The door creaked open with no warning.
Caralee gasped and spun around, startled mid-motion. The light linen shift she wore barely covered her thighs, clinging in the humid air to the lines of her body. She had just unpinned her hair, the long auburn strands cascading freely over her shoulders when the ancient hinges groaned. Instinct overtook her mind—fast and fierce. Her hand flew to the small blade kept beneath her pillow.
With the grace and power honed in months of training, she hurled the dagger across the room in a silver blur of motion.
A sharp intake of breath. A dull clang of metal caught mid-air. The dagger stopped—mere inches from its mark.
Merrick stood just inside the doorway, his fingers clutched tight around the blade's hilt. Blood trickled along his palm, dripping silently to the floor.
Caralee froze, horror blooming in her chest. Her lips parted. Her hands flew to her mouth.
"Oh no—no, no, no—"
She stumbled forward, bare feet pattering across the stone as she rushed to him.
"I didn't know—it was instinct—I didn't mean to—please don't—" Her voice cracked as panic overtook her. "I didn't recognize you! I thought— I—"
She reached for him, trembling as she took his wounded hand in hers. Tears welled, glimmering in her eyes as she wrapped her fingers around his larger ones, gently coaxing them open. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—I thought you were someone else—"
The gash was shallow but vivid, the edge of the dagger having kissed the meat of his palm.
"It's nothing," he said, though his voice was tight. Not from pain. From something else entirely.
His gaze fell to her body—damp with sweat from the heat, the linen shift semi-sheer and clinging to every curve. One strap had fallen off her shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her collarbone and the slope of one breast. His chest rose sharply. A pulse jumped at his throat.
She didn't notice. Not yet. She was too busy tearing a strip from the hem of her shift to press against his wound, her hands shaking as she dabbed at the blood.
"It's my fault—I should have checked—I should have known—"
"Cara," he said hoarsely.
She looked up.
And in that moment, everything stopped.
Their eyes met—his burning like flame, hers shimmering with remorse and longing. The air between them changed. Thickened. The fire inside the hearth flared as though pulled by unseen magic, casting a golden wash over their faces. Time slowed.
Her breathing hitched.
Then, as he'd taught her months ago when she first became what she was, she surrendered.
She let go.
Her pupils dilated, the whites of her eyes consumed by a sultry crimson hue. She tilted her head, drawing his hand up to her mouth. Slowly, reverently, she extended her tongue and traced the length of the wound.
The moment her tongue met his skin, his body jerked. A sharp exhale left his lips. The cut closed beneath her kiss, the blood disappearing beneath her touch. But more than that—it ignited him.
He snapped.
With a growl born of months of restraint, Merrick grabbed her—his hands gripping her waist, hoisting her into the air with effortless power. She gasped, arms flying around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. Her lips found his at the same moment he crashed into her, their mouths meeting with bruising, desperate hunger.
He moved like a man starved, carrying her to the bed in three long strides before throwing her down onto the waiting sheets. She bounced once, hair wild, breathless, eyes wide.
He came down after her, mouth finding hers again, his weight pressing against her, pinning her, grounding her.
Her hands tore at the fabric of his shirt. He grabbed at her shift, pulling the delicate garment from her body in impatient handfuls, until it lay in shreds at the edge of the bed. She lay bare before him, her skin bathed in moonlight, eyes shining with equal parts shock and desire.
He leaned back for a moment, eyes devouring her as if he might never get the chance again.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, awe in every syllable.
Then he kissed her again, no longer restrained. Lips and teeth and tongue, hands roaming over every inch of skin as if relearning her, as if needing to remember every curve, every breath.
They came together like two stars on a collision course—burning, spiraling, unrelenting.
Every touch was searing.
Every gasp, every moan, every cry of pleasure echoed through the room like a symphony of reunion.
And when the crescendo came, when their bodies arched in a simultaneous release of pent-up agony and desire, Merrick clutched her to him, holding her as though the world might tear her away again.
"I love you," he whispered into her hair. "Cara—I never stopped. I am in love with you."
He had never said it aloud before. Not like this. Not trembling. Not vulnerable.
She blinked up at him, lips trembling. Her fingers touched his cheek, reverent.
"I love you, Merrick."
A breath of disbelief left him. Then he laughed—shaky, relieved, half-wild.
He kissed her again, slower now, softer, but no less impassioned.
His lips traced her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, making her giggle breathlessly beneath him.
He paused, brushing her hair from her damp cheek.
"Good," he murmured, voice low, eyes serious. "Then I suppose it's time we have a wedding."
She blinked. "What?"
"I want you as my queen. Fully. Openly. No more hiding. No more waiting. What do you say?"
Her eyes welled with tears again, this time joy. Her heart surged.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Merrick."
They kissed again—long, deep, all-consuming. And when their bodies found each other once more, it was not frantic but sacred. A binding. A promise.
Hours later, as the fire dwindled and the moon retreated from the windows, Caralee lay curled against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor.
For the first time in months, her thirst was gone. Her heart was whole. Her soul was still.
She slept soundly, her cheek pressed to his chest, while Merrick watched over her with something like reverence.
He would never leave her again.
Not for anything.