"It lied," he says finally. "Everything it promised—lies."
"But you’re suffering because of me. Because I woke you."
"I was suffering long before you arrived." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t know were falling. "And for the first time in two centuries, I have reason to hope that suffering might end."
Hope.
The word sits strange between us. After everything we’ve faced, everything we’ve lost, the idea that hope still exists feels revolutionary.
"I thought—if I could break the binding?—"
"You would have killed us both." His voice is gentle but absolute. "The ritual you attempted doesn’t sever bonds, little witch. It feeds them to things that should never taste mortal souls."
The truth hits me cold and sharp. The ancient presence didn’t want to help me save Krath. It wanted to devour us both.
"I’m sorry." The words feel inadequate. "I’m so sorry."
"Don’t be sorry." His forehead touches mine, breath warm against my cheek. "Be alive. Be here. Be mine."
Mine.
The possessive word sends heat racing through my veins. Not the magical fire of our binding, but something more basic. More human.
"Is that what you want?" I whisper. "For me to be yours?"
"More than anything." The confession is barely audible. "More than freedom. More than ending this curse. I want you alive and whole and choosing to stay."
The space between us crackles with more than magical energy. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see flecks of gold in his red eyes, can smell the smoke and heated metal that clings to his skin.
Kiss me.
The thought comes desperate and certain. After facing the void, after nearly losing everything, I need to feel him alive against me.
His gaze drops to my lips. I see the moment he realizes how close we are, how intimate this position has become. His breathing changes, and I catch him scenting me again.
He wants this too.
My eyes flutter closed as he leans closer. Our breath mingles, warm and shared. The binding mark burns between us, carrying more than magic now—carrying want and need and the desperate relief of survival.
Then he jerks back with a strangled curse.
"No."
The rejection hits me cold as winter water. He pushes himself up, putting distance between us, his face a mask of control that doesn’t quite hide the hunger burning underneath.
"Why not?" My voice cracks on the question.
"Because you nearly died tonight." His hands clench into fists at his sides. "Because you’re shaking and bleeding and in no state to make that choice."
Choice.
The word echoes the ritual text, the ancient promises. Everything comes back to choice in the end.
"What if I’m choosing anyway?"
Something flickers in his expression—hope, maybe. Or hunger. But he shakes his head.
"Ask me again when you’re not grateful to be alive," he says roughly. "When you’re certain it’s me you want and not just survival."
