There’s still blood on my lips when Dorian and Malachi step into Cyrus’ office. There’s a human man lying on the couch on the far side of the room, recovering.

I hope he recovers. I took more than I should have. Fingers crossed he doesn’t turn into a Bitten.

“Is everyone ready?” Cyrus asks. He sits propped against the ledge of his desk, his arms folded across his chest. There’s anticipation in his shoulders, keeping them tight and poised. We’re in this stage of waiting, and it’s on something that could save my life.

“Yes, my King,” Malachi says with a little bow. “They are all armed and ready. We’re waiting for your command.”

I wipe the blood from my lips, and force myself not to look at the human man. I try to ignore the sound of his beating heart, the whoosh of blood rushing through his veins. It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to not grab him once more and finish draining him of every drop.

The burn has crept from my stomach, all the way up to the base of my throat.

It’s hot. And annoying. Like a bad sunburn.

“I tell you this because I trust the two of you second only to my wife,” Cyrus says, staring at his grandsons. “Because you have proven your loyalty over and over through the centuries.”

“I’m dying again,” I speak up.

Cyrus is taking too long. And I need everything to move in fast motion right now, because my moments are limited.

“The thirst has already kicked in,” I continue, ignoring the annoyed but sad look Cyrus is giving me right now. “I can feel it, like the other times. I’ve got a couple weeks at best, and then I’ll be gone.”

I walk over to Cyrus’ side and take his hand in mine. I’m not sure why I do it. I’m scared. But not panicking. He’s grieving already, but doing everything he can to stop this.

Maybe I do it just because he’s my husband.

Holy shit. I haven’t even gotten two seconds to process that yet.

He’s my husband.

I’m married.

But I’m about to leave him a widower already.

What a sucky wife I make.

“I can’t exactly go onto the battlefield when all I can think about is where I’m going to find my next drink,” I continue. Only now do I take note of my grandson’s expressions. They’re disbelieving. Shocked. Sad. “We need the both of you to lead this last battle.”

“Our world is changed, forever,” Cyrus says, looking from our hands held together, up to Dorian and Malachi. “It will never look the same. But we must fight and we must finish this last battle.”

They both look from the King, to me, and back to the King. Each of them nods.

“Of course, your majesty,” Malachi says, bowing deeply once more.

“Please, tell us if there is anything more we can do,” Dorian says. There’s so much grief in his eyes. He has always valued family. He is my family, and I am his. Even if he has only known me with this face for five weeks.

“Thank you,” I offer.

Cyrus cannot say the words, but he nods the same. He clears his throat once, looking away when I know there are emotions pooling in his eyes. “If everyone is ready, strike now. Every second counts if we can catch them off guard.”

“Yes, my King,” they say at the same time. They offer one more bow, Dorian gathers the human man I fed from in his arms, and they leave the office.

It’s like we’re both holding our breath. We wait. Side by side, we listen to the sounds of war. The gathering. The speech. Dorian and Malachi bolstering the Court members and Royals. Maksim giving them important insider information on Lorenzo.

They question our grandsons about where Cyrus and I are.

Dorian answers them honestly. He says that the Queen is not doing well and that the King is attending to me.

They know what that means.

I know that Cyrus did not intend to tell everyone. But this will make them fight harder. It gives them one more thing to fight for. Grief can weaken people, but it can also motivate them. Drive them to work harder, to fight harder.

And with a simple command, I hear them all leave. Quiet. Stealthy. They must use every moment of surprise to their advantage.

We’re alone in the castle, save for twenty guards left behind.

I let out a slow breath. I feel tired. Like I’ve been stretched too far for too long. And now I’ve lost all my strength and elasticity.

Cyrus was right. When he’d told me that he was tired of fighting. Over and over. Keeping such a tight grip to keep everyone safe. To keep the world balanced.

Maybe I should have walked away when he asked me to. We could have just slipped away to some remote corner of the world. We wouldn’t even have known what became of Roter Himmel and these wars. We wouldn’t know of the exposure of our kind. We could have just been normal and happy and removed.

It’s a pretty picture. It sounds relaxing.

But in reality, neither of us could have ever done it.

I look down at our hands laced together, only to find that I got blood on my shirt. I think I go into autopilot, because I head toward the door without saying anything. Cyrus follows.

Through the halls and up the stairs I rise. My feet know where they’re going, even if my mind isn’t paying attention. To the top floor I head, and then down the hall, toward our bedroom.

As soon as I walk through the door, I strip my shirt off and toss it into a corner. It’s ruined. It was white, and there was a fairly large amount of blood on it.

I pause in the middle of our room, like I’m not quite sure where I’m going or what I should be doing right now. I think my brain keeps overloading and apparently my default is to zone out. How Queen-like of me.

I hear the door shut, and a moment later, a soft hand slips around my waist, and a pair of lips presses against my bare shoulder. My body relaxes as Cyrus pulls me back against him, and I fit there perfectly, as if we were molded to fit together as one.

“I swear, I won’t let it happen this time,” Cyrus purrs against my flesh. “This will work.”

“Shh,” I breathe, reaching a hand up and hooking it behind his neck. I tilt my head to the side, inviting his lips to find my flesh there, and he must be a mind reader, because they do.

I don’t want to talk about things I can’t control right now, things he can’t control.

I want to be here, in this world. I need to be present.

I place my hands over Cyrus’ and guide them around me. I nearly moan at the contact. His flesh against mine. I feel his heat. The realness of him.

I turn, never breaking his embrace. My hands go to the hem of his shirt and I slip my hands underneath it. There, I find firm stomach muscles. I find valleys and rises. My hands slide over them, even as my eyes meet Cyrus’.

Our eyes are both brilliant red. Heat radiates off of Cyrus’ body in a very real way.

He takes a step forward, pushing me further into the room.

I give a tug at his shirt, ripping it from the bottom, to midway to the collar.

I look up at Cyrus, and he gives a wicked smile.

He liked that.

Not breaking the eye contact, I tug at his shirt again, splitting it clean in half, exposing all of his chest and stomach.

The wicked gleam in his eyes darkens and his nostrils flare a bit.

Oh, he liked that a lot.

I place my hands on his bare chest, appreciating the muscles under all that hot, flushed skin of his.

I want to lick him. I want to devour every bit of him.

So I do. I let my tongue explore all the low places of his torso. My blood lights with electric fire as I run my mouth and my hands down his body and back up. My mouth makes its way to his neck and he moans, gripping my hips possessively.

“Don’t stop, Logan,” he groans.

I hear it in his voice. He’ll die if I stop. His heart would stop and everything would turn to ash.

I love that it’s me—me—who does this to him.

I smile wickedly as my fangs graze along his neck, all the tendons and muscles taut. My hands have a mind of their own as they pull the tattered remains from his shoulders and let them fall to the floor.

It may have been his eyes that I first fell in love with. But I love these shoulders. Strong and muscled. But I also love the feel of his back. The way it ripples and shifts as he moves.

Or maybe I love his hips, the ones he lifts me to wrap my legs around.

My back hits a wall, and his hips grind deeper into the center of me. My head falls back, hitting the wall, but I don’t care. Not when his tongue is making its way from my breastbone, up to the hollow beneath my ear.

This. I married this.

These hips. That back. Those shoulders. They’re mine.

Not just a hookup. Not boyfriend. Not fiancé.

This is my husband. I am his wife.

Cyrus slowly lets me slip down him as my hands come to his cheeks, pulling his lips to mine. I kiss him with reverence. I kiss him with every ounce of love I have.

I feel that love from the tips of my toes, all the way to the ends of every strand of hair on my head.

“I love you,” I breathe against his lips. “I love you so damn much, Cyrus.”

His hands slip around my waist, holding me gentle and firm. It’s a promise, this hold. It’s the world in its reality. “I love you, Logan.”

And I don’t feel it, the burn in my throat, I don’t feel the weight that’s developing in my chest. I just feel Cyrus’ skin against mine. He undoes the button of my pants, and I break the one on his.

He carries me to the bed, and whispers love against my skin, over, and over, and over.