Morning light streamed through the broken windows, slicing the dim room into harsh, golden shards. Each beam was sharp and unforgiving, slashing across my face like a blade. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, suspended in the invading glow, as if mocking my unwillingness to face the day. The scent of damp wood and old metal lingered, blending with the faint tang of rust that clung to the air like a second skin.
I winced in my sleep, the warmth and brilliance pressing against my closed lids, dragging me reluctantly from the haze of unconsciousness. A groan escaped my parched lips, cracking the oppressive silence as I shifted on the hard, uneven surface beneath me. Every muscle in my body protested, a dull ache radiating from my back and shoulders, as if I'd been dropped from a great height and left to lie in pieces.
"Why is the sun so fucking excited to violate my face?" I muttered, the words emerging dry and rasping, scraping my throat like sandpaper. The sound startled me—hoarse, brittle, and almost foreign. My head throbbed with the persistent pulse of a hangover I hadn't earned, wrapped tightly in a heavy fog that refused to lift. Breathing felt like a chore, each inhale heavier than the last, pressing a faint but undeniable weight into my chest.
Somewhere nearby, heavy footfalls echoed faintly, muffled by the battered walls of the room. The rhythm was steady but deliberate, each step growing closer. I tried to force my eyes open, but the effort felt monumental, my lids raw and leaden as if stitched shut. Blinking sluggishly, the world blurred into muted shapes and streaks of light, reality shifting in and out of focus. I blinked again, and again, until the dark silhouette hovering over me sharpened into clarity.
Zaydon.
Recognition struck like a cold blade, slicing through the lingering fog in my mind. My stomach twisted with an instinctive, visceral anger, tangled with raw and unprocessed memories. His face was a study in contradictions—familiar yet alien, a source of both comfort and unease. His eyes, no longer the molten, terrifying red of his demi-form, had returned to their deep forest green. Flecks of gold caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, glinting like embers in the shadowed hollows of his gaze. They were striking, mesmerizing even, but the heavy, dark circles beneath them betrayed his exhaustion, as if he hadn't slept in days.
His blue-black hair, slightly disheveled, framed his face in rugged, windswept layers. The untamed strands contrasted with the precise trim at the sides, giving him an air of recklessness I didn't often see with him anymore. His broad-shouldered, muscular frame loomed over me, radiating a quiet intensity that made the small space feel even more suffocating. Olive-toned skin, warmed by the sun's rays, seemed almost out of place against the fatigue etched into his features. The sharp lines of his jaw clenched as he looked at me, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between concern and restrained fury.
I swallowed hard, my dry throat protesting the motion, but I refused to break the tense silence. The heaviness of his gaze bore into me, heavy with unspoken words, as the fractured pieces of my memories began to surface.
His wings were gone, his armor absent. He looked almost human now, stripped of the divine intimidation that had always clung to him like a second skin. The simple white tunic he wore was an almost jarring contrast to his scuffed leather pants and battered boots. There was an uncharacteristic vulnerability about him, an unspoken quietness that amplified the sound of my shallow breathing. And in that stillness, the memories surged, not in gentle whispers but in crashing waves—visceral, raw, and unforgiving.
As I became more aware, the ache in my neck throbbed, a dull, persistent reminder of the bruises I knew marred my skin. My fingers twitched instinctively as if brushing them away could erase what they signified. But the pain wasn't just there—it was everywhere, deep in the marrow of my bones and the broken fragments of my soul. A sharp, aching soreness lingered between my thighs, a haunting testament to the night I couldn't escape.
Hot tears welled in my hazel eyes before I could stop them. They spilled over in rapid streams, burning tracks down my cheeks. My chest heaved with a sob so fractured, so raw, I barely recognized it as my own. It came unbidden, dredged from a place I had buried deep and hoped never to touch again. The sound filled the room, mangled and foreign, shattering the fragile silence between us.
Large, calloused hands found my shoulders, steadying me with a gentleness I didn't expect. They pulled me into the firm plane of his chest, solid and warm, a contradiction to the icy hollowness I felt inside. His scent enveloped me—leather, musk, and something uniquely Zaydon. It was grounding, though I hated how much I needed it. His arms tightened around me, an unyielding barrier against the storm raging within me.
He didn't speak. For that, I was grateful. Words would have been a blade, too sharp for my already fragile composure. His silence was the only kindness I could bear, a reprieve from the weight of the world pressing down on me. My fists found his tunic, clutching it desperately, as if anchoring myself to him could keep me from being swept away entirely.
Anger, despair, shame—they crashed over me in relentless waves, each one more suffocating than the last. My cries, muffled against the fabric of his tunic, racked my body, leaving me trembling. And yet, his arms never faltered. He held me together even as the bitter irony of it all tore at me. Zaydon, the man who had shattered me so thoroughly years ago, was now the only thing keeping me from crumbling completely. The taste of that truth was acrid, filling my mouth with bitterness and making me cry even harder.
Time lost its meaning. Minutes, hours—they blurred together in a haze of ragged breaths and damp fabric. Eventually, my sobs ebbed, reduced to shallow hiccups and the occasional tremor that coursed through my limbs. But the weight of what had happened refused to dissipate. It clung to me, heavy and cold, a reminder that I would never escape it.
Prince Darrin's violation had branded me, both physically and emotionally, in a way no one would ever be able to ignore. His bite—his mark—was undeniable proof of my "impurity," a visible testament that I was no longer untouched. It was a brand as damning as it was inescapable. My fingers brushed my neck absently, expecting to feel the rough edges of his claim. Instead, my breath caught as realization struck.
The mark was gone—specifically, Prince Darrin's mark was gone, replaced by another.
Heat crept up my neck as the additional memories surfaced. Zaydon's bite. I had accepted it, let him drink my blood to purge the vampire venom from my system—and, to my horror, I had enjoyed it. Was I completely fucked in the head? What kind of person felt pleasure in the aftermath of such trauma? Yet my body, it seemed, had decided that when it came to Zaydon, he could do no wrong.
My fingers lingered over the raised edges of his bite, feeling the faint scabs where each tooth had sunk into my flesh. My pulse quickened as my mind raced, unraveling the implications. A new brand. A new claim. And with it, an entirely new set of questions.
What did it mean? Why would he do this? And most terrifying of all—what did this mean for me now?
He had mentioned the mark formed a bond far deeper than the dragon bond, but we hadn't had time to talk about it. And what would this bond mean for us? Would our relationship stay the same—volatile, fractured, and filled with more silence than understanding—or would it twist into something new and unrecognizable?
No, I could feel it. The bond was there, pulling at me, whispering to me in a way I couldn't ignore. It was an impulse, an ache, like the final piece of a puzzle waiting to be placed, a promise of completion and satisfaction. And it pissed me off. Everything pissed me off these days. I found myself unable to remember what it was like to not be angry.
I wiped at the tears streaking my fair skin, the salty warmth a bitter reminder of my vulnerability. My gaze caught on the fragmented reflection of myself in a cracked full-length mirror leaning against a broken wall. The morning light streamed through shattered windows, illuminating the faint freckles scattered across my cheeks and the maroon-red waves of hair tumbling around my shoulders. Normally vibrant, my hair looked dull, its fiery hues muted by exhaustion. My skin, once glowing with health, now appeared pale and shadowed, worn thin by the heaviness of everything I'd endured.
Zaydon's gaze found mine in the mirror, unwavering and intense. His forest-green eyes, flecked with gold, locked onto me with an unreadable expression. Concern? Regret? Maybe both. The intensity in his stare made my chest tighten, and I hated that it stirred something in me.
"Zaydon?" I rasped, my voice hoarse, the words scraping against my raw throat.
"Sweetheart?" he replied, his deep voice a low rumble, steady and grounding, vibrating through the air between us.
I narrowed my eyes, deadpan. That fucking pet name. Now I remembered why I hated it so much. It was the same one he'd used back then—before everything had gone to shit.
"You open your mouth and ruin everything," I grumbled, though I didn't pull away. His chest was warm beneath my cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear soothing in a way I hated to admit. I still felt raw, exposed, and unmoored, and despite myself, I couldn't move. Not yet.
He chuckled, the sound soft and maddeningly warm, a low rumble that vibrated against my ear. "That's not always a bad thing, sweetheart. Some men and women would say my mouth has ruined them in the best way possible." His tone was teasing, the pet name emphasized in a way that was far too knowing.
Heat surged to my cheeks as I fought to keep my thoughts from straying. "Not. Funny," I muttered, lowering my head in an attempt to hide the wildfire of a blush spreading across my face and up to the tips of my ears.
His fingers found one of those ears, brushing over it lightly before tugging gently. "Hide all you want, Az, but you can't hide those scarlet ears from me," he said, amusement dripping from his voice.
Az. The nickname hit me like a slap, the familiarity stinging more than it should have. I stiffened, forcing myself to pull away from his embrace. The space between us felt necessary, a shield I desperately needed against the churning storm of emotions he always seemed to stir within me. He had a way of reaching places I didn't want touched, and I couldn't afford to let him in again—not when the cost had already been so high.
"Azalea," I corrected sharply, my voice like ice. "Or Princess Azalea." The words were a firm wall, my tone calculated to keep him at arm's length. I couldn't forget—not what he'd done, not what he'd taken from me. Even if his actions weren't the same as Prince Darrin's, they still left scars I hadn't fully healed from.
His expression darkened, and the faint amusement in his features evaporated. Up close, the exhaustion etched into his face was impossible to miss. His pale skin stretched taut over the sharp angles of his jawline, and the heavy bags beneath his eyes gave him a haunted, hollow look. The weight of his fatigue only added to the tension between us.
"How long was I out?" I asked, my voice steadier and colder than I actually felt, though the tightness in my chest betrayed my composure.
"Four days," he said, frustration threading through the edges of his words.
"Four days?" I repeated, alarm tightening my chest. My mind raced, the timeline throwing me into a spiral of worry. "We were supposed to be in Rola by the solstice. On horseback, we'll barely make it after—"
"Princess Azalea," he snapped, his hands gripping my shoulders with a firmness that was grounding yet unyielding. His voice was sharp, each word biting with restrained fury. "Could you stop thinking about everyone and everything except your goddamned self for one fucking minute?"
His hands trembled slightly, betraying the storm of emotions beneath his control. The tremor sent a shiver down my spine, and his gaze locked onto mine, unwavering. "I don't give a fuck about the kingdom. I don't give a fuck about Rola. You were hurt." His eyes flicked down to my legs, his jaw clenching so tightly I thought it might crack. When his gaze returned to mine, it was dark and furious. "Badly. I didn't risk moving you. I didn't risk waking you because I didn't know if that would hurt you more. But I had a healer here every day to check your condition. I didn't know when—if—you'd wake up." His voice broke slightly on the last word before regaining its steely edge. "So just fucking stop. Stop being so selfless it's killing you, and it's driving me insane."
I tried to shake him off, but his grip held firm, his fingers digging in just enough to keep me in place. Frustration bubbled over, and I let out an exasperated huff. "I am a princess. I have expectations and responsibilities. Deal with it," I snapped, my words cutting through the air between us. Even as the heat of my anger burned, I felt the sting of his unwavering intensity pressing down on my shoulders and it made my muscles tighten into knots.
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as his grip remained steady. "You're a living, breathing being," he ground out, his voice low and controlled, like he was barely restraining himself. "You almost died, Azalea. Responsibilities don't mean shit if you're not alive to fulfill them."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat as his expression darkened further. "Just sit here. Stay. Relax for ten fucking minutes, or so help me by the gods, I will tie you down if I have to."
His tone left no room for defiance. He released me only when he was certain I wouldn't immediately bolt, his eyes daring me to test his resolve. The space between us felt heavy and heated, his fury and desperation lingering like static in the air.
I stayed put, my glare sharp enough to cut as he stood and strode over to a pile of bags. After grabbing a water skin, he marched back to where I was sitting and thrust it into my hands.
"Drink. Slowly," he commanded, his tone firm, brooking no argument.
"What if I refuse?" I shot back, gripping the water skin as if it were a lifeline. The edge in my voice was equal parts defiance but mostly instinctual at this point. "You going to force it down my throat?"
A smug grin spread across his lips, infuriatingly confident. "Tempting offer, sweetheart," he said lightly, amusement lacing his words. The double meaning wasn't lost on me. Tilting his head, his gaze locked on mine, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
"You really enjoy being a brat, don't you?" he teased.
"Fuck you," I growled, yanking the seal off the water skin and taking a long, defiant drink. The cool water was a relief to my parched throat, even as my frustration with him simmered just beneath the surface.
He crouched to my level, his grin widening as he leaned in closer. His eyes sparkled with playful mischief, the corner of his mouth quirking up just enough to set my nerves alight. His thumb brushed over my wet bottom lip, the touch far too casual for the heat it stirred. "Good girl," he purred, his voice low and thick, the words dripping with mockery and an unmistakable edge of desire.
In his dreams, I thought bitterly, but the images that flashed through my mind betrayed me, unbidden and far too vivid. And now in mine, too. Damn it.
Heat flared in my cheeks, burning its way down my neck. Flustered, I glared at him, searching for something—anything—that might knock him down a peg. "You look thirsty too," I said, my tone sugary sweet with mock innocence. "Want some?"
He nodded slowly, but his eyes never wavered, holding mine with an intensity that sent a spark of challenge through the air. He extended his hand, palm open, his gaze steady and expectant. The unspoken command in his posture was clear: give him the water skin.
This not-so-little shit was thoroughly enjoying telling me what to do for once. Even though I was the one who offered! The audacity.
Instead of complying, I lifted the water skin with agonizing slowness, keeping my eyes locked on his face. His expression was unreadable—until I tipped it.
Cold liquid poured out in a steady stream, splashing over his face and soaking his hair. The reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, a flash of shock breaking through his usual composure as the water dripped in steady rivulets, quickly drenching his tunic. The fabric clung to his chest, outlining every sculpted ridge of muscle beneath it.
It was impossible not to notice. Seriously, was a man's chest supposed to be that sexy?
If my brilliant plan had been to stop sexualizing him and establish some kind of boundary, it had backfired. Spectacularly.
"What the fuck was that for?" he snarled, his voice low and razor-sharp. He shook his head like a drenched, irate wolf, sending droplets flying in every direction. The light caught the water as it sprayed from his hair and face, only adding to the chaos I'd unleashed.
I tilted my head, feigning innocence, though the smirk tugging at the corners of my lips made it clear I was anything but.
"You looked like you needed to cool off," I said sweetly, the satisfaction in my tone barely hidden.
His glare was searing, water dripping from his hair and tracing rivulets down his face. The dangerous glint in his eyes should have made me nervous, but instead, it only made my smirk grow wider.
His hand shot out faster than I could react, wrapping around my throat with a surprising gentleness that contrasted the firm hold. The pressure wasn't painful—just enough to make my breathing a little harder, enough to make me achingly aware of his control. The sensation sent a shiver racing through me, an electric jolt that left me breathless, my pulse thrumming under his fingertips. His wicked smile curled at the edges of his lips as he leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my skin.
"Brat indeed," he murmured, his voice low and sinful, each word a dark promise that vibrated through the charged air between us. The depth of his voice wrapped around me, pulling me further into the spell he wove so effortlessly, leaving me unable—or perhaps unwilling—to look away.
His grip on my throat softened, his thumb grazing over the sensitive skin with tenderness, teasing and lighter in its contrast to the firm hold. His other hand came to rest on my knee, the weight of it light yet commanding, close enough to send sparks skittering along my nerves.
The space between us felt heavy, the tension thick and suffocating—not the usual kind of anger and bitterness that simmered between us. This was different. It was hot, electric, and laced with untapped desire. His presence was a maddening mix of intoxication and chaos, leaving me breathless. Every inch of my body hummed with awareness, responding instinctively to his every breath, every subtle movement. I was caught in the storm he created, torn between resisting him with all I had—or surrendering completely.
He leaned in closer, his smile darkening into something commanding and unrelenting. His gaze held mine, unyielding, as the distance between us shrank until his lips hovered just out of reach.
"You act like you're in control, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling purr that sent a shiver cascading down my spine. "But we both know you don't want to be." His words dripped with challenge, each one a dare. "Be a good girl, or I'll have to find ways to deal with this newfound brattiness."
The pressure of his hold wasn't harsh but carefully placed—firm enough to assert his dominance without crossing the line. His fingers rested beneath my jaw, applying the faintest pressure, a subtle command that kept my focus entirely on him. It wasn't enough to hurt, but just enough to make me hyperaware of every movement, every inhale, every word that made my breath hitch and my body react to his touch.
My breaths came shallow and uneven, the space between begging to be closed in by a kiss. Heat radiated from his closeness, my skin tingling, every nerve alive and buzzing with the energy of the moment. His presence in my space remained constant, unrelenting, and steady as if he were waiting for me to decide—to fight or to surrender.
"You seem to have a fascination with grabbing my neck," I choked out, my voice unsteady but managing to hold a sharp edge. My gaze locked with his, my expression betraying the storm of emotions swirling inside me—irritation, frustration, and a desire I refused to acknowledge. I liked what he was doing, but damn him, I would never admit it.
His grin widened, a flicker of wicked amusement dancing in his eyes. "Can you blame me? My hand looks so good around this pretty neck," he drawled, his tone dripping with smug confidence. "Much better than any necklace I've seen on you, sweetheart."
His free hand, resting on my knee, began to move with maddening slowness. The tips of his fingers brushed my skin, featherlight and teasing, sending ripples of sensation coursing through me, pooling low and right between my legs. I could feel the slickness already and he'd hardly done anything at all. His smoldering gaze stayed locked on mine, intensifying the heat between us as his fingers trailed upward in an agonizingly slow journey. Every inch of contact burned like fire on my skin—a fire I couldn't control, extinguish, or escape, only feel.
My breath hitched involuntarily, the sharp intake breaking the silence between us. My chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, betraying the calm facade I desperately tried to maintain. His touch climbed higher, teasingly close to places that left my pulse racing, and I hated and fucking loved the way my body responded to him, every nerve hypersensitive to his movements and driving me crazy.
My legs parted instinctively as his fingers found the line between my closed bare legs, a betrayal of my own control, as though my body had a mind of its own, surrendering to the unspoken command in his actions. His fingers continued their teasing ascent on my inner thigh, brushing dangerously close to the edge of the apex. My breath turned to full on heavy pants, my chest tightening as tension coiled inside me, sharp and unbearable. My clit throbbed, begging for him to touch it.
But just as his hand reached the apex of my thighs, just as I braced for his fingers to touch where I most needed it, he froze. His wicked smile faltered for the briefest moment, replaced by something unreadable before he abruptly pulled away, cursing under his breath.
"Fuck," he muttered, his voice raw and strained. Without another word, he stood and stomped away, his shoulders tense and his movements abrupt, radiating agitation. His hand raked through his hair, gripping it tightly before dragging down his face in frustration, his composure unraveling right before my eyes.
The absence of his touch was almost worse than the anticipation, leaving me suspended in the fuck show of emotions he had created, teetering dangerously on the brink. The sharp intensity of his retreat shattered the fragile thread that had tethered me to the moment, cutting through the haze he'd drawn me into and yanking me back to reality. My pulse thundered in my ears, my breaths shallow and uneven as I watched him wrestle with himself. His back was turned to me, his shoulders rigid, as if the weight of his actions—or inaction—was too much for him to face.
Well that was a familiar pose.
Confusion flickered through me, knotting my brow as I frowned. For a brief moment, I didn't understand. The lingering warmth of his touch still clung to my skin, the ghost of his presence refusing to let go. Then my gaze drifted downward, catching sight of the dark bruises staining my skin between my legs and the truth slammed into me again like a crashing wave.
Reality crashed over me, cold and unforgiving, shattering the haze he'd so effortlessly drawn me into. The pull of his words, the fleeting comfort of his touch—all of it dissolved under the harsh weight of truth, leaving nothing but a stark, undeniable clarity.
He probably thought I was dirty now. Unclean. Impure. Because Prince Darrin hadn't just tried to bite me—he'd tried to claim me in every way possible… and he'd succeeded. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my skin as the shame and anger twisted inside me.
And of course, Zaydon, with one simple act of rejection, would make me relive it all over again.
That was just who Zaydon was to me—a man who thrived on making me forget myself. With infuriating ease, he unraveled every wall I had painstakingly built to keep him out. He could dismantle my defenses with a single look, pull me under, and leave me breathless and vulnerable. But just as quickly as he offered that fleeting escape, he always reminded me why I couldn't let him in. Why I shouldn't.
Because every time I let myself be vulnerable to him, I ended up hurt.
Every. Single. Time.
My breath hitched, but this time it wasn't from desire—I was fighting back tears. The bitter taste of self-preservation clawed its way to the surface, fierce and unrelenting. It screamed at me to remember exactly who he was—and what he was capable of if I let him in.
Because if I surrendered to him, even for a moment, I knew he'd tear me apart.
Again.