CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ronan
HE COULDN’T SHAKE IT.
The weight of Verena’s body, ice cold in his arms. The black veins that had begun crawling up her arms, twisting like roots. The way he’d held her close, as if his chest alone could shield her from the curse that had taken hold.
And that voice, slithering and flooding his ears as he rushed her from that cave.
It had promised death. Promised ruin.
She had refused to set foot back into that buried graveyard. So, he carried her, rocks shifting under his boots, as they descended the path back down the mountain on the other side. Straight into a village.
Well, the bones of one.
Charred beams jutted from the realm like blackened ribs, smoke still clinging to the stones. The Bale had come through days ago, maybe weeks, but desolation didn’t age here, it lingered.
It plagued.
Verena jumped from his arms, crouching beside a collapsed wall, brushing ash from a child’s toy. A small, whittled dragon split down the middle.
“It was a home,” she murmured, looking up. “Once.”
Ronan stood behind her, arms crossed. “The Bale doesn’t leave homes, it seems. Only reminders.”
She peered back at him then. “These were your dragons. Fae you were supposed to keep safe. And you’re running when this could be your entire kingdom’s fate.”
Teeth gritting, his glare slid past her, tracing the horizon where the sea met the ash. “You think I run?”
“Don’t you?”
His jaw worked once, then he walked forward, through the ruins until he reached the shell of what had been a hearth.
“I was never meant for a throne.” The wind stole some of it, but not the burden.
“The bastard son of King Rhydan,” he scoffed.
“My father tried to sire a legacy through honor, and when it failed, he forged me.”
He turned his palm over, lifting the cuff of his sleeve, and for the first time she saw it clearly, the sigil burned into his skin. The heir mark. It poured down his arm, wrapping the top of his hand like smoke splayed and never left.
“When he died, it wasn’t grief that took me, it was this.” His thumb brushed the mark. “It wasn’t just a symbol, but shackles. The chain that bound me not a crown, but a collar.”
Her fingers twitched, and she subtly curled them into her palm before she said, “You are not the only one who feels tied to obligation, Ronan. That doesn’t mean you get to ignore the responsibilities just because you don’t want it.”
His eyes shot to hers, brighter now, flecks of gold catching through the smoke. He watched where her fingers dwelled on her wrist, where he knew a scar now lay.
“Ignore? I’d burn for them,” he said. “My kin deserve flight, freedom. A sky untouched by the rot of false heirs and broken kings. But I’m not fit to rule for them—”
“Because your freedom is the cost?” she asked, dropping her hand to her side.
“I’ll pay it,” he promised without hesitation. “I’ll cut off my own wings if I must. Plant myself on that throne and call it a life.”
Verena stepped closer, brushing soot from her fingertips, never looking away. “And if the gods offered you a way out?”
For a moment, the burden of the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in the wreckage. He could taste her breath, sweet, threaded with the trace of vanilla still warm from the firelight.
“I’ve tried every way the gods allow,” he said. Then quieter, “Except one.” He flexed his marked hand, watching the skin strain. “But don’t repeat it. Not to anyone. It’s not a secret—" He hesitated, something bitter and tired in his voice. “But it would still feel like betrayal.”
She didn’t know that betrayal was already written between them. That one day, that hand would rise against her.
For once, she didn’t have a reply. Only the whistle of the dying wind, and the quiet, unfortunate truth that maybe, for the first time, Ronan wasn’t running at all.
He was standing exactly where fate promised he would.
By a stroke of luck, the path Ronan took carrying Verena had spat them out the mountain’s far side, toward their destination.
After Ronan had ascended the mountain again to lead out the others, they had all agreed the Nyctom heir couldn’t be hiding there.
No one was surprised, though Callum seemed visibly irritated.
Another week of relentless travel after Druin Mountain had already pushed some past their limits. No sleep. Little food. No safe place to rest.
Torrential rain hammered down, the river they followed rising too high, threatening to drag them deeper in the domain of stone and further from their path.
They had all decided, after seeing what was left of that village, moving onward in such blind sheets was reckless.
Ronan sat within his tent, the steady drumming above weakening his heavy lids. Another month, give or take, of this journey and already, the spirited fire of the group had dulled.
He felt a sudden tug against his mind, a summons made of oil and polished bone. He ignored it, letting himself surrender to sleep. His eyes finally settled, his breathing steady.
Then she came.
A vision of fawn-colored hair spilling in soft curls and eyes a strike of lethal azure. Her lips, so damn tempting, curved into a smirk as she crawled over him, straddling his legs, pressing down just enough for him to feel the heat through the barrier of his pants.
He sank into familiar sheets, dark and butter-soft, as black-tipped nails traced the line of his stubbled jaw. He gritted his teeth, fists knotting in the fabric, knuckles white as her hips began their slow, merciless roll.
Every part of him responded. No matter how he fought it, no part could deny the effect she had.
“Do it.” Her lips grazed his ear, teeth nipping. Her hand slid from his jaw, tightening around his throat. “Kill me.”
His breath fractured, each inhale shallower than the last. “Verena—” he rasped her name, fought for it. But her dreadful laugh smothered the word.
He tried to move, arms straining, but serpents of shadow coiled down, binding his wrists.
“You can’t, can you?” Her smile was venom sweet as her grip on his throat closed tighter. The air was gone, his vision blurring. She moaned at the cruel pleasure, chuckling as both sounds drowned the pounding panic of his slowing heart.
Still, he forced her name through the fray. “Verena —”
His chest locked as she leaned closed enough until his exhale trembled across her mouth. His hands begged to reach for her, begged to touch her.
“Whether in devotion or in death,” she eased her grip, only enough for her tongue to drag slowly down the thrum of his pulse, “your grave is already marked.” Her voice lowered, a hymn spun of her own variation.
“For me. Because of me. By me.” Each word struck like a nail in his coffin.
“It makes no difference, prince. The end is the same.”
The words seared through him until he couldn’t breathe, until the swirls of blue in her eyes churned to endless black, her pupils slicing to slits before she lunged—
“Verena!”
Ronan jolted awake.
Sweat drenched his body, slick under his leathers. He clawed at his own chest, at the emptiness beside him, searching for the woman who wasn’t there. Breath by breath the vision unraveled and his face fell into his hands.
Just a damned dream.
A voice broke through, shouting urgently, “Verena, my shield—”
A new panic settled in as he seized his nearest weapons, smoke leaking fast as he tore open the tent flap. Rain peppered his face, grounding him in cold reality.
“Hey, man.” Ford waved causally. “Good nap?”
Ronan’s eyes found her immediately. Not the creature of his dream. Not the Viper’s dark strain. But Verena laughing.
Even as it faded, he knew he would chase that sound again. Knew it could likely destroy him.
A strip of fabric wrapped her chest, leather hugging her hips, loose, wet curls wild as she sparred. Her finger lifted in Killian’s direction as he drank in the rainwater, half dressed and shining with sweat and rain.
She turned to face Ronan, a smile on her face as she moved in his direction.
Just training. There was no danger. Yet his pulse refused to slow.
The moisture on her body glinted at the hollow of her waist as she approached. Her tattoo rolling over her shoulder, dipping low beneath her collarbone, tail disappearing beneath cloth where he had no right to follow.
Every image overlapped with the dream—her lips on his throat, her voice promising death...
“Are you okay?” Her head tilted, hair clinging to her cheeks. “You look,” her finger shot up toward his head, “disheveled.”
He reached up, touching the knotted mess of hair. His jaw tightened just as Ford snorted. And then Verena’s eyes flicked lower, and froze, scarlet blooming across her cheeks as she jerked them away.
Ford’s stare followed. “Oh,” he said, tongue flicking against his teeth, teasing. “So, definitely a good nap, then?” He bit down a laugh, hand covering his mouth as his eyes darted between them.
Ronan said nothing. Couldn’t. Because the taste of her name was still raw in his throat, choked with sounds she could never know.
Killian strolled up, crudely flexing before laying his hands on Verena’s shoulders. His fingers kneaded lightly, pressing into her sore muscles.
Ronan’s arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowing on the sight of those hands. How they were too firm, too familiar, sinking into her skin as she closed her eyes, letting her head lull to the side.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
Killian halted, the massage cut short. Verena swayed, nearly losing her balance when his support vanished. “Hey—” She glared at Ronan. “My muscles are sore.”
Ronan’s head shook once, “No,” he said, chin lifting past them, toward Elva and Elysian a few paces away. “That.”
Elva’s sword trembled in her grip, her stance awkward as Elysian corrected her posture.
Verena peeked over her shoulder, then looked back to Ronan, chuckling, “Oh. That.” Her hands slid to her hips, stretching her back.
Ronan caught the curve of her waist, the flex of her movement.
“Elysian insisted we at least teach Elva how to hold a sword. It’s going.
..” She tipped her head to the side, lips frowning.
“Well, depends on how generous you’re feeling. ”
His arms stayed crossed, eyes still on her. “Generosity has never been my strength.”
Her brows arched. “No, really? I never would have guessed.”
Elva’s body swayed, arms straining as she tried to heft the sword overhead.
Verena cringed, shielding her eyes but making sure to peek through her fingers, just as Elva lost control of its weight.
The blade fell, fast.
Elva shrieked, eyes squeezing shut, stumbling back as if the blade already struck him. Elysian caught it by the steel, fingers closing with ease, smirking. He tossed it upward, the weapon spinning once, twice, before his hand closed around its hilt.
He leveled the blade at Elva’s face, flat side forward, close enough that she jarred. Then with a flick of the wrist, he tilted the edge beneath her chin, guiding it higher.
It was not harsh or unkind, but coaxing as he said, almost adoringly, “Eyes on me, princess.” He lowered himself to her height, her palm shaking when he opened it for her, resting the sword back within her grasp. “Again.”
Verena glanced back then, just once, her eyes skimming over Ronan, feeling the tension rolling from his frame.
She gave him a fleeting look, a knowing one, before she turned and walked back toward the center of camp with Killian.
After twenty more minutes of testing every way Elva might accidentally cut her own toes off, they finally called it quits.
She collapsed into Verena’s shoulder, her sob muffled by the embrace. “I’m hopeless.”
Verena only held her tighter, stroking long, steady lines down her back. Across the clearing, Ronan’s troubled stare cut to where Elysian stood, tossing his sword onto stone and snatching his water jug.
Drawing a shaky breath, Elva’s fingers found her pendant as she pulled back from Verena’s warmth. “I’ll never be a warrior.”
Gripping her face, Verena gave her a sad smile. “You have strength in you, Elva. We can all see it.”
Sighing, Elva responded, “Perhaps my strength lies elsewhere. In whatever spark may still be hiding, waiting to grow.”
“Steel isn’t the only measure of strength,” Verena reminded her. “The world has enough blades. What it doesn’t have,” she pointed at Elva, “is you. And I’d take your kind of strength beside me over a hundred swords.”
Elva blinked through the tears in her eyes, fingers tightening over the pendant as if she could press Verena’s words into her heart.
Ronan’s stare lingered on the dim glow of Elva’s wrist. The way she wore her heir mark unashamed with honor.
Whereas he would have burned his off, had his flesh allowed it.
It didn’t. He had tried when it first appeared. Had tried again a week later. A month. Only years after did he finally accept the mark was not something to be traded. Not something he could sever.
Ford moved past Killian, fingers catching a loose strand of Elva’s hair. “Fear not, our sweet princess. You walk among beasts now. Ones who’d gladly bare their throats for you.” He flashed a grin, ignoring the growl rumbling low in Elysian’s chest as he approached. Ford lifted his hands. “See?”
Verena scoffed. “Men may bare their fangs, may boast of bite—” Her glare cut to Ronan first, slow and searing, stripping him bare with it.
Then to Elysian. To Ford. To Killian. One by one, all of them caged in the heat of her stare.
Her lips curved, a lethal hiss thrumming off them. “But you and I, Elva, we have the venom.”
Something slid into her then, subtle and slick, as she kissed her fingertips and blew it toward them all, as if scattering the poison across the land.
Ronan swore he felt it seep into him, felt it like fire in his veins, inciting his last shred of restraint ablaze.