Chapter 28 #2
The hope dies. He nods, accepting the correction like he accepts everything—with that quiet grief that makes me want to shake him and hold him in equal measure.
"The castle, then. Let me get you to the castle safely."
I should refuse. Should walk the rest of the way on my own two feet just to prove I can, just to maintain the distance I need between us.
But my back is screaming and my feet are swollen and the twins are heavy in a way that makes every step feel like carrying stones uphill. And the bond is pulling so hard that being this close without touching feels like slowly being torn in half.
Pride won't save my daughter's life.
"Fine." I force myself to stand. "But only because it's practical. Not because I—" I stop. Can't finish. Can't say want to feel you under me again, want your heat against my skin, want to remember what it felt like when I thought you loved me without lies.
"Just shift and let's go."
Relief floods through the bond so intensely it makes me dizzy—his relief, pouring into me whether I want it or not.
He shifts immediately, human form giving way to dragon in a ripple of scales and reshaping bone.
The transformation is faster than I remembered, more fluid, like he's been doing it constantly in my absence.
Has he? Flying to exhaust himself, to escape the grief, to feel something besides the ache of the bond pulling toward someone who wasn't there?
He lowers himself to the ground, making it easy for me to climb on.
I approach slowly, one hand on my belly, trying not to think about the last time I was this close to him in this form.
The first claiming. The blood. The way he pinned me to the altar and took what the curse demanded while I fought and screamed and eventually shattered into pleasure I didn't want to feel.
His scales are warm under my hands—hotter than human skin, heated from the inside by the fire in his chest. I pull myself up awkwardly, pregnant belly making the movement graceless, until I'm seated just behind his shoulder blades where the scales smooth into something almost soft.
The position presses my thighs against his sides, my core against the hard ridge of his spine. Heat blooms between my legs—involuntary, unwanted, impossible to ignore. The bond sings with proximity, with the rightness of being this close after so long apart.
"Ready?" His voice rumbles through his chest and up into my body, vibrating in places that make me bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"Yes." I grip the ridge of scales in front of me. "Just try not to do anything dramatic."
A sound huffs from his throat that might be dragon-laughter—the same almost-laugh he made the night he flew me over the mountains, before everything fell apart. Then he's moving, powerful haunches bunching beneath me as he launches into the air.
My stomach drops as we rise, the ground falling away, the forest shrinking to a dark carpet far below. I should be terrified. Should be gripping the scales with white-knuckled fear.
Instead I'm fighting back tears.
Because this—the wind in my hair, the steady beat of his wings, the heat of him between my thighs and the bond singing bright and clear between us—this feels like coming home in a way the castle never could.
He is home.
That's the terrible truth I've been running from since I left.
Not the stone walls or the library or the mountain fortress. Him. The infuriating, devastating, broken man who lied to me for months because he was too afraid to trust me with the truth.
I press my face against his scales and let the wind take my tears before they can fall. The twins shift in my belly, settling into the rhythm of his flight like they know this is where they belong.
Like they're finally with their father.
The flight takes minutes instead of hours. He circles once—giving me time to compose myself, or maybe stealing a few extra moments of having me close—before descending into the main courtyard. The landing is surprisingly gentle, barely a jolt as his claws touch stone.
Guards scatter as we land, giving him room to shift. I slide off before he can change back, not trusting myself to watch the transformation again, not trusting myself to see him naked and wanting and not close the distance between us.
A servant girl rushes forward with a robe as he shifts.
He takes it without looking away from me, those golden eyes tracking my every movement as he belts the silk around his waist. His hair is wild, his chest still heaving from the flight, and even covered he looks like something out of a fever dream—beautiful and dangerous and completely, devastatingly mine.
Not mine, I remind myself. Not anymore.
We stand in the courtyard, twenty feet and a lifetime of hurt between us.
"Kess," he says again. Like he can't stop saying my name. Like he's been starving for the shape of it in his mouth.
"Don't." I hold up one hand. "I'm not here for you. I'm here for the baby." I press my other hand to my belly. "Because there's something wrong—something about your curse that's going to kill my child unless we figure out how to stop it. That's the only reason I'm here."
He absorbs the blow without flinching, though I feel the pain of it lance through the bond. "I know. Whatever you need. Whatever the baby needs. It's yours."
"I need your library. Your mystic. Your knowledge about the curse." I take a breath. "And I need to tell you something."
He goes very still, bracing for another blow.
"It's twins, Rhystan. I'm carrying twins."
"Twins?" The word comes out strangled, like he can't breathe around it. I watch the information hit him—watch his face cycle through shock, wonder, and then a dawning horror as he starts to process what that means.
"Twins," I confirm. "I found out after I left. And before you ask why I didn't tell you through the bond—" I cut off his protest before he can make it. "You lost the right to know things first when you decided I didn't have the right to know about my own pregnancy."
He absorbs that blow without argument. But his eyes have dropped to my belly, and I can see him recalculating—the size of me, the way the twins move, everything he missed while I was gone.
"A boy and a girl," I continue, watching his face.
"I've been having dreams. Nightmares. And I found a journal—" I stop, force myself to keep going.
"The curse activates at month six. Your son will try to kill your daughter in the womb.
That's what cursed bloodlines do. Male heirs eliminate threats. "
The color drains from his face.
"No." The word is barely a whisper. "No, that's not—I didn't know—"
"Of course you didn't know. You've never fathered children before.
None of your omegas survived long enough.
" The words come out harder than I intended, but I can't soften them.
"But it's true. I found a journal from an omega whose mate was one of your blood-bound warriors.
Even the diluted curse was enough. And yours isn't diluted, Rhystan.
Three hundred years of the War God's rage, and now it's growing in our son. "
For a moment he just stands there, absorbing the blow. I feel his horror through the bond—the grief, the guilt, the weight of yet another way his curse destroys everything it touches.
Then something shifts.
His spine straightens. His jaw sets. The shaking stops, replaced by a stillness that's somehow more dangerous—the stillness of a predator who's identified a threat to his family.
"Then we stop it." His voice has changed too. Harder now. Certain. The voice of a king who's commanded armies, who's survived three centuries of war and loss and still keeps fighting. "I don't care what it takes. I don't care what it costs. No curse is killing my daughter."
My daughter. The possessiveness in those words sends something complicated through my chest.
"There has to be a way," he continues, and he's pacing now, energy coiled tight, mind clearly racing. "The journal mentioned warrior omegas taking the curse—that's the key. Your bloodline was designed for this. We find the rest of that text, we find how it works, and we end this."
"That's why I'm here." I cut through his spiral before he can take over completely. "The journal mentioned a way. Something about warrior omegas taking the curse into themselves. But the page was torn out. I need your resources to find the rest."
"You'll have them." No hesitation. He stops pacing, turns to face me fully, and for a moment he's every inch the dragon king—powerful, commanding, absolutely certain.
"Everything. The library, the mystic, every forbidden text I've collected in three hundred years.
I'll have it all laid out for you by morning. "
"Good. And Rhystan—"
"I know." Some of the hardness softens, but the determination stays.
"You need me to stay away. I understand.
But Kess—" He takes a step toward me, then stops himself, hands clenching at his sides.
"If you need anything. Anything at all. You tell me.
I don't care if it's the middle of the night, I don't care if you hate me, you tell me and it's done. "
The alpha command in his voice shouldn't make heat pool in my belly. Shouldn't make some omega part of me want to bare my throat and let him take care of everything.
I shove that feeling down hard.
"No more lies," I say instead. "No more tea. No more deciding what I can and can't handle. You give me access to what I need and then you let me work. Those are my terms."
Pain flashes through the bond—sharp as a blade between ribs—but he holds my gaze steady. "Done."
"Good."
He nods once, already shifting into action.
"The mystic is in her chambers—I'll send word you're coming.
And I'll have your room prepared. Fresh sheets, food waiting, whatever you need.
" He pauses, and something flickers across his face—not uncertainty, but a brief crack in the armor.
"I've been sleeping there. Since you left. "
He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. The bond carries the rest—the grief, the desperate need to be surrounded by my scent when I was gone.
"I'll have my things moved within the hour," he continues, voice steady again. "You won't be kept waiting."
The image still hits me—Rhystan in the bed we shared, face pressed to pillows that held my scent, breathing me in because it was all he had left. But he's not asking for sympathy. Just stating facts and solving problems.
Somehow that's worse.
"Fine." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I'll wait in the library until it's ready."
"The library." He's already turning, leading the way. "I'll have food sent. You need to eat—" He catches himself before I can snap at him, holds up a hand. "I know you know what you need. I'm just making sure you have it."
Not a command. An offer. The alpha instinct to provide, channeled into something I can accept.
I follow him into the castle, keeping careful distance between us.
But the bond pulls with every step. And when we pass through corridors I remember—the training yard where we sparred until we cracked the stone walls, the weapons rack where he bent me over and fucked me until I couldn't stand, the dining hall where he recited forty-seven names and I watched something in him crack open—my body remembers too.
Heat pools low in my belly. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress. The twins shift restlessly, responding to hormones I can't control.
He knows. I see it in the set of his shoulders, the controlled precision of his movements. The bond carries my arousal to him the same way it carries his to me, a feedback loop of want neither of us is acting on.
But he doesn't falter. Doesn't slow down or try to use it. Just keeps walking, keeps leading, keeps giving me exactly what I asked for.
By the time we reach the library, I'm the one who's shaking.
"Here." He pushes open the heavy doors, stands aside to let me enter. "Everything you need should be in the east wing—cursed bloodlines, war god texts, forbidden histories. I'll have the mystic pull anything else that might be relevant."
"Thank you."
He nods, lingering in the doorway. Making sure I don't need anything else before he goes.
"Kess." His voice is quiet but steady. "We're going to save them. Both of them. Whatever it takes."
I don't answer. Can't answer, not with my throat tight and my eyes stinging.
He seems to understand. Dips his head once—almost a bow, a king acknowledging his equal—and pulls the door closed behind him.
The bond still aches. Still pulls. But underneath the wanting, I feel something else bleeding through from his side.
Determination. Absolute and unwavering.
He's not going to let their daughter die.
And despite everything—the lies, the tea, the betrayal that still burns—I believe him.
I sink into the nearest chair, pressing my hands to my face. I came here to save my children.
That's what matters. Not the way my body remembers his. Not the image of him sleeping in my sheets. Not the way he looked at me like I was still everything, even after I told him to stay away.
Save the children first.
Figure out the rest later.
If there's anything left to figure out.