Killian walked through the forest that had once whispered promises of something softer. With her limp body slung over his shoulder, her blood soaking into his cloak, he marched beneath twisted branches and the howls of distant wolves.
At the edge of the woods, the horse they had tied up still waited—unmoving, loyal, unaware of the betrayal that stained the air.
Killian mounted in silence, hoisting Saphira across the saddle in front of him like a fallen relic. Her head lolled against his chest, unconscious, breath barely there.
His jaw was tight.
His grip is tighter.
The ride to his kingdom was long, rain spitting against them in bitter gusts. But Killian never stopped. Not when the wind tore at his cloak. Not when the sky cried above them. His eyes burned ahead, colder than the storm, darker than the path he'd chosen.
When they reached the black gates of his kingdom, no guards dared question the bloodied shape in his arms. The king returned with his secrets, and none were brave enough to ask what price had been paid.
Deep beneath the castle, past cold stone corridors where no servant roamed, where no light was allowed to live, Killian tied Spahira there. The torches on the walls flickered with a dying light, casting her in shadows. Her wrists were bound in cruel iron cuffs, chained to a column at the center of the hidden crypt. Her ankles scraped against the blood-cold floor, and her dress—what was left of it—was torn, soaked with dried blood and betrayal.
She had awakened to silence.
No shouting crowd. No fire-lit mob. Just stone, ropes, and darkness.
And Killian.
He stood in the shadows.
Watching.
His figure loomed just beyond the circle of torchlight, his cloak clinging to his body like the night itself. His eyes—violent, storm-wracked eyes—watched her without pity. Without mercy. Not even rage anymore. Just a terrifying, controlled stillness.
Like a predator who had already caught its prey.
She struggled. The chains clinked with every movement, cutting into her skin. Her lips cracked. Her stomach screamed.
"Where… where am I…?" Her voice came out like gravel scraped against iron—but not weak. Just raw. Like steel being sharpened.
Killian stepped forward from the shadows.
"In my kingdom," he said. "And now…" His gaze dropped to her chained form, eyes gleaming like a blade unsheathed. "You belong to it."
Her heart pounded, but her eyes stayed locked on him. Unflinching. Her wrists bled. Her ankles screamed. But her spine stayed straight, even against the cold pillar.
"And here I thought kings had better things to do than tie up girls in dungeons like cowards," she spat.
He blinked slowly.
Then smiled.
But it wasn't kindness—it was the curl of a beast's lip before it bites.
"I should've known," he murmured. "Even now. Bleeding. Broken. You still wear defiance like a crown."
She tilted her head. "Funny. I thought kings preferred their prey quiet. Shivering. Pathetic."
He knelt, head tilted like a wolf sizing her up.
"But you're not prey," he whispered, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from her face with a touch that felt more like mockery than affection. "You're a curse. One I walked into willingly."
"Then maybe you should've slit my throat in that forest like you were supposed to," she hissed. "Instead of playing executioner now, when I can't fight back."
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"You still think this is about mercy?" he asked coldly.
"No. I think this is about you being a damn fool," she hissed. "You listened to some priest you barely even know—what, because he wore robes and whispered poison in your ear? That's all it took to turn you into this? Pathetic. You'd rather believe a stranger than the girl who stood beside you in battle. You call that strength? That's not vengeance, Killian. That's stupidity wrapped in pride''
His eyes darkened—violent thunder behind a calm sea.
He rose and turned away, jaw clenched, boots echoing across the stone floor as he walked to the stone table. His hands moved slowly, methodically, as he unwrapped a cloth bundle. Inside gleamed ritual tools—ancient silver, thin blades, and vials of black liquid that shimmered like oil in torchlight.
Saphira didn't flinch.
Not this time.
She let her head fall back against the stone, her mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"You were supposed to be my final kill, Saphira," Killian said without turning. His voice was low. Hollow. "I should've driven my blade through your throat the moment I saw your eyes… the same cursed eyes your mother had."
She froze. A flicker of something passed through her chest—but it wasn't fear. It was rage.
"And yet," he continued, stepping closer to the stone table, "I didn't. I hesitated. Like a fool. Because you didn't look like someone who carried poison in her blood."
He unwrapped the cloth slowly. Blades gleamed under the torchlight like fangs.
"You should've died back in the forest."
Her voice sliced through the silence. "Then why didn't I?"
Killian didn't answer at first. He picked up a thin, curved blade, holding it delicately like it was made of glass. His back was still turned when he said, "Because for a second… I thought you were innocent. I thought you didn't know what they did."
"My parents?" she snapped. "You think I knew they betrayed yours? You think I knew about your nightmares—about the fire, the mark, the blood they spilled? I didn't even know what they were hiding from me!"
He turned now.
He gripped one of the blades, knuckles white.
She stared at his back.
"You think chaining me here will make me afraid of you?" she said. "I faced monsters bigger than you before I ever knew your name. You think this breaks me?"
He turned then.
And his face—
It wasn't rage.
It wasn't even pain.
It was madness. Cold, quiet, controlled madness.
"You're weaker than I thought," she spat, voice hoarse but defiant.
"Having all the power over me right now, and this is what you do? Tie me up like some broken prize?"
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
He returned with a small dagger, not raised, but cradled in his hand. Like it was sacred. He crouched before her again, tracing the blade gently along her jawline.
"I could break you," he said, voice low and dangerous, "but I don't know if I want to... or if I want to see what you become when you break."
The blade traced lower.
Down her collarbone.
Over her chest.
"You broke something in me, Saphira. And now I don't know whether I want to protect you… or destroy you."
Her voice was barely audible. "Then do it. If you want to kill me, Killian… then kill me."
He froze.
Eyes locking onto hers.
Something twisted in him.
He grabbed her face—not gently—forcing her to look up at him.
"Don't tempt me," he growled. "Don't give me permission. That's not how this works."
His breath hit her face, warm and dangerous.
"You don't get to make this easy."
Suddenly, he stood. The chains jerked as he released her head. She gasped as her sore arms strained against the sudden force.
Killian walked to the wall and slammed his fist against it. The stone cracked. Blood smeared across his knuckles.
"Why did it have to be you?" he muttered, voice breaking for the first time. "Why did you have to look at me like that? Like I was worth saving."
She said nothing.
What could she say?
He turned back to her, eyes wild.
"You were supposed to die. I was supposed to feel nothing. That's what the Scar does. It kills everything inside."
He stormed toward her and knelt again.
"And yet—"
He pressed the dagger to her neck.
"And yet I didn't. I couldn't."
She didn't flinch. Even as blood bloomed under the blade.
Her voice was soft, broken. "Then what are you doing, Killian?"
His hand shook.
He dropped the blade.
And then—
He kissed her.
It was not gentle.
It was a claim.
A savage collision of lips and pain—punishment wrapped in desire. Possession veiled in vengeance. His mouth crushed hers like a curse, like he was trying to brand her with the taste of betrayal. Her chains clanged against the cold stone as she twisted, trying to pull away—but his hands gripped her jaw, forcing her still.
When he finally pulled back, his breath came in ragged bursts.
Her lips were split, bloodied. Her chest rose and fell in shock. But her eyes—her eyes were still fire.
"Then why haven't you killed me?" she asked, her voice a mix of defiance and something wounded beneath.
His gaze darkened.
"Because killing you would be mercy."
He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, his voice a whisper of sin and steel.
"And mercy," he murmured, lips brushing her ear, "is the one thing I will never give you."
His fingers ran down her throat, slow, possessive. Almost tender—until they pressed just hard enough to remind her of the power he held.
"Every breath you take now belongs to me. Every scar I leave—every mark, every memory—I want it etched into you. Branded. Like how your paretns did to mine. So you never forget who made you bleed."
He pulled away and walked toward the door, boots echoing like war drums on stone.
At the threshold, he glanced back—cold eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.
"I'll return tomorrow," he said, voice void of emotion. "Let's see how much of you survives the night."
Then the door slammed shut with a deafening clang.
Darkness swallowed her.
Saphira was alone.
Chained.
Bruised.
And yet… beneath the sting of betrayal and blood, something else throbbed inside her—feral and cursed.
Not love.
Not hate.
But the kind of obsession born from fire and ruin.
And tomorrow, she'd make him regret thinking she could ever be broken….