The silence after he leaves is worse than the scream.
Not the absence of sound—no, the Chamber of Whispers still hums with the residue of the truth spell, the runes on the floor pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat. The air is thick with it—the weight of what I said, what I *felt*, what I *wanted*. The words hang in the dark, raw and unfiltered: I want you. I hate you, but I want you.
And then—his mouth on mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative. A claiming. A conquest. His tongue sweeping into my mouth like he had every right, like he’d been starving for this, like I was the only thing that could sate him. My body arched into his, my core clenching, my magic flaring beneath my skin. I wanted to rip off his pants. To wrap my legs around him. To feel him inside me, filling the ache that’s been growing since the first moment he touched me.
And then—
The scream.
And he was gone.
Now, I lie on the sacred bed, still half-naked, the black silk cool against my overheated skin. My heart hammers. My breath comes fast. My panties are still hooked on my thigh, his fingers having tugged them aside but not removed them. The scent of him—storm and pine, iron and power—clings to me, wraps around me, makes my stomach twist with hunger.
I should get up.
I should cover myself. Retrace my steps. Rebuild the walls.
But I don’t.
Because the truth spell isn’t fully broken.
I can still feel it—threading through the air, whispering in the back of my mind, pulling at the edges of my thoughts. It wants more. It wants *everything*. And if I stay here, if I let myself feel, it will drag the rest of my secrets into the light.
Like the fact that I didn’t just come here to kill him.
Like the fact that I’ve dreamed of him for years—before I even knew his face. That my mother’s journal spoke of a bond, a prophecy, a king who would rise from the ashes of war and be claimed by a witch with fire in her veins.
That I’ve been waiting for him.
And hating myself for it.
A knock at the door.
I sit up fast, yanking my gown over my shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons. “Enter.”
The door opens.
Not Lysander.
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’re still dressed. That’s a good sign.”
“It’s not what you think,” I say, too quickly.
She arches a brow. “Oh, I think it’s *exactly* what I think.” She closes the door, locks it. “The entire court is buzzing. Nyx is furious. The Fae envoy is scandalized. And Lysander? He’s pacing like a caged beast.”
“He left.”
“Because of the scream?”
“Yes.”
She studies me. “And you’re just… lying here?”
“I needed a minute.”
“You needed a *century*.” She crosses the room, sets the satchel on the bed. “You almost mated tonight. The bond was screaming. The spell was feeding on it. If that scream hadn’t come—”
“It wouldn’t have happened.”
“Liar.” She pulls out a vial of dark liquid—thick, swirling, like oil and blood. “Here. Drink this. It’ll calm your magic. Dull the bond’s pull.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Yes, you do.” She presses the vial into my hand. “Because right now, you’re one touch away from breaking. And if you break, you lose. Not just the mission. Not just your revenge. *Yourself*.”
I stare at the vial.
She’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“What if I don’t want to fight it anymore?” I whisper.
She doesn’t flinch. “Then you’re already lost.”
—
The royal wing is quiet when I return.
No guards at my door. No whispers in the hall. Just silence, thick and heavy, like the calm before a storm. I step into my chambers, close the door behind me, and lean against it, breathing through the ache in my chest.
The bond.
It’s not just a tether.
It’s a living thing—coiled around my heart, pulsing with his rhythm, whispering his name. I can feel him, even now, even across the stone and shadow that separate us. His anger. His hunger. His *need*.
And mine.
I press my palm flat against the door, as if I could reach through the wood, through the walls, and touch him.
But I don’t.
Because I know what will happen if I do.
Another knock.
My breath catches.
“Enter,” I say, voice steady.
The door opens.
Lysander.
He fills the doorway, shirtless, pants low on his hips, his body a map of scars and muscle. His gold eyes lock onto mine, and something dark flickers in their depths—hunger, recognition, a predator’s patience.
“You left,” I say.
“There was a threat.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m back.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks. “The ritual isn’t over. The spell lingers. And the bond… the bond is *alive*.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Yes, I do.” He crosses the room, stopping just short of me. “Because if I don’t, you’ll run. And if you run, the Tribunal will exile us both. And Malrik wins.”
“So this is about politics.”
“This is about *survival*.” He reaches out, slow, deliberate, and brushes his thumb along my jaw. “And about *truth*.”
My breath hitches.
“You said you wanted me.”
“The spell made me say it.”
“It made you *admit* it.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “You want me. You *crave* me. And you hate yourself for it.”
“I hate *you*.”
“No.” His hand slides into my hair, tightening, tilting my head. “You hate that you can’t control it. That the bond is stronger than your revenge. That *I* am.”
My pulse flares.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’re angry. I know you came here to kill me.”
“And yet here we are,” I whisper.
“Trapped. Together. Bound.” He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”
“What question?”
“Why *did* you come here?”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t know the answer.
But because I’m afraid of what it means.
“I came for the truth,” I say. “About my coven. About my mother. About who really killed your first mate.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not sure I want it.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if the truth is that *we’re* meant to be—together—then everything you’ve built, everything you’ve fought for, *collapses*.”
My breath catches.
He’s right.
If Malrik framed me… if Lysander was manipulated… if the bond is real and unbreakable… then my vengeance is meaningless. My mission is a lie.
And I’m not the avenger.
I’m the *mate*.
“I don’t believe in fate,” I say, stepping back. “I believe in choice.”
“Then choose,” he says, stepping forward. “Choose to fight me. Choose to resist. Or choose to *burn* with me.”
Before I can answer, a voice echoes from the hall.
“Sire.”
Kael.
Lysander turns, jaw clenched. “What is it?”
“The Tribunal has issued a new decree.” Kael’s voice is tense. “You and Lady Circe are to share a bed under the truth spell for the remainder of the night. No exceptions. No interruptions. The bond must be sealed—or you will be exiled by dawn.”
Silence.
Then—
Lysander looks at me.
Not with anger.
Not with suspicion.
With hunger.
“You heard him,” he says, voice rough. “No more running. No more lies. Just… this.”
“I won’t be your mate.”
“You already are.” He reaches for my hand. “Come with me.”
I don’t take it.
But I follow.
—
The Chamber of Whispers is colder than I remember.
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 sacred bed sits at the center—a low dais covered in black silk, pillows scattered like fallen stars.
We stand at the foot of 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.
“We don’t have to touch,” he says, voice low. “But we won’t lie.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“The spell does.”
We lie down.
Back-to-back.
Our bodies aligned, the curve of my spine fitting against the hard lines of his. His heat seeps into me, a slow, relentless burn. My skin tingles. My magic hums. The sigil on my lower back pulses, aching with power.
And then—
The spell reactivates.
The runes ignite, pulsing with light. The air hums with magic. And then—
A whisper.
Not from me.
From him.
“I thought she betrayed me.”
Lysander’s voice. But not his choice.
The truth spell has taken hold.
And it won’t let go.
“Elara,” he whispers. “My first mate. I thought she worked with the Seelie. That she helped them kill me. But she didn’t. She died protecting me.”
My breath catches.
“And when I found her body—heart bitten out, eyes wide with betrayal—I blamed the Hollow Coven. I gave the order to burn them. To kill them all.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“And now?” the spell demands.
“Now I know the truth.” His voice breaks. “Malrik killed her. He framed Circe. He used me to destroy her coven. And I let him.”
Behind me, he tenses.
“And when you think of Circe?” the spell asks.
“I don’t see a witch who lied,” he whispers. “I see a woman who survived. Who fought. Who came here to kill me—and stayed because she *wanted* me.”
My chest tightens.
“And when you touch her?”
“I don’t feel rage.” His breath hitches. “I feel… *alive*. Like I’ve been dead for ten years and she’s the only thing that can bring me back.”
“And when you think of the bond?”
“I don’t hate it.” His voice is raw. “I *need* it. I need *her*. I want to be hers.”
Behind me, he exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He rolls.
In one motion, he flips me onto my side, pulls me against him, spooning me, his chest to my back, his arm wrapping around my waist. His cock—hard, thick, *aching*—presses against my ass, hot and heavy through the fabric.
“We don’t have to touch,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck. “But we won’t lie.”
My breath hitches.
“And we won’t fight it.”
The bond flares, unbearable.
His pheromones flood the air, thick and intoxicating. My knees weaken. My core clenches. My magic hums, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
And then—
I feel it.
The truth spell isn’t done.
It’s still pulling.
Still whispering.
And this time—
It’s coming for me.
“I came here to kill you,” I whisper, voice trembling. “But now… now I’m not sure I want to.”
“Why?” the spell demands.
“Because when you touch me, I don’t want to kill you.” My breath hitches. “I want to *kiss* you. To feel your hands on my skin. To let you *claim* me.”
“And when you look at me?”
“I don’t see a monster.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I see… *him*. The man who’s been broken just like me. The man who’s been lied to. The man who’s been *waiting*.”
“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. I want to *burn* with you.”
Behind me, he goes still.
And then—
He pulls me closer, his arm tightening around me, his lips brushing my ear.
“Then stop fighting it,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
My breath hitches.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
“So am I.” He kisses my neck, slow, tender. “But I’m done running.”
The bond flares, stronger, hotter.
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?