The thirst crept in like a whisper turned scream, dragging its cruel fingernails down the inside of her throat. It started, as it always did now, with a tightening in her chest and a delicate burn blooming beneath her ribs. But this time it was sharper—savage. A cruel flame that licked up the back of her throat until it scraped behind her eyes.
Caralee curled in on herself, seated on the divan beneath the stained-glass window that filtered moonlight into amber fragments. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest, trying to contain the ache. It had been hours since her last feeding—days since she'd felt truly sated. She had tried to ignore it. Had tried to bury it beneath books and study scrolls and endless pacing. But it was no use. The hunger came for her like a storm, inevitable and merciless.
Tears welled in her eyes as she gasped against the pain. She hated this. Hated what she had become.
A knock sounded.
Soft. Measured. Expected.
"Come in," she whispered, the words no louder than a prayer.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and there he was—Renauld.
Of course.
He had become as familiar to her as the thirst itself. Her bloodbound feeder. Her silent sentinel. The only soul who could interpret the cadence of her breath and anticipate her before she even understood her own needs.
He had not yet crossed the threshold before she rose like a storm cloud and collided with him. Her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, face buried against the rough linen of his shirt. He caught her without hesitation, gathering her to him as though he'd known the collision was coming. His arms encircled her without pause, and he carried her the few steps to the edge of the bed like she weighed nothing at all.
"My lady," he murmured into her hair, his voice low and thick. "Tell me what is hurting you so. I cannot bear it."
He sat, pulling her into his lap, and his fingers found her chin. Gently, he tilted her face upward to meet his gaze. The pads of his thumbs wiped the hot tears from her cheeks, only for more to fall. He kissed each one as they came—soft, reverent kisses that spoke of endless patience and quiet devotion.
Her face was pale and haunted. Not with the ethereal glow of her kind, but with something darker. Something broken.
"Oh, Renauld..." Her voice cracked as she broke again, hiding herself in his chest like a child seeking refuge in a storm. "He hates me. I know he does."
Renauld's body stiffened beneath her, but he said nothing.
"It's been months," she sobbed. "Months, and I've seen him only in passing. He won't even look at me. You and Lydia—you both said he would help me through this. That he would guide me. But he hasn't spoken more than two words to me in all this time. I feel like I've lost him forever."
Her whole body trembled as she wept. "And this yearning… I'm so confused. So lost. I don't know how to fix this. I don't even know what I did wrong. Please, just let me quench the thirst. Put out the fire burning me alive. I can't take it."
Her fangs had descended—beautiful, lethal things. They caught the silver moonlight pouring through the window, glittering like glass daggers. Her lips were parted, face flushed, and her entire body pulsed with need. Renauld could feel it as though it were his own.
It broke something in him.
But he could not—would not—give in to it.
He swallowed the ache, the impulse, the anger that was quickly rising in his chest. Not at her. Never at her. But at the man she cried for, the man who had abandoned her in all but name, who had left her to struggle through the tumult of transformation alone.
Still, Renauld knew better than to let that anger rise through their bond. She would feel it, and she was already crumbling. So instead, he merely closed his eyes, drew a breath, and exhaled slowly.
"Your emotions are too unstable, Cara," he said softly. "You know why."
She slumped against him, defeated.
With a pained expression, he extended his wrist. "Drink."
Her shoulders shook as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. She took his wrist in trembling hands, pressed her lips to his skin, and bit.
A shiver passed through both of them.
He stifled the groan that rose in his throat as her mouth latched, as her body pressed closer to his, drinking with desperation. He held her firmly, his free hand resting lightly against her back, fingertips brushing soft fabric and softer skin.
When she'd had her fill, she closed the wound with a flick of her tongue and slumped against him, breathless. He kissed the crown of her head and bowed his own, forehead resting atop hers for a fleeting moment of stolen intimacy.
Then he stood.
If he remained one second longer, he might lose control. He could still feel the way her body trembled in his arms. Could still taste her sorrow clinging to the edges of their bond like smoke.
He stepped away.
With every ounce of restraint he possessed, he offered a low bow, turned on his heel, and left the room—his steps clipped, precise. He did not look back.
Outside her chamber, he paused only long enough to brace a hand against the wall, breathing deeply. His knuckles whitened. His jaw clenched.
A guard posted nearby looked up at him—hopeful. Renauld shook his head once, and the guard bowed his own, understanding.
Then Renauld turned. His expression sharpened. His spine straightened. Fire burned in his eyes.
He strode down the corridor like a man possessed.
Lydia nearly collided with him at the landing, gasping and squeaking as she stumbled out of his way.
"My lord—!"
"Where is he?" Renauld's voice was low and hard, the words barely more than a growl.
She blinked. "The King? In his study. But Renauld, he—he refuses to see anyone. I've tried. I don't know what to do anymore."
"I'm done waiting," he said.
She fell into step behind him, her slippers whispering against the stones as she chased his longer strides.
Down they went, past shadowed corridors and winding stairwells until they reached the bottommost level of the castle. At the double doors of the royal study, two guards stood at attention, and when Renauld approached, they immediately stepped forward to block his path.
"I know he's taking no audience," Renauld snapped, stepping between them, "but I'm not asking."
He raised a fist and pounded it against the thick oak with thunderous force.
The guards hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him backward into the opposite wall. A gasp escaped his lips as the stone met his spine with a sickening thud. He crumpled, breath stolen from his lungs.
"Stop!" Lydia screamed. "He's a human, you imbeciles! Are you trying to kill Her Majesty's own bloodbound feeder?!"
She rushed to him, kneeling, cradling his head as she pulled the guards' hands away. She shifted his arm over her shoulders, helping him to stand. "Renauld—are you—?"
He coughed once, then nodded. "I'm fine." He offered her a shaky smile, eyes blazing with purpose.
From the other side of the door, a voice rang out like a bell struck from iron.
"Enter."
Everything froze.
The guards paled. Lydia's mouth parted. Even Renauld's breath caught in his chest.
Then, slowly, he composed himself. He straightened his coat, smoothed the front of his shirt, nodded once to Lydia with quiet gratitude, and stepped forward.
He opened the door, entered the study, and closed it behind him.
Lydia stood motionless in the corridor for a long time, listening to the silence that followed.
Finally, she shook her head.
"That has to be the bravest human I've ever met," she murmured. "No wonder he was matched with the princess."