Page 2 of Maksym

Now the law narrowed to a dying woman’s mouth. She pulled in a breath. It rattled so badly that my fangs lengthened on instinct.

“Please.”

That was all she gave me. It had to be enough.

I bent over her and sank my fangs into the side of her throat.

There was no hesitation. Hesitation would have killed her. I bit with controlled precision, avoiding damage that would be irrelevant in moments but mattered to me all the same. Her skin parted under my mouth. Her blood touched my tongue.

The world went white. Not light. Not purity. Impact.

Her blood ignited across every nerve I possessed, a brutal, intimate recognition so absolute it bordered on violence. Mine, something in me snarled—not possession, not ownership, something older and less civilized than either. Mine to protect. Mine to avenge. Mine to answer for, though I had not known she existed an hour ago.

My hand shot to the headboard. Dark wood cracked beneath my grip.

I closed my eyes for one fraction of a second. No more. One indulgence. One silent fracture where the king disappeared, and the creature remained, stunned by the taste of a woman who had been starved, bled, used, and still had enough will left to ask for life.

Then I forced myself back. Not too much.

That was the danger. A starving body did not have enough to spare, and my instinct wanted more because the bond wanted everything. I measured each pull by the weakening knock of her heart. I took what the turning required and no more. Her fingers twitched once against the sheet. Her mouth parted in a sound too faint to be pain.

Her heartbeat slowed. Once. Again. A pause so long the room became a grave. I tore my fangs free.

My tongue sealed the wounds at her throat, the marks closing beneath venom and blood. I did not look at the bruises surrounding them.

I dragged one fang across my own wrist. Flesh opened cleanly. Blood welled, dark and rich, carrying the old violence of the Kozlov line, the royal-born strength that had made lesser monsters kneel and wiser ones negotiate.

I pressed the wound to her lips.

“Drink,” I said.

Her mouth remained slack.

My blood pooled against her teeth, slid over her tongue, stained the cracks in her lower lip. She did nothing. Her heartbeat faltered again, a dying bird against stone.

“Come now,” I murmured, and the softness of my own voice disgusted me. “Do not make me beg.”

She swallowed once. Relief cut through me so sharply it was almost pain. Then she gagged.

Her face turned away by a fraction, all the strength she had left gathered into refusal. A weak sound scraped out of her throat. Not enough to be a word. Enough to be horror.

I knew that sound.

I had heard it from prisoners freed too late. From donors who had discovered consent could be forged by fear. From humans who had looked at vampires and understood only hunger wearing a beautiful face.

My jaw tightened.

“I am sorry,” I said, though apology was useless currency.

Her head shifted again, trying to escape my wrist. My blood ran down the corner of her mouth onto the sheets.

I hated what I did next.

Not because compulsion was difficult. For me, it was not. I had been born to command. My voice could bend a room when I wished it. Humans were especially fragile beneath that pressure, though age, will, and strange bonds could complicate any certainty. The power gathered behind my teeth and eyes like a storm choosing a valley.

I caught her gaze.

“Swallow.”