The Winter Court gleams like a blade dipped in frost.
I stand at the edge of the receiving hall, my boots silent on the black marble, my breath steady. My gloves are on. My face is calm. My heart—well, my heart is a caged thing, clawing at my ribs. But no one sees that. No one sees the fire beneath my skin, the thorn-blood humming in my veins, the memory of screams echoing behind my eyes.
Ten years. Ten years since the Eastern Coven burned.
Ten years since I watched my mother die with her hands wrapped around a dying grimoire—*the Heartroot*—as Cassian Thorn’s soldiers tore the magic from her bones.
And now I’m here. In his court. In his world. Standing under the vaulted ceiling of ice-crystal and shadow, wearing the face of a diplomat, speaking the lies of a traitor, all so I can get close enough to put a knife in his throat.
He hasn’t seen me yet. Not really.
He’s seated on the dais, a throne of blackened thornwood rising behind him like a cage. Cassian Thorn. High King of the Winter Court. Half-fae bastard. Thief. Murderer. His hair is silver-white, not from age—he’s ageless—but from the magic that bleeds through him, cold and sharp. His eyes are the color of a winter storm, gray and depthless, and right now, they’re scanning the room with the detached cruelty of a predator who’s already decided who lives and dies.
He wears black. Always black. A long coat lined with frost-thread, gloves of shadow-leather, a silver circlet pressed into his brow like a brand. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.
And then—
His gaze lands on me.
Not on the envoy from the Eastern Coven. Not on the woman with the forged papers and the diplomatic sigil. On *me*.
Something flickers in his eyes. Not recognition. Not yet. But *awareness*. Like a wolf catching the scent of fire in the wind.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. I let him see me—calm, composed, a diplomat playing her role. But inside, every nerve is alight. The thorn-blood in my veins pulses, a slow, dangerous rhythm. It knows him. It *remembers* him.
And then the herald calls my name.
“Birch of the Eastern Coven, envoy of the Witch Council, come forth to greet His Majesty, Cassian Thorn, Sovereign of the Winter Court, Keeper of the Veil, Binder of Oaths.”
I step forward.
My heels click against the stone. The room is silent. Every fae, every guard, every shadowed noble with their glamoured faces and hidden knives—they’re all watching. This is a test. They want to see if I’ll tremble. If I’ll bow too deep. If I’ll give myself away.
I don’t.
I walk with measured grace, spine straight, hands clasped before me. I stop three paces from the dais. I incline my head—just enough. Not submission. Respect. Calculated. Controlled.
“Your Majesty,” I say, voice clear, steady. “The Eastern Coven sends its regards. We come in peace, seeking alliance in these uncertain times.”
Lies. All of it.
But lies are my currency now.
Cassian doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me, his storm-gray eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the pulse at my throat, the way my breath catches—just once—when his gaze lingers on my mouth.
Then, slowly, he rises.
The room holds its breath.
He descends the dais, each step deliberate, silent. The air grows colder. Frost creeps across the floor in delicate patterns, blooming beneath his boots like flowers of ice. He stops in front of me. Too close. Close enough that I can smell him—winter pine, old blood, something dark and metallic beneath it. Close enough that I feel the pull of his magic, a low, thrumming pressure against my skin.
“Birch,” he says. My name on his lips is a blade. A threat. A promise.
“You’re not what I expected.”
My throat tightens. “And what did you expect, Your Majesty?”
“Someone weaker.” His voice is low, velvet over steel. “Someone who would beg. Someone who would kneel.”
I meet his eyes. “I don’t beg. And I don’t kneel.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. Not warmth. Not amusement. Something darker. Something that makes my blood heat and my skin prickle.
“Good,” he says. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”
Then he lifts his hand.
Not for a handshake. Not for a formal gesture.
For a *test*.
His gloved fingers hover between us. An invitation. A challenge.
My breath stills.
I know what this is. The greeting of equals. The touch that seals alliances. But for fae—especially for *him*—touch is power. Touch is truth. Touch can reveal lies, trigger bonds, awaken magic.
And I am *not* supposed to touch him.
But if I refuse, I fail. If I hesitate, I’m exposed.
So I reach out.
My gloved hand meets his.
And the world *shatters*.
Pain—white-hot, searing—rips through my palm as the glove tears. Not from force. From *magic*. From something deep in my blood that *wakes up*.
Thorns erupt.
Not from the walls. Not from the floor.
From *us*.
Black, thorned vines burst from the point where our skin meets, spiraling up our arms like living chains. They twist, they pulse, they *dig in*. Blood wells where the thorns pierce my flesh, dark and glistening. I gasp, wrenching back—but the vines hold. They bind us together, hand to hand, pulse to pulse, magic to magic.
The room explodes into chaos.
Gasps. Shouts. The scrape of steel.
Guards surge forward—but Cassian raises his free hand, and they freeze.
His eyes never leave mine.
His breath is steady. His expression—cold. Calculating. But beneath it, I see it. The flicker of shock. The dilation of his pupils. The way his jaw clenches as the thorns bite into his skin too.
He feels it. The bond. The *curse*.
“What is this?” I hiss, trying to pull away, but the vines tighten, drawing blood from both of us. “This isn’t a mating mark. This is—”
“A Thorn Pact,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Impossible.”
“It shouldn’t exist,” I breathe. “It’s forbidden. It’s—”
“Ours.”
The word hits me like a slap.
Our blood is mingling where the thorns pierce us, dark and thick. A drop falls to the floor—and sizzles, eating through the stone like acid.
“You’re not who you say you are,” Cassian murmurs, stepping closer, his free hand lifting to my wrist, where the thorns pulse beneath my skin. His thumb brushes the wound. A jolt of heat—*arousal*—flashes through me, sharp and unwelcome. My breath hitches. His eyes darken.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
“Good.” His voice drops, a velvet threat against my ear. “Because lies won’t protect you now.”
The thorns *throb*. A wave of heat rolls through me, sudden and overwhelming. My skin burns. My core tightens. I feel it—*him*—in my blood, in my bones, in the hollow of my throat where my pulse races.
And he feels it too.
I see it in the way his breath catches. In the way his fingers flex against my wrist. In the way his gaze drops to my mouth—just for a second—before snapping back to my eyes.
“The bond,” I say, forcing the words out. “It’s forcing a reaction. It’s—”
“Desire,” he finishes. “Yes. And pain. And hunger.” He leans in, his lips a breath from my ear. “It’s going to get worse. The longer we’re apart, the more it will burn. And if we try to break it?” He smiles, cold and cruel. “It will kill us both.”
My stomach drops.
This changes everything.
I came here to kill him. To steal back the Heartroot. To burn his name from history.
But now?
Now I’m *bound* to him.
And the worst part?
The worst part is that my body *wants* it.
My thighs press together instinctively. My nipples tighten beneath my dress. The thorns on my arm *bloom*, spreading like a dark flower across my skin, responding to the surge of heat between us.
Cassian sees it. Of course he does.
His gaze drops to my chest. Then back to my eyes. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips.
“You hate me,” he says. “I can taste it on the air. But your body?” He drags his thumb over my pulse point. “Your body tells a different story.”
I slap his hand away—hard.
The thorns *scream*.
Pain lances up my arm, white and blinding. I cry out, staggering back—but the vines hold. They *pull*, dragging me forward until I slam into his chest.
He catches me. One arm wraps around my waist, holding me flush against him. The other grips my injured hand, the thorns still binding us. His breath is hot against my neck. His heart—unnaturally slow, but now, just for a second, it *stutters*.
“You will not strike me again,” he says, voice low, deadly. “Not unless you want to feel what happens when the bond *punishes* disobedience.”
I glare up at him. “Then unbind us.”
“I can’t.” His eyes burn into mine. “And even if I could—” He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I wouldn’t.”
Then he steps back—*finally*—but the thorns don’t release. They retreat slowly, sinking back into our skin, leaving behind raw, bleeding wounds and a trail of dark, glistening residue.
The room is silent. Every eye is on us.
Cassian straightens his coat, his expression once again cold, controlled. But his voice—when he speaks—is rougher than before.
“Birch of the Eastern Coven,” he says, loud enough for all to hear. “You will remain in the Winter Court as my guest. Until this… *bond*… is understood, you will not leave my sight.”
My blood runs cold.
Guest. Prisoner. Same thing.
He turns to the guards. “Escort her to the east wing. My chambers.”
My breath catches. “Your *chambers*?”
“You heard me.” His gaze pins me. “We are bound, little witch. And until I say otherwise—you sleep where I sleep.”
The implication hits me like a fist.
He wants me close. He wants me *watched*. He wants me *controlled*.
And worse—he wants me to *want* it.
I look around the room. The fae nobles whisper behind their hands. The guards watch with cold eyes. Kael, Cassian’s Beta, stands at the edge of the dais, his expression unreadable—but his gaze lingers on me, sharp, assessing.
There’s no escape. Not now. Not with this bond pulsing between us, a living thing feeding on our proximity, our hatred, our *desire*.
I came here to destroy him.
But as Cassian steps toward me, his hand lifting to my chin, his storm-gray eyes holding mine with a hunger that terrifies me—
I realize the truth.
The mission hasn’t changed.
It’s just gotten infinitely more dangerous.
Because now?
Now I have to kill the man I’m bound to.
And the man whose touch makes my body *burn*.
He leans in, his breath warm against my lips.
“You’re mine,” he whispers. “And I will break you before you break me.”