Chapter 7 BLOOD THIRSTY.

Chapter 7 BLOOD THIRSTY.

Seren’s POV

The world didn't go dark. It went cold.

The heat of Draven’s skin, the smell of cedar and blood, the possessive weight of his hands—it all vanished, replaced by an oily, suffocating pressure that crawled into my lungs. The black veins spreading across my chest weren't just a mark; they invaded my senses.

Kill him. The command didn't come from my mind. It came from the marrow of my bones.

My hand moved before I could think. My fingers curled around the hilt of the  dagger at Draven’s belt. In one fluid motion, I drew it. Tasty for my mate’s blood.

"Seren?" Draven’s voice was a low warning, but I saw the moment he realized I was gone. The gold in his eyes vanished, replaced by horror.

I lunged.

I was fast—too fast. The corruption in my blood was a stimulant, turning my Beta strength into something lethal. I swung the blade at his throat but Draven didn't strike back. He caught my wrist, his grip hard, but I could see the strain in his face. 

"Let her go!" Draven roared, his voice shaking.

He wasn't looking at me—he was looking up at the gallery where Aiden stood, smiling like a saint at a funeral.

"I didn't take her, Father," Aiden called down, his voice echoing "I just opened the door. Your obsession did the rest. You wanted a mate so badly you didn't care if she was a hollow shell."

I snarled—a sound that wasn't human and planted my foot in Draven’s chest, shoving him back. I didn't care about the bond. I didn't care about the man who had just risked everything for me. I wanted to see the light go out of his eyes.

I attacked again, a blur of silver and black. Draven dodged, his movements heavy and sluggish. He was wounded, the silver from the bolt still poisoning his system, and his refusal to hurt me was making him a target.

"Seren, fight it!" Draven grabbed my shoulders, pinning me against a stone pillar. His eyes were inches from mine, desperate and pleading. "Look at me. It’s me. Draven."

For a split second, the black oily fog cleared. I saw the blood on his face, the desperation in his gaze. 

Draven.

Kill. Him. The voice in my head roared back, ten times louder.

I drove my knee into his gut and slashed the dagger across his forearm. Red sprayed against the white floor.

Draven let out a guttural sound. He dropped his hands, standing defenseless as I raised the blade for a final, killing blow.

"Do it then," he whispered, his voice breaking. "If this is what you want, Seren... take it."

The dagger hovered over his heart. My hand was shaking, the black veins on my arm pulsing with a rhythmic, sickening light.

“She’s my mate. And if you touch her, I’ll take your head.”

The memory of his voice from the ritual chamber pierced through the darkness. The way he had stood between me and the world. The way he had looked at me when he thought I was his salvation.

Mine.

The word wasn't a command from the Void. It was mine. My wolf, buried under layers of necrotic sludge, let out a piercing howl.

I didn't stab him. I turned the blade on myself.

"No!" Draven screamed, reaching for me.

I plunged the dagger into my own shoulder—the same spot where Draven had been shot. I needed the pain. I needed the shock to break the connection.

The obsidian blade, forged with Alpha blood, bit into the corruption. The black lines on my skin recoiled, hissing as they met the sudden surge of my own wolf and Draven’s blood. I felt the  bond with Aiden snap.

I collapsed, the world spinning. Draven caught me before I hit the floor, his arms wrapping around me with relief.

"You're a fool," he choked out, his tears hot against my neck. "You're a beautiful, stubborn fool."

"Had... to stop," I wheezed, the black veins receding, leaving behind a map of bruised purple.

Up in the gallery, Aiden’s smile vanished. His face twisted into rage. "It doesn't matter! The Necromancers have already fed. The city is theirs!"

The shadows behind him expanded, pouring over the railing like liquid night. The figure with the staff stepped forward, the air turning cold.

Draven stood up, still holding me against his chest with one arm. He looked at the shadows, then at his son, then at the carnage of the room.

"You want a monster, Aiden?" He asked, "I'll show you the one you should have feared."

Draven’s skin began to smoke. Not with the gold of the bond, but with a searing, white-hot heat that turned the blood on his skin to steam. He didn't shift into a wolf. He didn't need to.

He reached into the air, and a sword of pure, solidified light manifested in his hand—the King’s Blade, a weapon that hadn't been seen in a generation.

"Seren," he said, not looking back. "Close your eyes."

I didn't. I watched.

Draven moved. He wasn't a man. He was a force of nature. He cleaved through the shadows like they were mist. The Necromancer didn't even have time to raise his staff before Draven’s blade took his head.

Aiden tried to run, but Draven was there, blocking the exit.

"Father, wait!" Aiden begged, falling to his knees. "The Void... they promised me—"

"They promised you a crown built on the grave of my mate," Draven said, his voice cold.

He leveled the glowing sword at Aiden’s throat. "I should kill you where you kneel."

"Then do it!" Aiden screamed. "End the line! See what happens to the kingdom then!"

Draven’s hand trembled. For all the blood on his hands, he was still a father. He looked at his son—the boy he had raised and I saw the flicker of the man who led with mercy.

I forced myself to stand, leaning against the throne for support. "Draven."

He looked at me.

"Don't become what they want you to be," I said, my voice rasping. "If you kill him like this, the darkness wins."

Draven looked back at Aiden, the golden glow of his sword dimming. He lowered the blade.

"I won't kill you, Aiden," Draven said. "But you are no longer a Prince of my Kingdom. Guards!"

Three men came forward.

"Take him to the Iron Isles," Draven commanded. "He is to be stripped of his name and his rank. If he ever sets foot on this soil again, he dies."

As they dragged a screaming, cursing Aiden away, Draven turned back to me. The sword vanished, and he stumbled, the adrenaline finally leaving his battered body.

I caught him this time. We fell together onto the steps of the throne, two broken things held together by each other.

"Is it over?" I whispered.

Draven looked toward the windows. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, the first light of dawn hitting the smoke-filled streets of the city. The militia had dispersed. The shadows were gone.

"For now," he said. He reached out, his thumb tracing the jagged scar on my shoulder where I had stabbed myself. "But they’ll never stop coming for us, Seren. You realize that, don't you? A King with a heart is a target."

I looked at him—the blood, the scars, the crown lying forgotten on the floor.

"Then let them come," I said, leaning in until our lips were inches apart. "I think they've learned by now that targets can bite back."

He didn't wait. He crushed his mouth to mine, a kiss that tasted of survival and a dark, dangerous future.

The throne was behind us, the kingdom was in ruins, and a war was looming on the horizon. But as Draven pulled me closer, his heart beating a frantic,  rhythm against mine, I knew one thing for certain.

The peasant girl from the slums was gone.