Chapter 12 Kieran
Kieran
Her blood was wildfire.
I hadn’t meant to take so much, hadn’t meant to take any at all, but the second her pulse broke against my tongue, I was lost. It wasn’t just the taste of her.
It was heat, blinding and endless, searing down my throat until my veins felt too small to hold it.
I could have drowned in her and called it mercy.
Pulling away was like tearing flesh from bone. Every instinct in me screamed to stay, to sink deeper, to drink until Merrit was mine in every way that mattered. The way her body arched, trembling, the way her hands fisted in my coat—saints, I wanted her.
And I’d almost taken her right there. Against the bark, in front of whatever vipers still prowled the Hunt, like some feral beast that didn’t know better.
My jaw clenched until my fangs ground against each other. Her taste lingered, copper-sweet and electric, a brand stamped into me from the inside out. I couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t forget it. I’d never wanted to keep anything the way I wanted to keep this.
Which meant I had to let her go.
The thought curdled in my gut, acid-hot. My hands were still shaking with the urge to drag her back against me, to sink my teeth into that scarred throat until she understood what she was doing to me. But her eyes—wide, dazed, confused—made something ugly inside me snarl.
I couldn’t let her see how undone I was. Couldn’t let her know that one taste had me half-mad.
So I straightened, forced my arms to cage her instead of clutch her. Forced my mouth to twist into something cruel instead of desperate. Forced my voice into gravel when it wanted to beg.
“Enough.”
The word hit harder than any fist. For me as much as for her. Because nothing in me believed it. Nothing in me wanted to stop.
And yet I had.
For now.
I carried her because I couldn’t make myself let go.
Her weight against my chest was nothing—less than nothing. But the heat of her blood still sang through me, every step another reminder that I should have kept drinking, that stopping had cost me more than I wanted to admit.
The mark of my teeth stood bright against her throat, her dress torn open where my mouth had been.
And worse—far worse—was the scent clinging to her skin.
Not just fear, not just blood. Want. Her desire twined with mine until it made my fangs ache all over again.
I’d bitten hundreds of women, fed thousands of times, but never once had their blood burned like this, never once had their bodies answered me the way hers had.
Not once had I ached for them the way I ached for her.
Those long pulls of her blood should have been enough to sate me. Instead, I was like a man trapped in the driest of deserts, aching for another sip.
The trees thinned, torchlight swelling ahead, and with it, came the Court. Their laughter, their hunger, their endless watching. They would smell the blood. They would see her trembling, hear her pulse, feel the echo of what had just happened between us.
And I would make them believe it was because of me.
Let them whisper “Claimed.” Let them swallow their defeat. Better that than let them scent weakness. Better that than let them guess how close I’d come to losing her—to them, to myself.
So I shifted her in my arms, cradling her as though she were glass, as though the whole damned Hunt had been staged, only so I could find her and keep her. My jaw ached from holding back the snarl, but I let my mouth curl instead into the prince’s smile.
The courtyard stilled when we stepped into the firelight. Then the whispers started, hissing as fast as the torches spat resin:
“Blood at her throat.”
“Divide-born trash, and yet—”
“He looks like he’d kill us all if we touched her.”
I let the smirk stay, slow and lazy, the kind that made them grind their teeth. They could call her trash, witch, plaything—I didn’t give a fuck. As long as they believed she was mine, none of them would dare lay a hand on her.
But the hunger in their eyes was a tide pressing close, thick as quicksand and twice as deadly.
A baron’s wife near the steps let her gaze slide over Merrit’s torn dress, then licked her lips like she was imagining how she’d taste.
My grip tightened until Merrit stirred faintly in my arms, and I had to unclench my jaw before I snapped.
Solis waited at the arch, torchlight catching on the scar across his mouth. His eyes flicked to the blood on my lips, to the mark at Merrit’s throat, then back to mine. No judgment, no surprise—just the faint twitch of a grin, as if he approved. I didn’t slow, didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Another cluster of courtiers leaned together, their laughter too thin, too eager, eyes gleaming like wolves scenting blood. They would have torn her apart if she’d been left alone. Now they only dared to stare at what was mine like they had any right.
I adjusted Merrit higher in my arms, ignoring the gasp it drew from those closest. She looked broken open and blood-slick, her throat marked where my fangs had been. Every inch of her screamed possession. And Evara forgive me, I let them believe it.
Because if they thought she was mine, then at least for tonight, she was untouchable.
I didn’t stop until the doors of my chambers slammed behind us—leaving them, leaving Solis, Serenya, and everyone else behind.
The Court’s whispers clung like smoke, but in here it was only her heartbeat I heard—fast, uneven, hammering against my chest. I should have taken her to a healer.
Should have handed her to Serenya and walked away.
Instead, I’d brought her here, to my rooms, because the thought of anyone else laying hands on her made my fangs ache, made my heart hammer in my chest, made me lose what little hold I had on sanity.
I set her on her feet, but I was far too rough. She staggered, caught herself on the wall, and before I could even string a word of apology together, her palm cracked across my jaw.
The sting snapped my head half a step sideways. Not enough to hurt, but enough to shock. The slap should have sparked rage. Should have had me snarling, fangs bared, reminding her what I was. Instead, the fire in her gaze struck harder than her palm, stopping me cold.
Her hands flew, harsh and trembling. “Don’t ever use me like that again. Don’t ever parade me like I’m yours.”
Heat burned up the back of my throat, bitter with fury and something darker. “Better they think you’re mine than think you’re prey.”
“I’ve survived worse than your Court,” she signed, her breaths heaving. “You don’t get to decide how I look in front of them.”
“You’d rather look weak? Broken?”
Her chin lifted, defiance carved into every ragged line of her. “I’d rather look like that than your trophy.”
The word hit harder than the slap. “Trophy.” Like I’d won her. Like parading her through the courtyard, blood on her throat and mine, had been a prize to show off. Saints, wasn’t that exactly how it looked?
Her fingers slashed the air, shaky but sure. “From the Divide, you’ve taken. Dragged me from my bar, shoved me into your Court, and stole every choice I had. I am here doing you a favor—and all you’ve done is take.”
Her hands didn’t stop, even though her chest heaved. “You carried me in there like a prize. You said ‘sorry,’ but what you should have done was ask.”
I flinched at that, her words hitting harder than the slap. Saints, she was right. But I couldn’t let her see it—not when the memory of her blood was still burning in me, not when every step through the courtyard had been teeth in my throat.
“You think I wanted that?” My voice cracked harsher than I meant. “You think I wanted to parade you in front of them? I had to control what they saw, or they would have shredded you where you stood.”
Her eyes sparked, her hands rising again. “I could have handled it.”
A laugh tore out of me, ragged, furious. “No, you couldn’t. You were bleeding, shaking, half-broken—and I won’t let them lay another finger on you. Do you understand? I couldn’t stomach it. Not one hand. Not one look. Not one thought of them touching you. I forbid it.”
Her chin lifted, defiant as steel. “Then admit it wasn’t about protecting me at all. It was about you not being able to stand your own mistake.”
The truth of it ripped me open. And still I stepped closer, caging her against the wall, my restraint cracking. “I should never have touched you,” I repeated, voice low and wrecked.
She flinched—barely—but she didn’t look away. Her hands rose again, trembling but merciless. “Then why did you?”
I could have lied. Could have made something up. Could have schooled my reaction like I’d been taught my whole fucking life. But instead, the truth poured from my lips in a bitter whisper: “Because I can’t stop.”
The words detonated between us, hot as wildfire. Her breath caught, her eyes blazing, and for one long, trembling heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then, my mouth crashed down on hers, rough, punishing, tasting of fury and blood. She stiffened, then snapped back at me, biting hard enough to split my lip. Copper filled my mouth. Saints, it only made me hungrier.
I pressed her against the wall, caging her there, my body pinning hers.
But her eyes met mine, daring, dark with need, and when her fingers clutched my coat and pulled me closer, every shred of restraint burned to ash.
I tore at her ruined dress—fabric ripping, beads scattering over stone—because I couldn’t stand the stink of them on her any longer.
“Not theirs,” I snarled against her mouth. “Never theirs.”
I spun her, dropping her back onto the oak table. Glass shattered against the floor, jagged and glittering, but she didn’t flinch. She arched into me, lips parted, breath coming fast, and saints, I was undone.