The first thing I feel is the cold.
Not the kind that bites your skin or numbs your fingers — though the Lyon wind does that too, slicing through the black lace of my gown like it knows I’m lying. No, this cold is deeper. It’s the chill of a blade pressed to your spine, of a name you no longer wear, of a past that burned so hot it left only ash.
I step forward, heels clicking against the obsidian tiles of the Shadow Court’s grand hall, and the wolves begin to howl.
Not metaphorically. Not in warning. But in raw, primal chorus, their voices rising from the courtyard beyond the arched windows, a chorus of fangs and fury. The chandeliers tremble. A few guests — vampires in blood-red silk, Fae nobles dripping with illusion — glance toward the glass, but none flinch. They’re used to it. They’re used to him.
I’m not.
I’ve spent ten years carving out a new identity, mastering blood sigils in hidden covens, learning to walk without a limp after they broke my ribs in Prague. I’ve learned to smile when I want to scream, to lie with the precision of a surgeon. I’ve become Livia Vale, minor noble from the Rhine coven, witch of moderate power and quiet ambition. A ghost in silk.
But the second I cross the threshold, the mask cracks.
Because he is here.
Lysander.
King of the Northern Pack. Alpha of Alphas. The man who gave the order to burn my coven to the ground.
He stands at the head of the hall, tall and brutal in a tailored black coat that hugs the hard lines of his shoulders. No crown. No throne. He doesn’t need them. Power rolls off him in waves — a deep, animal hum that vibrates in my bones. His eyes are gold, not human gold, but the molten kind that glows in the dark, the kind that sees too much.
And they’re on me.
I don’t look away. I can’t. Not when every instinct in my body is screaming to run, to fight, to tear out his throat with my teeth. I force my breath to stay even, my spine straight, my face smooth. I am Livia Vale. I am harmless. I am here to serve.
He knows I’m lying.
I see it in the way his nostrils flare, the way his gaze drops to my throat, where my pulse jumps like a trapped bird. He can smell it. Fear. Fury. The iron-tang of old blood beneath my skin.
The welcoming rite begins. A Fae elder steps forward, her voice like wind through dry leaves, reciting the ancient words that bind guest to host. One by one, the new arrivals step forward, offering their wrist to be touched — a symbolic gesture, meant to confirm no hidden weapons, no cursed magic.
When it’s my turn, the hall goes still.
I glide forward, the train of my gown whispering over stone. My heart is a drumbeat in my ears. This is the moment. The first test. If my magic flares, if my blood sings with the Hollow sigils I’ve etched beneath my skin, they’ll know. They’ll tear me apart before I ever get close to him.
I extend my wrist.
And then —
He moves.
Lysander steps down from the dais, his boots striking the floor like hammer blows. The elder hesitates, but he ignores her, his gaze locked on mine. The crowd murmurs. This isn’t protocol. This isn’t done.
But he doesn’t care.
His hand closes around my wrist.
The world explodes.
Heat. White-hot and violent, surges up my arm, searing through muscle and bone, flooding my chest, my throat, my core. It’s not pain — not exactly — but something worse. Something alive. A current of raw magic, ancient and hungry, snapping awake after decades of dormancy.
I gasp.
His fingers tighten.
Our eyes meet — and for the first time, I see it. Not just the predator, the killer, the monster who ordered my mother burned alive. But something else. A flicker of shock. Of recognition. Of need.
The bond.
Fated.
Impossible.
And real.
The air between us crackles. The chandeliers sway. A glass shatters somewhere in the back. The wolves outside howl louder, a chorus of rage and longing.
Our scents clash — his like storm and pine and wet earth, mine like fire and thyme and something darker, something witch. And beneath it all, the pulse of the bond, a deep, primal throb that echoes in my blood, in my breath, in the very beat of my heart.
I try to pull away.
He doesn’t let go.
“You smell like fire,” he says, his voice low, rough, meant only for me. “And lies.”
I force a smile. “All witches do, Your Majesty.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point. A test. A threat. A caress.
My skin burns where he touches me.
“Not like this,” he murmurs. “You burn like something stolen.”
The crowd is watching. The Fae elder clears her throat, but Lysander doesn’t release me. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Livia Vale,” I say, smooth, practiced.
He tilts his head. “And what do you want here, Livia Vale?”
I meet his stare. “To serve the Court. To prove myself.”
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “Prove yourself?”
He leans in, close enough that I feel his breath on my neck, hot and sharp. “Then let’s see how well you burn.”
He releases me.
I step back, my body trembling, not from fear — though there’s that too — but from the raw, electric pull of the bond. It hums beneath my skin, a living thing, coiled and waiting.
I move to the edge of the hall, where the shadows are thickest. My fingers brush the dagger hidden in my sleeve — cold steel, a comfort. I need to think. To plan. To remember why I’m here.
I came here to kill you.
The thought is a mantra, a shield. But it feels different now. Weaker. Because the bond doesn’t care about vengeance. It doesn’t care about the past.
It only knows him.
And it wants.
I watch him across the room. He’s speaking with a vampire lord, his profile sharp, his posture rigid. But I see the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his jaw tightens when he thinks no one is looking. He feels it too. The pull. The hunger.
He’s fighting it.
Good.
So am I.
A Fae woman in silver silk glides up beside me, her scent laced with jasmine and deceit. “First time at the Court?” she asks, her voice light, curious.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“And already the King’s attention,” she murmurs. “Impressive. Or dangerous. Depending on how you play it.”
I glance at her. “What do you mean?”
She smiles, revealing sharp little teeth. “Lysander doesn’t touch just anyone. And when he does… well. Let’s just say his last mate died under… interesting circumstances.”
My blood runs cold. “What happened to her?”
“Betrayed him,” the Fae says, sipping from her glass. “Worked with the Seelie. He found out. Bit her heart out in front of the entire pack.”
I don’t react. But inside, my mind races. So he’s vulnerable. He trusts no one. And he kills those who cross him.
Perfect.
“And the bond?” I ask casually. “Is it true what they say? That only fated mates can serve on the Tribunal?”
She nods. “Oh, yes. The Fae High Court’s decree. No bond, no seat. And the ritual always reveals the truth.”
My stomach twists.
If they test us — if they force a blood ritual — they’ll know. Not just that we’re fated. But that my blood carries the mark of the Hollow Coven. That I’m not Livia Vale.
That I’m Circe.
And then I’ll be dead before dawn.
I need to move fast. Find the evidence. Destroy him before the bond destroys me.
But as I turn back to the room, my gaze catches on Lysander again.
He’s watching me.
Not with suspicion. Not with anger.
With hunger.
And for the first time in ten years, the ice around my heart cracks.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because a part of me — a deep, traitorous part — wants to answer that hunger.
No.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. I came here to kill you.
But as the wolves howl again, long and low, I wonder —
What if the bond wants me to do something else?
What if it wants me to claim him?
The thought terrifies me more than any blade.
Because if I let it in — if I let myself want him — then I’m no longer the hunter.
I’m the prey.
And in this court, the prey always burns.