Chapter 30: Forbidden

Third POV

The kiss with Hecate had reignited something inside Maddox that he did not want to feel. This inexplicable attraction to her was killing him.

Having to see her always near, always within reach, and not being able to have her was tearing him apart from the inside out.

He did not like feeling this way. It was one thing to be attracted to a beautiful woman. That was natural, harmless. But this attraction ran so deep, burned so hot, that it threatened to rival what he had felt for Samantha.

And that was unacceptable. He would never love another woman the way he had loved Samantha. No matter how tempting Hecate might be.

The snow had let up slightly, and Maddox stood in the training yard behind the castle, his chest bare despite the biting cold. His breath fogged in the air, but his skin steamed with exertion.

He pounded his fists into a heavy punching bag, each strike landing with a dull thud that echoed off the stone walls.

His men trained around him, but he barely saw them. His mind was elsewhere.

The pendant hung against his chest, the vial of Samantha's blood warm against his skin. It was the only thing keeping the beast at bay, the only thing anchoring him to sanity. But lately, even that had begun to feel less like a lifeline and more like a chain.

He thought of his dreams.

Every night, she came to him. Samantha, crawling across the bed in a sheer gown, her ashen blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes soft and inviting. She would whisper his name, and he would reach for her, desperate to touch her, to hold her, to beg for forgiveness.

But recently, the dreams had changed.

Now Hecate was there too. Her black silk nightgown clinging to her curves, the dark runes peeking out from the fabric, teasing him, calling to him. She would crawl beside Samantha, her dark eyes burning with the same heat that pulsed through his veins.

Sometimes they came together, both of them, their hands reaching for him, their voices a duet of desire that left him drenched in sweat and aching with need.

He would wake up hard, guilty, and more wretched than ever.

Maddox struck the punching bag harder. The chains creaked.

He caught a familiar scent on the cold air. Lavender and herbs and something wild. He turned his head and saw Hecate pushing Odette's wheelchair across the cobblestone path that led to the garden.

The queen sat bundled in furs, her face lifted to the pale winter sun, a rare smile on her lips. Hecate walked behind her, her hands on the handles, her dark hair pulled back from her face.

Their eyes met across the courtyard.

The world seemed to stop.

Her gaze held his, and he felt it again, that pull, that heat, that desperate clawing need that made him want to cross the distance between them and take her right there in the snow. His nostrils flared. Her scent flooded his lungs. His skin burned despite the cold.

Hecate looked away first. She turned the wheelchair and guided Odette toward the greenhouse, disappearing around a corner.

"You need a rest, my king?" Joss, his training master, asked from behind him.

Maddox's jaw tightened. Blood dripped from his knuckles where the skin had split. He did not feel the pain.

"No. Increase the pressure."

He threw himself back into the workout, but his mind was no longer in the yard. It was with her.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Maddox attended meetings, signed documents, listened to reports he did not hear. His body moved through the motions, but his thoughts remained fixed on Hecate.

On the way she had looked at him. On the way her lips had felt against his. On the way she had hesitated, as if she wanted to surrender but feared what would happen if she did.

By evening, he could no longer resist.

He waited in the shadows of the corridor outside her studio, hidden behind a pillar, watching. Ysabella emerged after a while, her expression tight, and strode away toward the family wing. The door to the studio remained slightly open, golden light spilling through the crack.

Maddox slipped inside.

Hecate stood at her worktable, her back to him, her hands busy with a mortar and pestle. She was humming softly, a melody he did not recognize. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across the runes on her arms.

He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked.

She froze.

"My king," she said, not turning around. Her voice was steady, but he could hear the slight tremor beneath it. "What are you doing here?"

He crossed the room in three strides. His hand closed around her wrist, turning her to face him. Her dark eyes were wide, her lips parted, her breath coming faster now.

"To be honest," he said, his voice low and rough, "I do not know."

Then he kissed her.

There was no hesitation this time. No gentle exploration. No waiting to see if she would pull away. He took her mouth with a hunger that had been building for days, weeks, since the moment she had first walked into his throne room.

And she kissed him back.

Her hands came up to his shoulders, gripping him, pulling him closer. Her lips parted beneath his, and he tasted her, honey and herbs and something darker, something that made his blood sing. She melted against him, her body soft and warm and yielding.

He lifted her onto the edge of the worktable. Vials and jars scattered, falling to the floor with shattering sounds that neither of them noticed. He pushed up her skirts, his hands rough on her thighs, and she gasped against his mouth.

There was no time for words. No time for tenderness. Only need. Only the burning, desperate need to be inside her, to lose himself in her, to forget for one moment who he was and what he had done.

He took her there, on the table, among the herbs and the potions and the broken glass. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she arched beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her moans swallowed by his kisses.

It was fast. Forbidden. Wrong.

And it was the most alive he had felt in three years.

She matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his, her breath hot against his neck. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, feeling her pulse race beneath his lips. The bond between them, whatever it was, whatever it meant, blazed like wildfire.

When it was over, they did not speak.

He pulled away, his chest heaving, his body still burning with the aftershock. She sat on the table, her dress tangled around her thighs, her lips swollen, her eyes dark and unreadable.

He could not look at her.

He turned and walked to the door. His hand closed around the handle, and he paused, his back to her, his voice barely a whisper.

"I am sorry."

Then he left.

He did not see the way she pressed her hand to her chest, over her heart. He did not see the tears that welled in her dark eyes, the way she bit her lip to keep from calling him back.

He did not see her slide off the table, her legs unsteady, and lower herself to the floor among the broken glass, her head in her hands.

He only felt the guilt. Heavy as chains. Cold as the winter night.

He had betrayed Samantha's memory. He had betrayed Odette, however loveless their marriage. He had taken a woman who was under his protection, who had been brought here to heal, and he had used her for his own selfish need.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, and when he reached the top, he leaned against the wall and slid down until he sat on the cold stone floor.

He pulled the pendant from his chest and held it in his palm, feeling the warmth of Samantha's blood against his skin.

"What have I become?" he whispered to the empty corridor.

No one answered.