The kiss in the Council Chamber should have felt like victory.
It didn’t.
It felt like a war cry—one I hadn’t meant to shout. One I wasn’t ready to fight.
I’d gone in with fire in my throat, ready to expose Cassian, to shatter the illusion of his control, to force the Council to see him for what he was: a dying king clinging to stolen magic. But then he’d looked at me—storm-gray eyes stripped bare—and kissed me like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting centuries to do it. Like the bond wasn’t a curse, but a promise.
And worse?
I’d kissed him back.
Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat that always flared between us. But because, for one fractured second, I’d believed him. Believed that we weren’t pawns. That we weren’t enemies. That we were—twins of spirit, bound by magic, meant to rule together.
And now, as I pace the length of his chambers—*our* chambers, if the Council’s recognition means anything—I can still feel his hands on me. The grip of his fingers at my waist. The way his thumb brushed my lip afterward, slow, possessive. The way the thorned mark on my palm still pulsed with his touch.
I press a hand to my mouth, as if I can wipe the memory away. But the heat lingers. The taste of him—winter pine and iron—still coats my tongue. The bond hums beneath my skin, warm and insistent, a low thrum of satisfaction, like a cat curled in front of a fire.
It’s not supposed to feel like this.
It’s supposed to be a leash. A trap. A weapon.
Not… this.
Not like coming home.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Cassian says from the doorway.
I don’t turn. I keep pacing. “I’m not thinking. I’m remembering. I’m remembering that you kissed me in front of the entire Council like it meant something.”
“It did.”
“No.” I whirl on him. “It was a power play. A claim. You wanted to shut them up. To prove you’re still in control.”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Frost blooms at his boots, delicate and deadly. “And if I said it was more than that?”
“I’d call you a liar.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, storm-gray eyes unreadable. “You felt it too.”
“I felt the bond.”
“No.” He steps closer. The air between us thickens. The bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My breath hitches. His eyes darken. “You felt me.”
“I felt manipulation.”
“Then why did you arch into me?” His voice drops, velvet over steel. “Why did your thorns bloom? Why did your hands grip my coat like you were afraid I’d stop?”
My pulse spikes. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” He’s close now. Too close. His breath is warm against my skin. His scent—pine, iron, something ancient—wraps around me, pulling me in. “You know. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Admit what?” I snap. “That I’m falling for the man I came to kill? That I’m letting a bond I don’t understand dictate my heart?”
“Maybe the bond isn’t dictating,” he says. “Maybe it’s just… revealing.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to make this about fate. You don’t get to turn my revenge into some tragic romance.”
“I’m not.” His hand lifts, slow, deliberate. Brushes a strand of hair from my face. “I’m saying that maybe the truth is more complicated than hate. Maybe the fire between us isn’t just anger. Maybe it’s—”
A knock at the door.
We both freeze.
Not Kael. Not a guard. The rhythm is wrong—soft, almost playful. A taunt.
Cassian’s jaw tightens. His hand drops.
“Don’t answer it,” I say.
But he does.
He moves to the door, opens it with a flick of his wrist.
And she steps in.
Lyra.
Queen of poison and perfume.
She wears nothing but a man’s shirt—his shirt, I realize with a jolt. Black silk, unbuttoned to the waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The fabric is too big on her, slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin and the faint red marks of teeth at the base of her throat. Her dark hair is tousled, her lips swollen, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
She doesn’t look at me.
She walks straight to Cassian, presses a hand to his chest, and tilts her face up.
“You took so long,” she murmurs. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”
My stomach drops.
Cassian doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his hand curls into a fist at his side. The thorned mark on his palm glows faintly—black veins pulsing beneath the skin.
“Lyra,” he says, voice cold. “You’re not welcome here.”
She laughs—low, throaty. “Oh, but I am.” She turns, finally, and looks at me. Her gaze is sharp, amused, knowing. “You must be Birch.”
I don’t answer.
“Cassian’s new pet.” She steps around him, circling me like a predator. “The one with the cursed bond. The one who thinks she’s his equal.”
“I am his equal,” I say, voice steady.
“Are you?” She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her—jasmine and blood. “Because last I checked, I was the one who shared his bed. The one who’s tasted his blood. The one who’s felt his fangs at my throat.”
My breath hitches.
She sees it. Smiles.
“He marked me,” she whispers, turning her neck to reveal a deep, crescent-shaped bite just below her ear. “Right here. A century ago. A real bond. Not some cursed trick of magic.”
“It’s not real,” I say. “You’re not his mate.”
“No?” She laughs. “Then why does he still answer to my call? Why does he still let me into his chambers? Why does he still—” She reaches out, touches my cheek—“—hate that I’m touching you?”
The bond screams.
Pain—white-hot, searing—rips through my arm, my chest, my core. I cry out, staggering back, clutching my palm as the thorned mark bleeds, black veins spreading up my wrist, pulsing with agony.
Cassian moves fast.
In one step, he’s between us, his body a wall of ice and shadow. His hand grips Lyra’s wrist, hard enough to bruise.
“You will not touch her,” he growls.
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “Or what? You’ll banish me again? You’ve done it before. And I always come back.”
“Not this time.”
“Oh, but it’s too late.” She pulls free, steps back. “The damage is done. She already knows.”
“Knows what?” I demand, voice rough.
“That he’s not yours.” She turns to Cassian, eyes gleaming. “That he never was. That no matter how many thorns you bind him with, no matter how many lies you tell, he’ll always come back to me.”
“Get out,” Cassian says, voice deadly quiet.
“With pleasure.” She walks to the door, pauses. Looks back. “Oh, and Birch?”
I don’t answer.
“Next time you think you’re the only woman who’s ever made him feel?” She smiles. “Ask him where he was last night.”
Then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
The bond still hums—angry, restless. My skin burns. My core aches. The thorns on my spine twitch, responding to the surge of magic, of jealousy.
I turn to Cassian. “Was she lying?”
He doesn’t look at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“She’s nothing.”
“She had your shirt.”
“She stole it.”
“And the mark?”
“A game. A claim. Not a bond.”
“Then why does it still bleed?”
He finally looks at me. His eyes are storm-gray, unreadable. “Because I let her believe it was real. Because sometimes, the illusion of power is enough to keep enemies close.”
“And you slept with her?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t?” I laugh—sharp, bitter. “You kiss me in front of the Council like I’m your queen, and then you let another woman walk in here wearing your clothes and your mark? And you expect me to believe it meant nothing?”
“I expect you to trust me.”
“Trust?” I step closer. The bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. “You want trust? Then tell me the truth. How many times has she been in your bed? How many times has she tasted your blood? How many times have you let her think she was the one who mattered?”
He doesn’t answer.
And that’s worse than any lie.
“I came here to kill you,” I say, voice breaking. “And now I’m standing here, fighting for you like some lovesick fool, while you let her humiliate me.”
“She was trying to provoke you.”
“And it worked.” I turn away, pressing a hand to my mouth. “Gods, it worked. I hate her. I hate that she knows you. I hate that she’s touched you. I hate that she’s—”
“Jealous?” he asks, voice low.
I whirl on him. “Yes. Yes, I’m jealous. Is that what you want to hear? That I want you all to myself? That I hate the thought of her hands on you, her mouth on your skin, her blood in your veins?”
He steps closer. The bond hums, warm and alive. “Then say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say that you want me.” His hand lifts, brushes my cheek. “Say that you’re not just bound to me. That you’re mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“You are.”
“I came here to destroy you.”
“And now?”
I look at him. At the storm in his eyes. At the way his breath hitches when I’m near. At the way his heart—unnaturally slow—now, just for a second, stutters.
“Now I don’t know what I want,” I whisper.
He cups my face. “Then let me show you.”
He leans in—
And the door bursts open.
Not Lyra this time.
Kael.
His amber eyes scan the room—me, Cassian, the tension thick enough to cut. He doesn’t speak. Just holds out a sealed scroll, waxed with the sigil of the Summer Court.
Cassian takes it. Breaks the seal.
His jaw tightens.
“Nyx summons us,” he says. “To the Moon Glade. At midnight. For a parley.”
I stare at him. “You’re not going.”
“I have to.”
“It’s a trap.”
“Of course it is.” He meets my eyes. “But if we don’t go, she’ll burn the Wilds to ash. And if we do…” He smirks, cold and cruel. “We burn her first.”
Kael steps back. “I’ll prepare the guard.”
“No.” Cassian shakes his head. “Just us.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” He turns to me. “You and I. Alone. Face to face with the woman who destroyed our past.”
My breath stills.
“And if she kills you?”
“Then you’ll have your revenge.” He steps closer. “But I’d rather you save me.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to make this about us.”
“I don’t.” His thumb brushes my pulse point. “I’m making it about survival. About truth. About the fire between us that even she can’t extinguish.”
The bond flares—warm, steady, right.
And for the first time since Lyra walked in—
I believe him.
“Fine,” I say. “We go. But if she tries to touch you—”
“She won’t.”
“And if she does?”
He smiles. “Then I’ll let you rip her throat out.”
I don’t smile back.
But inside, the thorns bloom.
Not in pain.
In warning.
Lyra watches from the shadows of the east wing, a glass of blood-wine in her hand, her lips curled in a smile.
“Oh, Birch,” she whispers. “You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
She takes a slow sip, savoring the taste.
“And neither does he.”