Kiakoa
The walk back from the Orchard is a torment of proximity. The scent of her arousal from the feeding still clings to the air between us, a maddening counterpoint to the cold night. Jesseth is an ally, for now. Vasek will retaliate. These are the things I should be focused on.
Instead, every instinct screams at me to drag her into the shadows and finish what we started.
The connection between us has changed. It's no longer just a hum of awareness; it's a physical pull, a demanding presence that makes the space between our bodies feel like a gaping wound.
When we reach the castle's main staircase, I don't lead her toward the guest wing. I can't. The thought of her being in a separate room, behind a door I cannot see, is physically intolerable. I lead her toward the upper floors.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice still husky from the feeding.
“My rooms. You shouldn't be alone tonight.”
She doesn't question it. She feels the pull, too.
The corridor to my chambers is lined with portraits of my ancestors, their silent judgment following us. I have never brought another soul here. My solitude has been my shield, the one thing that kept the frenzy at bay. Now, I am willingly leading my greatest vulnerability into my sanctuary.
I push the heavy door open and she steps inside, moving through the sparse, functional space with a curiosity that makes the room feel small. She runs a hand over the arm of a chair, pushes aside a curtain to look out at the three moons.
“It's lonely,” she says, her observation a clean cut to the bone.
“I have always preferred solitude,” I lie.
“Have you?” She turns from the window, her dark eyes seeing more than they should. “Or has it just been necessary?”
The simple question unravels me. “The frenzy makes intimacy... dangerous,” I admit, the words costing more than I expect. “For eight centuries, isolation has been safety. Before you, I had suppressed it twice. Each time left me more convinced that solitude was the only safe path.”
She watches me, her expression unreadable. “That sounds horrible,” she says finally.
The simple acknowledgement does something strange to my chest. Most see my isolation as a sign of admirable control. She sees the price I paid for it.
“The bedroom is through there,” I say, gesturing to a doorway. “You should rest.”
“What about you?”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
She climbs onto the massive bed without ceremony, the red silk pooling around her against the dark furs. “Come here,” she says.
The request challenges every instinct for self-preservation I have honed.
But the pull of our connection is stronger.
I move to the other side of the bed, settling carefully onto the furs.
The stone is wide enough that we don't touch, but I feel her warmth, hear the steady rhythm of her breathing. Every muscle in my body is rigid.
“Kiakoa?” Her voice is drowsy now.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For tonight.”
“It is I who should thank you.”
Within minutes, her breathing evens out into sleep.
I do not sleep. Cannot. Not yet.
I remain awake, a predator on watch, staring at the woman who has become the center of my world.
The frenzy has not been conquered. If anything, it burns hotter, more focused.
But for the first time in my far too long life, it feels less like a curse and more like the beginning of something I will kill to protect.