The garden is too quiet.
Not silent—never that. The night in the Shadow Court is never truly silent. There’s always the distant echo of guards shifting on patrol, the whisper of witch-lanterns flickering in the wind, the low hum of ancient magic pulsing beneath the stone. But tonight, it’s hollow. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
I don’t.
I breathe deep. Let the cold cut through the haze in my mind. Let the scent of thorned roses and damp earth ground me. Because I need to be sharp. Need to be clear. Need to be ready.
The file is gone.
Back in Silas’s coat, tucked away where Lira can’t find it, where Mab’s spies can’t steal it. But its words are still burning behind my eyes—Project Thorn, the letter, the list of names marked for death. All of it. Every lie. Every betrayal. Every calculated move to break the Concord, to destroy Kael, to use me as the blade.
And I—
I almost let it.
Almost believed the glamour. Almost let Lira’s poison convince me that Kael would doubt me. That he’d believe a mirror over his own soul. That he’d let the Council humiliate us, demand a spectacle of our bond like we’re animals in a cage.
But he didn’t.
He believed me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
Because he knew me.
And that—
That changes everything.
I press my hand to my chest, over the Draven sigil still warm beneath my skin. It pulses with his heartbeat, slow, steady, relentless. A second pulse. A second truth. Not just a mark. Not just a claim.
A promise.
And I—
I don’t know if I can keep it.
Because I came here to burn him down.
And now—
I’m not sure I can.
A rustle.
Not from the hedges.
Not from the wind.
From the shadows.
I freeze.
Hand to dagger.
But I don’t draw.
Not yet.
Because I know that presence. That stillness. That breath held just a second too long.
Assassin.
Not Lupari. Their scent is musk and pine, their movements heavy with muscle and moon-heat. Not witch. Their magic crackles like static, their steps leave faint sigils in the stone. This—
This is Fae.
And not just any Fae.
Mab’s.
My fingers tighten on the hilt. The Fae-forged blade hums, alive with stolen magic, vibrating like a caged beast. It knows. It hungers.
And then—
He moves.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
Like smoke.
One moment, shadow. The next—blade.
A silver stiletto, thin as a whisper, aimed at my throat.
I dodge—just enough. The edge grazes my collarbone, slicing through silk and skin. A line of fire. A drop of blood. But I don’t cry out. Don’t flinch. Just spin, draw, and strike.
My dagger meets his blade with a ring that cuts through the night.
He’s fast.
Stronger than he looks.
But I’m angrier.
I press forward—slash, parry, thrust—driving him back with every step. He blocks, but barely. My strikes are wild, desperate, fueled by everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve been lied to, everything I’ve been used for.
And then—
I see it.
Not his eyes.
Not his stance.
His target.
He’s not aiming for my heart.
Not for my throat.
He’s aiming for the sigil.
The Draven mark.
He wants to cut it out.
Not to kill me.
To break the bond.
And I—
I laugh.
Sharp. Bitter. Needing.
“You think that’s the weak point?” I snarl, stepping in. “You think you can sever it and the Concord falls?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just swings.
I duck. Roll. Come up behind him.
And drive my dagger into his back.
Not deep.
Not fatal.
Just enough.
He gasps, stumbles, turns—rage in his eyes.
But I’m already moving.
One hand to his wrist. Twist. Disarm. The stiletto clatters to the stone.
My dagger at his throat.
“Who sent you?” I demand, pressing the blade harder. “Lira? Mab? Or did you come on your own, thinking you could be the one to break the king’s heart?”
He spits at me.
I don’t blink.
Just press the blade until a thin line of silver blood beads on his skin.
“Last chance,” I say. “Who. Sent. You.”
He laughs—low, wet, like blood in the throat. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”
And then—
He explodes.
Not in magic.
Not in fire.
In light.
A burst of blinding white that rips through the garden, searing my vision, throwing me back. I hit the fountain, pain lancing through my spine, my dagger flying from my hand.
When I can see again—
He’s gone.
Not dead.
Not wounded.
Vanished.
Like he was never here.
But the blood on my collarbone says otherwise.
And the stiletto at my feet.
I pick it up—cold, silver, etched with Fae runes. Not a weapon.
A message.
And it’s not for me.
It’s for him.
I don’t think.
Just run.
Back through the maze. Past the thorned roses. Past the whispering shadows. To the palace. To the royal wing. To him.
The guards don’t stop me.
Don’t even speak.
They know better.
The connecting door is open.
He’s not in his chambers.
Not on the balcony.
Not at his desk.
But I feel him.
The bond hums—faint, distant, like a thread stretched too thin. Pulling me.
Down the hall.
To the Sanctum.
The heavy doors are ajar. Torchlight flickers within, casting long shadows on the obsidian walls. I don’t knock. Don’t announce myself. Just step inside.
And freeze.
Kael stands at the center of the chamber, his back to me, his coat open, his sleeves rolled up. The scar on his shoulder—Elara’s mark—itches beneath my skin, a ghost of a bond that died too soon. But it’s not that that stops me.
It’s the blood.
On the floor.
At his feet.
And the body.
Another assassin.
Dead.
Throat torn out.
Fae.
My breath stills.
He turns.
His storm-gray eyes are dark, feral, his fangs descended, his hands stained with black blood. But when he sees me—
He stills.
“Magnolia,” he says, voice rough. “You’re hurt.”
“So are you,” I say, stepping forward. “Another one?”
He nods. “Fae. Sent to sever the bond. To break the Concord.”
“They already tried,” I say, touching the cut on my collarbone. “I fought him. He vanished.”
His jaw tightens. “They’ll keep coming. Until the bond is broken. Until I’m dead.”
“Then let them come,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m not letting you face this alone.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “It’s not safe.”
“Neither is the garden,” I say. “Neither is anywhere. Not with Mab pulling the strings. Not with Lira whispering lies. Not with the Council demanding blood.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward. Reaches out. Brushes a strand of hair from my face.
His fingers are warm. Gentle.
And the bond screams.
Heat. Fire. A surge of pure, unfiltered sensation that rips through me like lightning. My skin ignites. My blood sings. My magic roars to life, responding to his touch like a starving thing.
I gasp.
So does he.
“You feel that,” he murmurs. “Not the bond. Not magic. Us.”
“I don’t want to feel it,” I whisper. “I don’t want to need you.”
“Too late,” he says, stepping closer. “You already do.”
And then—
The door bursts open.
Not guards.
Not Silas.
Three of them.
Fae.
Blades drawn.
Eyes burning with Mab’s fire.
They don’t speak.
Don’t hesitate.
Just attack.
Kael moves first—fast, brutal, a blur of shadow and fang. One assassin down—throat crushed, spine snapped. I draw my dagger, swing—slice through the second’s arm, twist, drive the blade into his gut. He collapses, but the third is on me—blade aimed at my chest.
I dodge—too slow.
The edge bites deep, slicing through silk and skin, carving a line from my ribs to my hip.
Pain.
White-hot.
Blinding.
I stumble back, blood soaking my side, my vision swimming.
But I don’t fall.
Can’t.
Because Kael is still fighting.
And the third assassin—
He’s not aiming for me.
He’s aiming for Kael.
Blade raised.
Heart exposed.
And I—
I don’t think.
Just move.
I lunge—fast, desperate—step into the path.
The blade sinks into my side—deep, brutal, final.
I cry out.
So does he.
But the assassin doesn’t get a second strike.
Kael is on him—faster than shadow, stronger than stone. A snarl rips from his throat as he tears the Fae apart, fangs sinking into his neck, hands ripping through flesh and bone.
And then—
Silence.
Just the drip of blood.
The crackle of witch-lanterns.
The ragged sound of my breath.
I’m on the floor.
Kael beside me.
His hands on my face. My hair. My wound.
“Magnolia,” he whispers, voice breaking. “No. No, no, no—”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice is weak. Slurred. “Just a scratch.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
I try to smile. “Since when do I lie to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just presses his palm to the wound, black blood mixing with mine, his magic surging into me—dark, ancient, hers.
It burns.
But not like pain.
Like fire.
Like life.
“You’re not dying,” he says, voice raw. “Not tonight. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathing.”
“Then stop wasting your breath,” I whisper. “And kiss me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth crashes into mine—hard, desperate, needing. Not soft. Not sweet. A collision of teeth and tongue and fear. I moan, my hands fisting in his coat, my body arching into his, even as the pain tears through me.
And then—
I feel it.
The wound—closing. Not fast. Not completely. But healing.
His blood.
His magic.
His love.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his lips against my neck. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, pressing my face into his chest. “Not while you still need me.”
“I’ll always need you,” he says. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Concord. Because you’re mine.”
And I—
I don’t pull away.
Just press closer, my hands fisting in his coat, my breath coming in broken gasps.
Because for the first time—
I believe it too.
Not just the truth.
Not just the bond.
Us.
And the worst part?
I don’t know which one of us I’m trying to convince.
The guards come.
Silas.
The High Witch.
They clean the blood. Remove the bodies. Seal the chamber.
But none of it matters.
Because I’m still in his arms.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
And when they try to take me to the infirmary—
He stops them.
“She stays with me,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “No one touches her but me.”
They don’t argue.
Just bow and leave.
And then—
He carries me.
Not to the infirmary.
Not to his chambers.
To the bed.
Our bed.
He lays me down gently, his hands careful, his touch reverent. Removes my coat. My blouse. My blood-soaked chemise. And then—
He licks the wound.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His tongue warm, rough, possessive. I gasp, my back arching, my hands fisting in the sheets. It burns. But not like pain.
Like fire.
Like life.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his lips against my skin. “Not the bond. Not the magic. Me.”
And I—
I don’t argue.
Just whisper—
“I know.”
And for the first time—
I don’t hate myself for it.
The night stretches on, long and silent, the torches flickering low, the shadows deep. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches me—storm-gray eyes dark, unreadable, his hand on my hip, his thumb stroking the scar.
And I—
I don’t sleep either.
Just lie there, my body humming with his magic, my mind racing with everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve felt, everything I’ve done.
Because I came here to burn him down.
And instead—
I threw myself in front of a blade meant for his heart.
And I don’t regret it.
And that—
That terrifies me.
Because if I don’t hate him—
If I don’t want to kill him—
Then I’m already his.
And I—
I won’t let her take it from me.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn.
Press my face into his chest.
And whisper—
“I chose you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me tighter, his arms around my waist, his breath warm on my neck.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just flare.
It burns.