.
"They found something." His voice is rough but edged with purpose. "The monastery had texts the priests never reached. Including this."
He sets a book on the table with careful reverence—ancient binding cracked and worn soft with age, pages yellowed but miraculously intact. And there, written across two full pages in faded brown ink that's barely legible in places, are the words we've been searching for.
The complete ritual. Everything we need.
My hands shake as I pull it closer. The steps are clear despite the archaic language—blood bond between curse-giver and host, willing acceptance spoken aloud, words in the old tongue at the precise moment of transfer. Components listed in careful detail: blessed silver for the binding circle, fresh dragon blood from the cursed line, specific herbs to stabilize the host's body during the transformation.
And at the bottom, in different handwriting—scratchy and rushed, the ink slightly darker as if added later:
