The thorn-vines still cling to my wrists when I wake.
Not tightly. Not painfully. But they’re there—black, living things woven into the furs beneath me, their tips curled like fingers, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of the bond. Cassian’s magic. His claim. His *prison*.
I lie still, eyes closed, breath slow, listening to the silence of the chamber. No footsteps. No murmurs from the guards. No rustle of fabric as he moves through the study beyond the inner door. Just the low, steady hum of the bond beneath my skin, warm and insistent, like a fire banked low.
He’s not here.
For the first time since the bond formed, he’s left me alone.
I open my eyes.
The room is dim, lit only by the pale blue torchlight flickering in the sconces along the walls. The ceiling still looms above me—frozen branches frozen mid-collapse, like a forest caught in its final scream. The obsidian floor reflects shards of broken sky. And the bed—*his* bed—still dominates the center of it all, a slab of black ice veined with thorns that pulse in time with my heartbeat.
And me?
I’m still on the pallet to the left. Not on the ice. Not in his arms.
But the vines binding my wrists? They’re not punishment.
They’re protection.
I know it the moment I try to sit up. The second my spine lifts from the furs, the bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My breath hitches. My skin burns. The thorns on my arm *bloom*, spreading like ink beneath my skin. Pain follows—sharp, sudden, a knife twisting in my side.
Separation.
Even this small distance from the center of the bed, from *him*, the bond fights me. It doesn’t want me to leave. It doesn’t want me to *think*. It wants me close. It wants me *bound*.
And Cassian?
He knew.
He knew I’d try to run. That I’d fight. That I’d look for a way out.
So he didn’t lock the door.
He didn’t post guards.
He let me wake up alone—only to realize I’m still trapped.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the swell of fury. Not at him. Not just at him. At myself. For letting this happen. For letting him kiss me in the glade. For letting him carry me from the Council like some damsel in a cursed fairy tale. For letting the bond *win*.
I came here to kill him.
Not to fall for him.
Not to *need* him.
Not to wake up with his magic wrapped around my wrists like a lover’s embrace.
I try again—this time slower, more deliberate. I shift my weight, testing the vines. They tighten, just slightly, a warning. I stop. Breathe. Wait. The pain eases. The heat dulls. But the vines don’t release.
They’re not meant to hurt me.
They’re meant to *hold* me.
And that’s worse.
Because it means he’s not just controlling me.
He’s *protecting* me.
And I don’t want to be protected.
I want to be free.
I want revenge.
I want the fire in my blood to burn for justice, not for *him*.
But the bond doesn’t care.
It only knows connection. Proximity. Heat. Desire.
And last night—
Last night, I *wanted* it.
When he kissed me, when his thigh pressed between mine, when the thorns erupted and the heat exploded—
I didn’t fight.
Not really.
I bit him. I spat in his face. I called him a monster.
But I didn’t push him away.
I *arched* into him.
I *held on*.
I *kissed him back*.
A knock at the door.
Not Cassian. The rhythm is wrong—softer, hesitant. A servant, maybe. Or Kael.
“Enter,” I say, voice rough.
The door opens.
It’s not Kael.
It’s a young fae woman, her hair silver-white like Cassian’s, her eyes wide with caution. She wears the uniform of the inner chamber—black silk, frost-threaded, gloves of shadow-leather. In her hands, she carries a tray: a silver pitcher of water, a basin, a cloth, a fresh set of clothes.
“Your Majesty sent me,” she says, stepping inside. “To tend to you.”
“I don’t need tending,” I say.
“He said you might say that.” She sets the tray down, keeps her gaze lowered. “He also said to tell you… the Council is in emergency session. They’re calling for your execution. Again.”
My breath stills.
“And him?”
“He’s with them. Standing between you and the vote. Again.”
I close my eyes.
Of course he is.
He’s not just protecting me from the bond.
He’s protecting me from *them*.
And I hate him for it.
“You can go,” I say.
She hesitates. “The clothes—”
“I’ll manage.”
She bows and leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.
I wait until the sound of her footsteps fades. Then I try again—this time not to rise, but to *pull*.
I tug at the vines, slow at first, then harder. They resist. Tighten. Pain flares—white-hot, searing—ripping through my arm, my chest, my core. I gasp, but I don’t stop. I *can’t* stop. Not now. Not when the Council is voting on my death. Not when Cassian is standing in their way. Not when the truth is still out there, buried under lies and blood.
I yank.
The vines *scream*—not in pain, but in protest. They writhe, twist, tighten around my wrists like living chains. Blood wells where the thorns pierce my skin. My vision blurs. My breath comes in ragged bursts.
But I don’t let go.
I *can’t*.
Because if I do, I lose.
And if I lose—
Then Nyx wins.
Then the coven stays dead.
Then the Heartroot dies.
Then Cassian—
No.
I don’t finish the thought.
I *can’t*.
Because the truth is—
I don’t want him to die.
Not anymore.
And that terrifies me more than any vine, any bond, any blade.
I pull one last time—hard, desperate, *furious*—and the vines *snap*.
Not from force. Not from magic.
From *release*.
They unravel, retreating into the furs, sinking back into the ice, leaving behind raw, bleeding marks and a trail of dark, glistening residue. The pain fades. The heat dulls. But the bond still hums—warm, restless, *alive*.
I sit up slowly, cradling my wrists. The fresh set of clothes lies on the tray—black leather, tight and functional, a blade already strapped to the thigh. My clothes. My armor. My *weapon*.
I dress in silence, every movement stiff, every breath careful. The bond watches. Waits. Tests.
But I don’t stop.
I walk to the basin, splash cold water on my face. My reflection in the silvered bowl is pale, sharp-eyed, lips still swollen from last night’s kiss. But there’s something else in my gaze now.
Determination.
I didn’t come here to be saved.
I came here to *burn*.
And if Cassian won’t let me kill him—
Then I’ll find the one who *deserves* it.
—
The Council Chamber is in chaos.
I hear it before I see it—voices rising, accusations flying, the scrape of steel. The bond flares as I approach, heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My breath hitches. My skin tightens. The thorns on my arm *bloom*, spreading like ink beneath my skin.
I don’t slow.
I push open the doors and step inside.
The room falls silent.
All eyes turn to me—fae nobles, vampire elders, werewolf leaders, witch envoys, human observers. Their faces are cold, their eyes sharp with suspicion. At the center of it all, Cassian stands like a specter carved from ice and shadow, his storm-gray eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He just looks… *relieved*.
“You’re supposed to be confined,” he says, voice low.
“You’re supposed to be protecting me,” I counter. “Not fighting my battles for me.”
“Same thing.”
“No.” I step forward, my boots clicking against the black marble. “You don’t get to decide what I need. You don’t get to lock me away like some fragile thing. I’m not your prisoner. I’m not your pet. I’m not your *queen*.”
“You are,” he says, stepping to my side. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Then let me fight.” I turn to the Council. “You want proof I didn’t kill that guard? Fine. Let me find the truth. Let me expose Nyx. Let me show you that the bond isn’t a curse—it’s a *weapon*. And if I fail?” I meet their eyes, one by one. “Then hang me. But don’t pretend this is about justice. It’s about fear. About control. About the fact that you’re all terrified of what happens when a witch and a half-blood king stop playing by your rules.”
“She’s dangerous,” says the vampire elder. “The bond is unstable. It’s already driven her to violence.”
“And you?” I snap. “You’re the one who wanted me dead without a trial. You’re the one who believes lies over evidence. You’re the one who’s letting Nyx divide us while she prepares to burn the Wilds to ash.”
“She’s right,” says Kael, stepping forward. His amber eyes scan the room. “Nyx left her own dagger at the scene. She wanted us to turn on each other. And we almost did.”
“Then prove it,” says a witch from the Eastern Coven. “Find the dagger. Find the proof. And if you can’t—” She smiles. “—then you hang at dusk.”
I don’t flinch. “I’ll find it.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll die knowing I didn’t let fear win.”
Cassian’s hand finds mine—marked, bleeding, *hers*. The bond flares—warm, steady, *right*.
“She won’t fail,” he says. “Because I won’t let her.”
The Council murmurs. They don’t agree. Don’t bow. But they don’t stop us as we turn and walk away.
—
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as we move down the hall. “Standing in front of them. Fighting for me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I can fight my own battles.”
“I know.” He stops, turns to me. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore.”
My breath stills.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why protect me? Why fight for me? After everything I’ve done? After everything I’ve said?”
“Because you’re not just bound to me,” he says, voice rough. “You’re *mine*. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
“Even if it destroys you?”
“Especially then.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my pulse point. “You think I don’t see it? The way you fight the bond? The way you push me away? You’re afraid of what this means. Of what *we* mean. But I’m not.”
“Then why bind me to the bed?”
“To keep you safe.”
“I don’t want to be safe.”
“I know.” He smirks. “You want to burn. You want to fight. You want to *win*.”
“And you?”
“I want you alive.” His voice drops. “And I want you *here*. With me. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because—” He hesitates. “Because I can’t imagine a world without you in it.”
My throat tightens.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to turn my rage into romance. You don’t get to make me *feel* like this.”
“I’m not making you feel anything.” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “I’m just letting you *see* it. The bond doesn’t lie. It only shows what’s already there.”
“And what’s there?”
“You tell me.”
I want to pull away. Want to slap his hand, to scream, to *hate* him. But the bond won’t let me. My body leans into his touch, my skin burning, my core tightening. The thorns on my spine *twitch*, responding to the surge of magic, of *desire*.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper. “Not here. Not now. Not with the Council breathing down our necks.”
“Then when?” he asks. “After? When we’re covered in Nyx’s blood? When the bond is screaming from the fight? When you’re standing over her body, and I’m the only one who knows what that fire in your eyes really means?”
My pulse spikes.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your magic.” He tilts my head back, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “I know your fire. I know the way your breath catches when I touch you. The way your thorns bloom. The way your body *arches* toward mine, even when your mind says no.”
“That’s the bond.”
“No.” His voice is a whisper. “That’s *you*.”
And before I can answer—
Before I can deny it—
Before I can say that I came here to kill him—
A note flutters from the ceiling, landing at my feet.
White paper. Folded. Sealed with wax—the sigil of the Eastern Coven.
My breath stills.
I pick it up. Break the seal.
One line, written in ink that glows faintly:
The Heartroot remembers you.
The bond *screams*.
Not in pain.
Not in warning.
In *recognition*.
Cassian sees it. Of course he does.
“What is it?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
Because I already know.
The truth isn’t in the Council.
It’s not in Nyx.
It’s not even in the bond.
It’s in the Heartroot.
And it’s calling to me.
“We need to find it,” I say, voice steady. “Before they do.”
“We will,” he says, taking my hand. “Together.”
The bond flares—warm, steady, *right*.
And for the first time since I walked into this court—
I believe him.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the fire.
But because, in his eyes, I see it—
Not a monster.
Not a king.
But a man who’s been as lost as I am.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
We’re not meant to burn each other.
Maybe we’re meant to burn the world—
And rebuild it from the ashes.
Together.