Chapter 30
Merrit
Iwoke to sunlight and safety in Kieran's chambers.
And beside me in bed right there where he belonged—Kieran slept.
One arm was draped across my waist, our fingers still loosely linked. His face was turned toward me, relaxed in sleep but still showing the exhaustion of the last few days. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Thick stubble darkened his jaw.
How many nights had he stayed awake watching over me? How long had he refused to really rest, terrified I wouldn't wake up?
Through the bond—clear and strong now with no blood magic muffling it—I felt him. Deep sleep, finally. But even unconscious, there was that constant awareness checking that I was still there. Still breathing. Still safe.
I gently prodded connection. “Good morning.”
His eyes flashed open immediately. Not the slow blink of someone waking naturally, but instant alertness. Those icy-blue eyes focused on me with such intensity it took my breath away.
"Merrit." My name came out rough, sleep-thick and full of emotion. His hand tightened on mine. "You're awake. Really awake."
I smiled. “Really awake. How long was I out?”
"Three days since we got back." He shifted closer, touching my face gently like he needed to confirm I was real. "You've surfaced a few times, but never fully conscious. Never like this."
“I'm here. I'm okay.”
"You're okay." He said it like he was trying to convince himself. Like he'd been terrified I'd slip away.
I reached up and cupped his jaw, felt the rasp of stubble under my palm, the cool of his skin. He leaned into the touch, eyes closing briefly as overwhelming relief and love flooded our connection, making my chest tight.
When he opened his eyes again, there was a question in them. Hesitant. Hopeful.
“Kiss me?”
He didn't need to be asked twice. I leaned down carefully and pressed my lips to his. Gentle. Reverent. Like I was something precious that might break.
I kissed him back, ignoring any twinge from healing cuts, the lingering ache in my ribs. None of that mattered. What mattered was this—him, us, alive and together and safe.
When he pulled back, there were tears on his cheeks.
“Don't cry,” I urged, brushing them away with my thumb.
"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered. "When you went limp in my arms, when the bond went so quiet I could barely feel you—"
“I'm here. You came for me. You saved me.”
"We saved each other." His hand covered mine, pressed it more firmly against his face. "You killed him. That psychic attack—Merrit, you shouldn't have survived that. The backlash alone should have—"
“But I did survive,” I sent through the bond what I couldn't say with words: “Because of you. Because I had something worth surviving for.”
He caught his breath, feeling the depth of what I meant.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Touching, breathing, letting the reality of being alive, safe, together sink in.
The moment was broken when my stomach roared to life.
He laughed—the first real laugh I'd heard from him in what seemed like forever. "Of course you’re hungry. You haven't eaten in days. I'll get something brought up." He started to rise.
I caught his hand. “Stay. Just another minute.”
He settled back immediately, brought my hand to his lips. "As long as you need."
But my stomach betrayed me with another audible growl. “Fine. Food first.”
Breakfast arrived quickly—real food, not invalid broth. Bread and cheese and fruit and meat that actually smelled appealing rather than medicinal.
I ate carefully at first, then with increasing enthusiasm as my body remembered what hunger was.
The healers had done incredible work—days of magical healing meant I was recovered.
Not weak or fragile. Just... healed. Some lingering soreness, the brand on my shoulder still tender, but functional. Whole.
Kieran watched me eat with such open relief that it would have been embarrassing if I wasn't doing the same—cataloging him, checking that he was really here, really whole.
Except... he wasn't. Not quite.
I set down the bread I'd been reaching for, really looking at him for the first time since waking.
Too pale. Even for a vampire, he was too pale. The skin around his eyes looked thin, almost bruised. And when he reached for the water pitcher, his hand trembled slightly before he caught himself, steadied it.
I signed slowly, deliberately, “When did you last feed?”
He went very still. “I'm fine.”
“Kieran. When?”
His jaw tightened. "Before." He spoke aloud since I couldn't see his hands. "Before everything. With you."
So the last time we'd made love. Before I'd been kidnapped, tortured, nearly killed. Before everything had gone to hell.
“That was almost two weeks ago.”
"I wasn't leaving you to—"
I cut him off with a gesture, signed firmly, “You haven't fed from anyone else.”
Not a question. I could see it in the way he held himself too carefully. The exhaustion that went deeper than simple lack of sleep. The slight tremor he was trying to hide.
"There wasn't time. Between the fight and watching over you—"
“Three days while I was unconscious. You could have.”
"I wasn't leaving you." His voice was flat, absolute. "Not for an hour. Not for minutes. And I wasn't..." He stopped, averting his gaze. "I wasn't feeding from anyone else."
Through the bond, I felt why. It wasn't just about time or convenience. Feeding had become something that belonged to us, to our bond. Taking blood from anyone else felt wrong on a level he couldn't articulate.
My chest tightened with love and exasperation in equal measure.
I tilted my head to the side, exposing my throat. Pushed through our connection, “Take what you need.”
He went completely still. Stared at the line of my neck, at the pulse beating visibly beneath my skin. "Merrit—"
“I'm healed. Strong enough. You've been taking care of me for days.” I kept my head tilted, offering. “Let me take care of you.”
"I can wait. Feed from—"
He was pissing me off, proof positive we were both on the mend. "From who?" I signed sharply with one hand while keeping my neck exposed. "A random donor? Servant? Or your willing Whisperbound?"
His hunger twisted through me, hot and demanding. Not just the physical need for blood—though that was there—but the deeper desire. For connection. For intimacy. For me.
That hunger crossed his features, his eyes bleeding to scarlet as his fangs lengthened. His gaze was locked on my throat, on the vulnerable line of my neck that I was offering him.
"You're sure?"
“Very sure.”
He moved closer, slowly, giving me every opportunity to change my mind, to pull back. But I didn't. I tilted my head further, a clear invitation.
His hand came up to cup the side of my neck, cool fingers gentle against my skin. His thumb brushed along my jaw as his breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of my throat.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said quietly, lips so close to my skin I could almost feel them. "If you need me to stop."
I nodded slightly, careful not to move my throat from its exposed position. “I will. But I won't need to.”
He hesitated one moment more, searching my face for any sign of uncertainty.
“Trust me. Like I trust you.”
Then he struck. The sting was sharp but brief as his fangs sank into the side of my neck, fading almost immediately into warmth. Heat. Connection. The bond between us flaring bright and clear as my blood flowed into him, feeding not just his body but the tie that linked our souls.
His relief as the hunger eased filtered through me. His gratitude, so deep it almost hurt. The way I tasted to him—not just blood, but life. Strength. Home. Love.
And I felt myself through his senses. How precious I was to him. How the fear of losing me had been like a blade against his throat for days. How having me here, alive, offering the most intimate feeding position freely—it meant everything.
His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer as he drank. His other hand cradled the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. Holding me. Protecting me even as he fed from me.
One minute. Two. I felt the pull, felt my strength flowing into him, but it didn't hurt.
Didn't weaken me. If anything, the bond carried strength back—his gratitude becoming my own sense of peace, his growing vitality feeding into my confidence that this was right, this was good, this was us taking care of each other.
The intimacy of it stole my breath. His mouth on my throat, his body pressed against mine, the bond singing between us with every pull of blood. It was more than feeding. It was trust. Vulnerability. Love made tangible.
My nipples tightened against his chest as my sex pulsed in time with his swallows. All too soon, he pulled back carefully, slowly, his tongue sweeping across the wounds to seal them.
Color had already returned to his face. The exhaustion in his eyes had eased, replaced by alertness and strength. He looked whole again. Powerful. The Crown Prince rather than an exhausted man running on stubbornness alone.
"Better?"
"Better." His voice was deeper now, stronger. He brought my wrist to his lips, pressed a kiss to my pulse point. But something flickered through him, not just gratitude and relief. Something sharper. Hotter.
I touched his face. “What's wrong?”
"Wrong?" His jaw tightened under my palm. "You're asking me what's wrong?"
I blinked, surprised by the edge in his voice.
"You left." The words came out quiet but intense. "While I was sleeping. Snuck out of our bed in the middle of the night and went after him alone."
“Kieran—”
"Do you have any idea—" He stopped, closed his eyes, took a breath. When he opened them again, they were blazing. "I woke up and you were gone. Just gone. And I knew something was wrong, that you were in danger, and I—"
His hand came up to cup my face, grip almost too tight. Fury and terror and overwhelming relief all tangled together through our connection.