The summons comes at dusk.
A single black envelope, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. No name. No herald. Just slipped beneath my door like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.
I know what it means before I even break the seal.
The Tribunal has spoken.
The truth ritual is tonight.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the thick parchment. The words are formal, cold, written in the looping script of the Fae High Court:
By decree of the Tribunal of Nine, King Lysander and Lady Circe are hereby required to undergo the Rite of Unveiling in the Chamber of Whispers. The bond between them shall be tested under spell of absolute honesty. They shall share the sacred bed until dawn. Lies will be punished. Deception will be exposed. The truth shall reign.
Until dawn.
One bed.
No masks.
No control.
I crumple the letter in my fist, my breath coming fast. My skin is already too tight, the bond humming beneath it like a live wire. Every heartbeat echoes with the phantom press of Lysander’s hands, the memory of his mouth hovering over mine, the way his cock strained against my stomach when he pinned me in the courtyard.
I can’t do this.
I can’t.
Not because I’m afraid of the truth.
But because I’m afraid of what I’ll say.
What I’ll do.
The ritual won’t just strip away lies—it’ll amplify desire. Strip away inhibition. Make every suppressed hunger, every hidden ache, real. And if I’m alone with him in that room, in that bed, with no one to stop us—
I’ll break.
I’ll beg.
I’ll let him claim me.
And then I’ll be lost.
A knock.
I start, shoving the crumpled letter into the drawer of the desk. “Enter.”
The door opens.
Mira.
She slips inside, her dark curls bouncing, a satchel slung over one shoulder. Her sharp eyes scan the room, then land on me. “You got the summons.”
“You knew.”
“Kael told me.” She closes the door, locks it. “They’re setting you up, Circe. The Chamber of Whispers isn’t just about truth. It’s about consummation. The spell feeds on proximity, on touch, on the bond. If you’re in that bed with him, you will want him. And he will want you. And by dawn, you’ll either be mated—or exiled.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“You don’t have a choice.” She crosses the room, sets the satchel on the bed. “But you can control the narrative. You can make sure the world sees you as the one in power.”
“And how do I do that?”
She pulls out a vial of dark liquid—thick, swirling, like oil and blood. “This is dreamwine. A mild sedative. It won’t stop the ritual, but it’ll dull the bond’s pull. Make it easier to resist him.”
I hesitate. “And if he finds out?”
“Then you’re a witch who knows how to protect herself.” She grins. “Besides, you’re not the only one who’s been lying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “Nyx was seen leaving his chambers this morning. In his shirt.”
My blood runs cold.
“What?”
“She walked through the great hall like she owned it. Smiling. Touching her neck like she was still feeling his teeth.” Mira’s eyes gleam. “The entire court is talking about it. They think he’s chosen her. That you’re just a placeholder.”
My magic flares.
Not from fear.
From rage.
The bond snarls beneath my skin, a ripple of jealousy so sharp it makes my vision blur. I can smell him—storm and pine, wet earth and power—and now, layered beneath it, the faintest trace of jasmine. Nyx.
He didn’t mark me.
But he let her wear his shirt.
“He wouldn’t,” I whisper. “He wouldn’t betray the bond like that.”
“Wouldn’t he?” Mira arches a brow. “You think he’s any different than the rest of them? Alpha, king, fated mate—he’s still a man. And men are weak.”
I clench my fists. “He’s not weak.”
“Then why is she wearing his shirt?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Because a part of me—deep, traitorous, hurting—wants to believe he’d never do that. That he’s fighting this too. That he wants me, not her.
But another part—the part that watched my mother burn, that spent ten years in exile, that learned to trust no one—wants to believe the worst.
“Drink the dreamwine,” Mira says, pressing the vial into my hand. “And then go to the banquet. Make sure the court sees you as his mate. Not her.”
“I don’t need to prove anything.”
“Yes, you do.” She taps my chest. “Because right now, they see a witch who’s losing. And in this court, the weak don’t survive.”
—
The banquet hall is a cathedral of shadows and candlelight.
Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, their flames flickering like captured stars. The long tables are laden with bloodwine, roasted venison, dark bread soaked in marrow. Fae nobles in shimmering gowns, vampire lords in tailored black, wolf guards in leather armor—all of them whispering, watching, waiting.
And then I see her.
Nyx.
She sits at the high table, directly to Lysander’s left.
In his shirt.
Black silk, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. Her legs are crossed, one stiletto tapping the floor in slow, deliberate rhythm. Her lips are painted blood-red, her eyes lined with kohl. And around her neck—
The bite mark.
Fresh.
Deep.
His.
My breath catches.
The bond snarls, a physical ache in my chest, a surge of magic so hot it makes my sigil pulse beneath my sleeve. My vision blurs. My hands tremble. I want to scream. To burn her to ash. To tear that shirt from her body and make her bleed for daring to wear it.
But I don’t.
I walk forward, spine straight, chin high, the dreamwine a cool weight in my stomach. I glide to my seat—on Lysander’s right, directly across from Nyx.
He doesn’t look at me.
He’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands folded on the table. But I feel it—the bond, thrumming between us, pulling us together, aching for touch.
“Circe,” Nyx purrs, lifting her glass. “How lovely to see you.”
“Nyx.” I keep my voice cool. “I didn’t realize the King was in the habit of lending his clothes to guests.”
She laughs, low and throaty. “Oh, I’m far more than a guest.” She leans toward Lysander, her hand brushing his arm. “Aren’t I, love?”
He doesn’t react.
But his fingers tighten on the table.
“You’re not his mate,” I say, voice low. “You’re a political convenience. A treaty sealed with a bite.”
“And you?” She smiles, sharp as a blade. “A fated bond doesn’t make you his mate, little witch. This does.” She runs a finger over the bite mark. “He fed from me. He claimed me.”
“He fed to seal an alliance,” Lysander says, his voice flat. “Nothing more.”
“And yet,” she murmurs, “he hasn’t marked you, has he? No bite. No brand. No proof that you’re anything more than a convenience.”
The court murmurs.
My magic flares.
Not from anger.
From jealousy.
It surges through me, hot and wild, feeding on the bond, on the dreamwine, on the scent of him surrounding me. My sigil pulses beneath my sleeve, aching with power.
“You think a stolen mark makes you special?” I say, voice low. “He doesn’t want you. He used you.”
Her smile fades.
“Careful, witch,” she says. “You’re playing with fire.”
“No.” I lean forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You are.”
She raises a hand—magic crackling at her fingertips.
But before she can strike—
Lysander moves.
In one fluid motion, he grabs her wrist, twists, and throws her back into her chair. The court gasps. The bond flares, a jolt of heat up my arm, straight to my core.
“Enough,” he says, voice cold. “You will not challenge her. Not here. Not now.”
“But—”
“Enough.” He turns to me, gold eyes blazing. “And you. No more games. No more fights. You’re mine. Whether you admit it or not.”
My breath catches.
“You don’t own me.”
“No.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a growl. “But you’re mine. And if anyone touches you—”
“Then what?” I challenge. “You’ll mark me? Claim me? Prove to the world that I’m yours?”
His eyes darken.
And then—
He reaches out.
Not to me.
To Nyx.
His fingers brush the bite mark on her neck.
My heart stops.
The court holds its breath.
And then—
He heals it.
A pulse of golden light, warm and bright, flows from his fingertips. The wound closes. The skin smooths. The mark—his mark—vanishes.
Nyx stares at him, stunned.
“It was never yours,” he says, voice low. “It was a lie. And lies have no place in my court.”
He turns to me.
And for the first time all night, he looks at me.
Not with anger.
Not with suspicion.
With hunger.
“You,” he says, voice rough. “Are mine.”
The court erupts.
Whispers. Gasps. A few scattered cheers.
But I don’t hear them.
All I hear is the bond—pulsing, roaring, alive.
All I feel is him.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That I’m not just his enemy.
That I’m not just his prisoner.
That I’m not just his mate.
But his truth.
—
The Chamber of Whispers is colder than I expected.
The black quartz walls absorb sound, swallowing footsteps, breath, even the beat of my heart. Torches flicker in iron sconces, their flames casting long, shifting shadows. The air is still, charged, like the moment before a storm.
The sacred bed sits at the center—a low dais covered in black silk, pillows scattered like fallen stars. No restraints. No chains. Just space. Proximity. The promise of truth.
Lysander stands at the foot of the bed, stripped to his waist, the hard lines of his chest and abdomen glistening in the torchlight. His gold eyes lift as I enter, and something dark flickers in their depths.
Hunger.
Recognition.
And something else.
Need.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I was detained,” I lie, stepping forward. “Mira had questions about the ritual.”
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 runes on the floor ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“The spell begins at midnight,” a voice says.
The Fae envoy steps forward, her silver hair glowing in the torchlight. “Remove your clothes. Lie back-to-back on the bed. The truth will find you.”
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 exiled. And the Tribunal will fall.”
Lysander doesn’t hesitate.
He reaches for the buttons of my gown.
I slap his hand away. “I can undress myself.”
He smirks. “Prove it.”
My fingers tremble as I unbutton the black silk, one by one. The fabric slips from my shoulders, pools at my feet. I stand there in only my undergarments—lace and shadow, my skin pale in the torchlight.
He doesn’t look away.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I can see the sigil.”
My breath hitches.
Slowly, I turn.
The sigil on my lower back glows faintly, ancient and alive. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the mark, and a jolt of heat shoots up my spine.
“You’re made for this,” he murmurs. “For me.”
“I’m not yours,” I whisper.
“You will be.”
He steps back, stripping off his pants. His body is a masterpiece of muscle and scar, his cock already half-hard, thick and heavy. I force myself not to look, but my body betrays me—my nipples tighten, my core clenches, aching with a pressure I can’t name.
We lie on the bed.
Back-to-back.
So close I can feel the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his breath. The bond flares, stronger, hotter. It’s not just in my chest anymore—it’s in my blood, my bones, my breath.
And then—
The spell begins.
The runes ignite, pulsing with light. The air hums with magic. And then—
A whisper.
Not from the envoy.
From me.
“I came here to kill you.”
My voice. But not my choice.
The truth spell has taken hold.
And it won’t let go.
“But now,” I whisper, “I’m not sure I want to.”
Behind me, Lysander tenses.
“Why?” the spell demands.
“Because—” My breath hitches. “Because when you touch me, I don’t want to kill you. I want to kiss you.”
“And when you look at me?”
“I don’t see a monster. I see… him.”
“And when you think of the bond?”
“I don’t hate it.” My voice breaks. “I want it. I want you. I want to be yours.”
Behind me, he exhales, rough and broken.
“Circe—”
But the spell isn’t done.
“And when you think of Nyx?” it demands.
My chest tightens.
“I want to burn her to ash,” I whisper. “Because she touched what’s mine.”
He goes still.
And then—
He rolls.
In one motion, he flips me onto my back, pins me beneath him, his hands caging me in. His eyes are molten gold, his breath hot on my skin.
“Say it again,” he growls. “Say you want me.”
“I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I hate you, but I want you.”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if he’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against him, my core aching, my magic flaring.
His hand slides down, fingers hooking into the lace of my panties—
And then—
A scream.
High. Piercing. From the hall.
We freeze.
He pulls back, nostrils flaring. “Trouble.”
He rolls off me, grabbing his pants.
I lie there, breathless, heart hammering, my body still trembling with need.
He looks back at me, gold eyes burning.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
And I know he’s not just talking about the scream.
He’s talking about us.
And as he leaves, I whisper the truth, soft and broken:
“I came here to kill you.”
But what if I’m falling in love with you instead?