But I understand.
I've woken up covered in blood enough times to know what it means to carry death with you. To hold onto every detail because forgetting would make you less than human.
"You're alive," he says, and there's wonder in his voice. Disbelief. "You survived. You're standing here looking at me with murder in your eyes and you'realive."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"You didn't." He takes one step closer. "You couldn't."
"I tried to kill you. Multiple times. During the claiming."
"I know." The corner of his mouth twitches—something dark, something with teeth. "You drew more blood from me than anyone has in centuries."
I touch my throat without thinking. Where I can still taste his blood.
"You bit me like you wanted to consume me," he says, voice dropping lower. "Like you were trying to drink me dry."
"I was trying to kill you."
"I know. It was the most alive I've felt in three hundred years."
We stare at each other. Two monsters assessing, calculating, recognizing something in each other that should be terrifyingbut isn't. Something that feels more like looking in a mirror than looking at an enemy.
"I still want to kill you," I tell him.
"I know."
"I'm going to try again. When I'm stronger."
"I know."
"And if you give me an opening, I'll take it."
"I know." He's closer now. Close enough that his scent wraps around me like smoke, like a cage. "But not today. Today you need to heal."
"You want me to try," I realize. "You want me to succeed."
He doesn't deny it.
"Three hundred years is a long time to be a monster. A long time to wake up every day knowing what you are."
The admission hangs between us. Raw. Devastating.
I should grab something sharp and end him right now while he's standing here telling me he wants to die.
Instead I say, "You asked for my name. In the grove. Before—during?—"
"You told me to call you Kess. A nickname. Is there something longer you go by?"
I could deny him the knowledge. "Kessa. Just Kessa. My family didn't have a surname."
It's more than I've given anyone since my grandmother died.
"Kessa," he says, and the way he tastes my name—rolling it across his tongue like something precious—makes that hook in my chest twist deeper. "Thank you."
"I gave you my name. Seems only fair you give me yours. Your real one. Not 'Beast King.'"
Something flickers across his face. Surprise—like no one's asked him in a very long time.
