The first light of dawn bleeds through the heavy drapes, thin and gray like diluted blood. I’ve been awake for hours, lying in the silence of my gilded prison, listening to the distant howl of wolves beyond the Keep’s walls. Not a warning. Not a challenge. But a mourning cry—long, low, aching. It matches the hollow thrum beneath my ribs.
The bond.
It hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s grown stronger since last night—since Lysander stood so close I could feel the heat of his breath on my neck, since he touched my sigil and spoke of fate like it was something sacred instead of a curse. It pulses now, a slow, insistent rhythm under my skin, syncing with my heartbeat, whispering his name in the dark.
Lysander. Lysander. Lysander.
I press my palms flat against the mattress, willing myself to stay still. To stay sane. To remember who I am.
Circe of the Hollow Coven.
Daughter of Elspeth.
Avenger.
Not his. Not fated. Not claimed.
But the lie tastes like ash.
Because when he touched me last night—when his thumb brushed my jaw, when his voice dropped to that rough, dangerous timbre—I didn’t want to kill him.
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to tear off his clothes and feel his hands on my skin, his mouth on my throat, his teeth at my pulse. I wanted to let the bond burn us both to the ground.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
A knock at the door.
I sit up fast, heart hammering. “Enter.”
The door opens. Not Lysander. Not a guard.
Mira.
She slips inside, small and sharp-eyed, her dark curls pulled into a messy bun, a healer’s satchel slung over one shoulder. Human-born, but with witch and vampire blood running through her veins—hybrid, like so many of us who survive in the cracks. She’s been watching me since the gala, her gaze knowing, amused.
“Morning, firebrand,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Heard you made quite the impression.”
“I was framed for murder,” I say flatly.
“And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still beautiful.” She sets the satchel on the desk and pulls out a vial of dark liquid. “He didn’t lock you up.”
“He’s keeping me close.” I stand, wrapping the silk robe around me. “Says it’s for my protection.”
“Mm-hmm.” She uncorks the vial, sniffs it, then offers it to me. “Drink. It’ll stabilize your magic. The bond’s pulling at you—your aura’s fraying at the edges.”
I hesitate, then take it. The liquid is bitter, thick with iron and something herbal—mandrake root, maybe, or nightshade. But it settles the tremor in my hands. “How do you know about the bond?”
“Because I can smell it.” She grins. “You two reek of sex and denial. Like a cursed romance novel.”
I glare. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, it’s exactly like that.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull. The heat. The way your body betrays you the second he walks into a room?”
I don’t answer.
She laughs. “Thought so. Fated bonds don’t play fair. They don’t care about revenge or duty or old grudges. They only care about completion.”
“It’s magic,” I say, too sharply. “Not destiny.”
“Same thing, in this world.” She taps the empty vial. “Anyway, you’ve got bigger problems. Kael just sent word—the Council’s calling you both for a magic compatibility test. Today. In the Chamber of Echoes.”
My stomach drops. “Why?”
“To confirm the bond’s strength. To make sure you’re fit to serve on the Tribunal.” She arches a brow. “You really think they’d let a fated pair rule without testing them first?”
No. Of course not.
And the Chamber of Echoes? It’s worse than the Chamber of Veins. A circular room lined with silver mirrors that reflect not your image, but your magic—your truth. It strips away glamour, exposes hidden sigils, reveals emotional resonance between bonded pairs. If I go in there with Lysander, every flicker of desire, every pulse of the bond, every secret I’ve buried will be on display.
“I can’t go,” I say.
“You don’t have a choice.” She pats my arm. “But hey—maybe it’ll be fun. You two clearly want to rip each other’s clothes off. Might as well get it over with.”
“Mira—”
“Or,” she interrupts, “you could use it to your advantage. The test measures emotional alignment. If you can control your reactions, if you can mask your intent, you might actually pass.”
“And if I can’t?”
She shrugs. “Then you’ll either have sex in front of an audience, or they’ll lock you both in a room until you do.”
I groan. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m being realistic.” She grabs her satchel. “Now, get dressed. You’ve got an hour. And wear something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m here to assassinate the king.’”
She leaves.
I stand there, staring at the door.
An hour.
That’s all I have to prepare for a test that could expose everything.
But I don’t move.
Because the truth is, I’m not afraid of the mirrors.
I’m afraid of him.
—
The Chamber of Echoes is colder than I expected.
The silver walls absorb sound, swallowing footsteps, breath, even the beat of my heart. The air is still, charged, like the moment before a storm. Torches flicker in iron sconces, their flames reflecting endlessly in the mirrored surfaces, creating the illusion of infinite corridors, infinite versions of myself.
Lysander is already here.
He stands at the center, back straight, hands clasped behind him. Dressed in black again—tight leather pants, a fitted shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. His gold eyes lift as I enter, and something dark flickers in their depths.
Hunger.
Recognition.
And something else.
Anticipation.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I was detained,” I lie, stepping forward. “Mira had questions about my magic.”
He doesn’t believe me. I see it in the way his nostrils flare, the way his gaze drops to my throat, where my pulse jumps. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying.” He takes a step toward me. “You always lie.”
“And you always assume.”
“Because you give me no reason to trust you.”
“And you give me no reason to trust you.”
We stand there, chest to chest, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The air crackles. The mirrors shimmer, reflecting not just our bodies, but the pulse of magic around us—golden and black, twisting together, inseparable.
“Enough,” a voice says.
The Fae envoy steps forward, her silver hair glowing in the torchlight. “The test begins now. Place your hands on each other. Chest to chest. Palms flat. Let the chamber read your resonance.”
My breath catches.
“No,” I say. “There has to be another way.”
“There is not,” she says coolly. “The bond must be tested. Or you will be removed from the Tribunal.”
Lysander doesn’t hesitate.
He steps forward, closes the last inch between us, and places his hands on my hips, thumbs brushing the curve of my waist. His touch is firm, possessive, sending a jolt through my core.
“Your turn,” he murmurs.
I swallow.
Slowly, I lift my hands and press them flat against his chest.
His heart hammers beneath my palms.
Not from fear.
From need.
The chamber erupts.
The mirrors flare, not with our images, but with light—golden and black, swirling like storm and midnight, merging into a single, pulsing spiral. The runes on the floor ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“The resonance is off the scale,” the envoy breathes. “They’re perfectly aligned.”
I try to pull away.
Lysander doesn’t let me.
His hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place. His breath is hot on my neck. “Don’t fight it,” he says, voice low. “Not here. Not now.”
“I’m not fighting you,” I whisper. “I’m fighting this.”
“It’s the same thing.”
The bond flares, stronger, hotter. It’s not just in my chest anymore—it’s in my blood, my bones, my breath. My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my gown, aching with a pressure I can’t name. My thighs press together, trying to ease the sudden, unbearable throb between them.
And then—
Lysander leans in.
His lips brush my ear. “You feel it too.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us. My breasts press against his chest, hard and warm. My breath hitches. His cock—already half-hard—presses against my stomach, hot and heavy through the fabric.
“Look at the mirrors,” he murmurs.
I do.
And what I see steals my breath.
Not our bodies.
But our magic.
Golden and black, not just intertwined—but feeding each other. His strength amplifying mine. My fire tempering his rage. The bond isn’t just connecting us.
It’s completing us.
“We’re stronger together,” he says, voice rough. “You know it. I know it. The magic knows it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, but my voice wavers. “I still hate you.”
“Then why are you trembling?”
“Because I want to kill you.”
“No.” He cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re trembling because you want to kiss me.”
My breath catches.
His eyes drop to my lips.
And then—
He leans in.
I don’t move.
I should push him away. Slap him. Run.
But I don’t.
Because a part of me—deep, traitorous, hungry—wants this.
Wants him.
His lips are a breath from mine.
So close I can taste him—storm and iron, power and pain.
My heart hammers.
His hand slides into my hair, tightening, tilting my head.
And then—
I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back, eyes wide, chest heaving. The bond screams in protest, a raw, physical ache in my chest.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare touch me like that again.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, gold eyes burning, jaw clenched.
“The test is complete,” the envoy says, stepping between us. “You are compatible. Emotionally. Magically. Physically.”
“We’re not mates,” I snap.
“The magic says otherwise.” She inclines her head. “You have six days, witches. Six days to consummate the bond. Or you will be exiled. And the Tribunal will fall.”
She leaves.
Lysander and I stand there, the silence between us thick with everything unsaid.
Then—
“You felt it,” he says, voice low. “When I touched you. When I almost kissed you. You wanted it.”
“I wanted to destroy you,” I say.
“Same thing, in this court.”
He turns and walks out.
I don’t follow.
Because he’s right.
And that’s the worst part.
The bond doesn’t care about vengeance.
It doesn’t care about the past.
It only knows him.
And it wants.
And for the first time, I’m not sure I can stop myself from giving in.
Not sure I want to.
I press my hand to my chest, where the ache lingers.
And I whisper the truth, soft and broken:
“I came here to kill you.”
But what if I’m falling in love with you instead?