Chapter 5 #2
He's locked on Rurik, circling, claws flexing.
I'm ten feet away now. Then five.
Close enough to smell the blood and smoke on him. Close enough to see the way his muscles coil before each strike.
Close enough to die.
"Vorak." Louder this time. "It's me. It's Annora."
His head tilts. Just slightly.
Not enough.
I'm three feet away when he suddenly spins toward me, and the look in his eyes—
Nothing. No recognition. Just hunger and rage and the curse burning through him like wildfire.
He's going to kill me.
I reach out anyway.
Touch his chest.
And push.
The magic doesn't ask permission this time.
It erupts.
I feel it tearing out of me—hot and bright and agonizing—like something living has been sleeping under my skin and just woke up furious. Light pours from my palms, golden and searing, so bright I have to close my eyes against it.
The courtyard goes silent except for the roar of whatever this is.
I can feel Vorak under my hands. His heartbeat, too fast. His skin, burning hot. And deeper—
The curse.
I can feel it.
It's not part of him. It's wrapped around him, a living thing with teeth and claws and a hunger that never ends. It's tangled through his chest like thorns through a garden, choking, suffocating.
Killing him slowly.
My magic finds it.
And grabs.
The curse fights back immediately. I feel it thrash, feel it try to sink deeper, to hide where I can't reach.
But I'm not letting go.
Hold, I tell it, though I don't know if it can understand. Hold still. Be calm. Let him GO.
The light gets brighter. Hotter.
I taste copper. Lightning. Something that might be my own blood.
Somewhere very far away, I hear Vorak make a sound—broken and almost human.
Then the curse moves.
Not gone. Not destroyed.
But back. Pushed down. Forced into the corners where it can't reach, can't control.
The light flares one final time, so bright it turns the smoke to gold—
And then it's gone.
I sway, suddenly boneless, and strong hands catch me before I hit the ground.
Rurik. His face is white, eyes wide with shock.
"What—" His voice cracks. "What did you just—"
I don't answer.
Can't answer.
I'm staring at Vorak.
He's on his knees in the middle of the blood-soaked courtyard, shaking like he's been struck by lightning. His runes are dim now, cooling from blazing red to dull copper.
And his eyes—
Gold. Human gold.
Vorak's eyes.
He looks up at me, and the devastation in his face nearly breaks me.
"Annora." My name sounds like an apology. A plea. "I—what did I—"
"You're okay," I manage, even though my legs are trying to give out. "You're okay now."
He stares at me like he's seeing a ghost.
Then his gaze shifts past me, and I watch horror dawn across his face as he takes in the bodies. The blood.
His men, backing away from him slowly, weapons still raised.
"No." His voice is raw. "No, I didn't—tell me I didn't—"
"My lord." Rurik steps forward carefully, like approaching a spooked horse. "Most of them are Crown soldiers. We only lost three of ours, and that was before—" He stops. Swallows. "You were defending us. The curse just... got away from you."
Vorak's hands are shaking. Covered in blood.
"I could have killed you," he says, looking at me. "I wanted to. The curse wanted—"
"But you didn't." I try to go to him, but my legs finally give out.
The world tilts.
Then strong arms catch me—Vorak, moving faster than should be possible for someone who just came back from the edge of madness.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, holds me against his chest.
"I've got you," he rasps. "I've got you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
His voice is breaking.
I want to tell him it's not his fault. Want to tell him I'm not afraid.
But the darkness is rising, soft and inevitable, and I'm so tired.
The last thing I see before it takes me is the Crown soldiers—the ones still alive—scrambling over each other in their retreat, stumbling toward the broken gate.
Running from whatever I just did.
From me.
I wake in Vorak's bed.
Not my room. Not the infirmary.
His chambers.
The bed is massive, piled with furs that smell like pine and leather and him. The fire is burning low in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across stone walls.
Every muscle in my body feels like it's been wrung out and beaten.
I try to sit up and fail spectacularly, flopping back against the pillows with a groan that's half pain, half frustration.
"Don't."
His voice comes from somewhere to my left.
I turn my head—carefully, because even that hurts—and find him.
Vorak is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, as far from the bed as he can get while still being in the same room. His knees are drawn up, arms resting on them, head bowed.
He's changed clothes. Washed the blood off.
But he still looks broken.
"How long?" My voice comes out scratchy.
"Six hours." He doesn't look up. "Eska said you'd wake when you were ready. That you just... used too much."
Too much magic.
Right.
I try to sit up again, more carefully this time, and manage to prop myself against the headboard. The room spins for a moment, then settles.
"Are you hurt?" I ask.
"No."
"The fortress?"
"Secure. For now." His hands fist against his thighs. "The Crown soldiers retreated. Garrett's men are repairing the breach in the east wall and investigating who sabotaged the wards."
"How many did we lose?"
"Three in the initial attack. Five wounded, but they'll live." His voice is flat. Empty. "I didn't kill any of my own. This time."
This time.
The words hang in the air like a noose.
I pull the furs aside and swing my legs out of bed. My body protests, but I ignore it.
"What are you doing?" Vorak asks, finally looking up.
"Coming to you." I stand on shaky legs. "Since you won't come to me."
"Annora—"
"Don't." I cross the room slowly, one hand on the wall for balance. "Don't tell me to stay away. Don't tell me I should be afraid."
"You should be afraid." He's on his feet now, backing away as I approach. "What you saw today—that's what I am. That's what the curse makes me."
"The curse isn't you."
"It's close enough." His voice is rough. "I could have killed you. I would have if you hadn't—" He stops. Swallows hard. "What did you do? In the courtyard. That light—"
"I don't know." Honest. "I just... I felt the curse. Felt it wrapped around you. And I pulled."
He stares at me. "You pulled on a curse that's been killing me for ten years and it just... moved?"
"I didn't destroy it." I need him to understand that. "It's still there. I can feel it. But it's... quieter. For now."
"For now," he repeats hollowly.
I'm standing in front of him now. Close enough to touch.
He's rigid. Coiled. Every line of his body screaming don't.
I reach up and cup his face anyway.
He closes his eyes like it hurts.
"I'm not afraid of you," I tell him.
"You should be."
"You keep saying that." I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone. "And I keep not listening."
A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Annora—"
"Do you know what I saw today?" I don't let him pull away. "I saw you fighting for your people. I saw you trying to hold the curse back even when it was burning you alive. I saw you fighting yourself as hard as you were fighting the enemy."
"I lost."
"You came back." I pull his forehead down to mine. "When I touched you, you came back. The curse had you completely, Vorak. And you still came back."
His breath shudders out. "Because of you."
"Maybe. Or maybe because you're stronger than you think."
He makes a wounded sound and kisses me—desperate and careful all at once, like he's afraid I'll shatter.
I kiss him back harder.
Demanding.
Not fragile. Not breakable.
Here.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"You saved my life today," he says roughly. "Saved everyone's life. And you nearly killed yourself doing it."
"I'm fine."
"You collapsed."
"I'm fine." I take his hand and place it on my chest, over my heart. "See? Still beating."
He stares at where his palm rests, and I can see the war in his face—the need to pull me close versus the fear of hurting me.
I make the decision for both of us.
I pull him toward the bed.
"Annora—" He resists. Barely. "You need to rest."
"I need you." I meet his eyes. "Please."
The word breaks something in him.
He lets me lead him to the bed, lets me push him down to sit on the edge. I climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands come up automatically to steady me at the waist.
"You should be afraid of this," he says, but his fingers are already tracing patterns on my hips through the thin fabric of my shift.
"I'm not." I kiss his jaw. His throat. The place where his pulse hammers. "Do you want me?"
His hands tighten. "Always."
"Then stop punishing yourself for things you can't control."
I feel the moment he surrenders.
It's in the way his shoulders drop. The way he exhales and pulls me closer. The way he buries his face in my neck and just breathes.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs against my skin.
"That's not your choice to make." I thread my fingers through his hair. "I choose you, Vorak. Not the contract. Not the Crown. Not the curse. You."
He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are bright. Too bright.
Then he kisses me, and it's different than before.
Slower. Deeper. Less about claiming and more about holding.
I lose myself in it—the taste of him, the heat of his hands, the way he touches me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
When he lays me back on the bed, I go willingly.
When he peels away my shift, I help him.
And when his mouth finds the brand on my shoulder—that mark the Crown burned into me to show I was property—I feel him pause.
"This," he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the scar. "This is what they did to you."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters." Another kiss, softer. "You're not property. Not to them. Not to me."
"I know." I cup his face, making him look at me. "You've never treated me like property."
Something fierce and protective flashes in his eyes.
He kisses the brand again. Then the faint scars on my wrists where shackles used to sit. The places where the Crown tried to mark me as less than human.
His hands are reverent as he maps my body—learning every curve, every mark, every place that makes me gasp.
When his fingers finally slip between my legs, I'm already slick and ready.
"Good?" he murmurs, circling slowly.
"Yes." I arch into his touch. "More."
He gives me more.
One finger slides inside, careful and patient. Then two, working me open with maddening precision. His thumb finds my clit and circles, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Don't," he says, watching my face. "Let me hear you."
So I do.
I let him hear every gasp, every moan, every broken plea for more and please and Vorak.
When I come apart around his fingers, that golden warmth flickers under my skin again—not explosive like in the courtyard, but gentle. Responding to pleasure instead of danger. To trust instead of desperation.
To him.
He watches the light with wonder in his eyes.
"You're extraordinary," he breathes.
I pull him down to me. "So are you."
When he finally enters me, it's achingly slow.
He watches my face with every inch, reading every flicker of sensation, making sure I'm with him.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper.
"I'm not going to break," I tell him.
"I know." But his hands are still gentle as they grip my hips. "But you came back from the edge of death today. I'm allowed to be careful."
"You're allowed to move."
A huff of breath that might be a laugh.
Then he does.
Deep, steady thrusts that make me see stars. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just present—here with me, feeling this, feeling us.
I meet him stroke for stroke, rising to take him deeper, and somewhere in the rhythm we find something that feels like peace.
His forehead drops to mine. His breath mingles with mine.
"Safe," he whispers, and I don't know if he's reassuring me or himself. "You're safe. I've got you."
"I've got you too," I whisper back.
And I do.
I hold him as the pleasure builds, as his rhythm starts to falter, as his control begins to fray.
When he comes, it's quiet—a shudder and a broken exhale against my neck. His whole body goes rigid, then melts into me.
I hold him through it.
Hold him as he buries his face in my shoulder, breathing hard, trembling with the effort not to bite, not to mark, not to let the curse slip even a fraction.
"It's okay," I murmur, stroking his hair. "You're okay. I'm here."
He makes a sound that might be a sob.
We stay like that for a long moment—tangled together, hearts racing, the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fading.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wet.
"I choose you too," he says roughly. "Whatever that means. Whatever it costs."
I pull him down for a kiss that tastes like salt and promises.
After, he cleans me gently with a warm cloth, then wraps me in furs and pulls me against his chest.
I rest my head over his heart, listening to the steady thrum of it beneath my ear.
"They'll come back," he says quietly. "The Crown won't stop. Not now that they know what you can do."
"I know."
"And the thirty days—" He stops. "There's only twenty-seven left. When the time comes—"
"I'm not going back."
His arms tighten around me. "I won't let them take you."
"Good."
We fall silent.
Outside, I can hear the sounds of the fortress settling—guards calling watch changes, hammers ringing as repairs continue, the low murmur of soldiers in the barracks.
Normal sounds.
But everything's changed.
The Crown knows what I can do. They'll send more soldiers. More Inquisitors.
And eventually, they'll send something we can't fight.
But for now, wrapped in Vorak's arms, listening to his heartbeat—
For now, I'm safe.
For now, I'm home.
"Sleep," Vorak murmurs, pressing a kiss to my hair. "I'll watch."
"You need to sleep too."
"Later." His hand strokes down my spine. "Right now, I just want to hold you."
I snuggle closer, already drifting.
"Vorak?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For choosing me back."
His arms tighten, and I feel him press another kiss to my hair.
"Always," he whispers.
I'm almost asleep when I hear it.
Distant. Echoing.
The sound of a horn.
My eyes snap open. Vorak goes rigid beneath me.
"What—" I start.
"Warning horn." His voice is grim. "Eastern approach."
We stare at each other for a heartbeat.
Then he's moving, setting me aside gently, reaching for his clothes.
"They're not finished," I say.
"No." He buckles on his sword belt, checks his knives. "They're not."
I'm already climbing out of bed, reaching for my dress.
"You should stay here—" he starts.
"Don't." I yank the dress over my head. "We're in this together. Remember?"
He looks at me for a long moment.
Then nods.
"Together," he agrees.
We head for the door.
Whatever's coming, we'll face it.
Together.