The file on hybrid rights sits on the table like a live wire.
Untouched.
Of course it is. Magnolia won’t open it. Not yet. She’s too smart, too wounded, too damn good at seeing traps—even when they’re not laid with malice. She thinks it’s a test. A trick. A way to make her lower her guard so I can chain her down and claim her before the seven days are up.
She’s wrong.
But I can’t tell her that.
Not yet.
Because the truth is more dangerous than any lie.
I *do* want her to open it. I want her to see the words I’ve spent decades scratching into the margins of law, the petitions buried under centuries of vampire supremacy, the quiet alliances I’ve forged with rogue witches and sympathetic Lupari who believe in something beyond bloodlines and borders.
I want her to see that I’ve been fighting the same war she has.
Just from the inside.
And I want her to see that I’ve failed—just like I failed her father.
But if I tell her that, if I let her see how deep the rot goes, how many enemies wear friendly faces, how close the Fae Queen is to tearing the Concord apart… she’ll run.
Or worse—she’ll try to fight alone.
And she’ll die.
So I let the file sit.
Let her suspicion fester.
Let her think I’m just another monster wearing a crown.
Because as long as she’s angry, she’s alive.
And as long as she’s alive, I can keep her close.
I stand at the balcony, watching the moon climb over the Black Forest. The night is still—too still. No wind. No birds. No shift in the scent of the trees. Just silence.
And silence, in this court, is a weapon.
I feel her before I hear her. The bond hums, a low, steady pulse beneath my ribs. She’s awake. Restless. Pacing. I don’t turn. I don’t call out. I just let her move, let her burn off the tension, let her think she’s in control.
Then she speaks.
“You gave me that file for a reason.”
I turn.
She’s standing in the doorway between our chambers, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The moonlight catches the edge of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the fire in her gaze. She’s beautiful. Fierce. A storm in silk.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress you,” I say, voice low.
“Don’t play games,” she snaps. “You don’t *impress*. You manipulate. You control. You *claim*.”
“And you?” I step toward her. “You don’t trust. You don’t yield. You don’t *feel*.”
“I feel plenty,” she says, voice trembling. “I feel my father’s blood on your hands. I feel the mark on my skin. I feel this—this *pull*—every time you’re near, like my body’s betraying me.”
“It’s not betrayal,” I say. “It’s truth.”
“Truth?” She laughs, bitter. “You want truth? Then tell me why Lira knows about my mother. Tell me why the Fae Queen wants me dead. Tell me why you let my father hang.”
My jaw tightens.
“I didn’t let him hang,” I say, voice rough. “I *fought* for him. I appealed. I begged. But the Fae High Court overruled me. They had the Regent’s blood on his blade. They had witnesses. They had *proof*—forged, I now know, but it was enough.”
“And you didn’t stop it.”
“I *couldn’t*.”
“Then you’re weak.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m *caged*. Just like you.”
She flinches.
But she doesn’t look away.
“Then break the cage,” she whispers. “Or get out of my way.”
I want to. Gods, I want to.
But the moment I move against the Fae, Mab will unleash her full wrath. The Lupari will see it as a power play. The witches will withdraw. And the humans—already trembling on the edge—will be slaughtered in the crossfire.
And Magnolia?
She’ll be the first to die.
So I say nothing.
Just watch her.
And the bond hums between us—alive, aching, *needing*.
“I’m going for a walk,” she says suddenly.
“No.”
“You can’t keep me locked up forever.”
“Seven days,” I remind her. “And you don’t leave my side.”
“Then come with me.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns, strides toward the door.
I follow.
The guards fall in behind us—silent, watchful. Silas lingers at the edge of the hall, his gaze sharp, his posture tense. He knows something’s wrong. I feel it too—the air is too still, the shadows too deep, the scent of the garden laced with something sharp, metallic.
Blood.
Fresh.
But not human.
Not vampire.
Fae.
I catch up to Magnolia, grab her wrist.
“Stop.”
She yanks free. “Don’t touch me.”
“There’s an assassin in the garden,” I say, voice low. “Fae. Armed. Waiting.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you know this how?”
“I can smell it. Can’t you?”
She hesitates. Sniffs the air.
Then pales.
“You expect me to believe this is real? That you’re not just using this to keep me inside?”
“Believe what you want,” I say. “But if you step outside, you’re dead.”
She glares at me. Then, deliberately, she pushes past and throws open the garden doors.
“Magnolia—”
Too late.
She steps into the moonlight.
And the world explodes.
Shadows twist. A figure lunges from the hedges—pale skin, silver eyes, a blade of blackened Fae steel aimed straight for her heart.
I move.
Faster than thought. Faster than blood.
I tackle her to the ground, rolling as the blade slashes through the air where her neck was.
She gasps, struggles beneath me.
“Get *off*—”
“Stay down,” I growl, shielding her with my body as the assassin strikes again.
The blade bites into my shoulder—deep, searing—but I don’t flinch. I grab the attacker’s wrist, twist, hear bone snap. He snarls, fangs flashing, and I drive my elbow into his throat.
He chokes. Drops the blade.
I don’t give him time to recover.
I snap his neck with one brutal twist.
He goes still.
Dead.
I rise, breathing hard, blood dripping from my shoulder. The wound will heal—vampire blood is stubborn that way—but the pain is sharp, grounding.
Magnolia stares at me, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
“You—”
“I told you,” I say, voice rough. “He was here for you.”
She looks at the body. The silver eyes. The Fae mark branded into his palm—a serpent coiled around a thorned rose.
Mab’s sigil.
Her breath catches.
“She sent him,” she whispers. “The Fae Queen. She knows who I am.”
“She’s known since you stepped into the court,” I say. “And she’ll keep sending them until you’re dead.”
She looks up at me—really looks—her gaze tracing the blood on my shoulder, the tension in my jaw, the way I’m still standing between her and the corpse.
And for the first time, I see it.
Doubt.
Not in the bond.
Not in the magic.
But in her mission.
Because if Mab wants her dead, then she’s not just a pawn.
She’s a threat.
And if she’s a threat, then maybe—just maybe—I’m not the only enemy in this court.
But before she can speak, Silas appears, two guards at his back.
“Clean it up,” I order. “Burn the body. No records.”
He nods, eyes flicking to Magnolia. “She’s unharmed?”
“She’s fine,” I say.
But she’s not.
Her hands are shaking. Her breath is too fast. She’s staring at the blood on my shoulder—*my* blood—and I can feel the bond thrumming, not with fear, but with something else.
Concern.
And that’s more dangerous than any assassin.
Because if she starts to care—
If she starts to *feel*—
Then she’ll hesitate.
And hesitation gets you killed.
So I do the only thing I can.
“You’re not leaving my side,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “Not for a single second. Not until the seven days are up. Not until the bond is proven. Not until Mab’s assassins stop coming.”
She yanks her arm free. “You can’t chain me like a dog.”
“I just saved your life,” I snap. “And you’re going to stand there and act like I’m the villain?”
“You *used* this,” she says, voice trembling. “You knew he was here. You let me walk into it. You wanted me to see—wanted me to *need* you.”
“I *did* know,” I admit. “And I *did* let you walk out. Because I needed you to see the truth. To feel it. To stop pretending you can do this alone.”
“I don’t need you,” she hisses. “I never will.”
“Then you’ll die,” I say, stepping closer. “And I’ll be the one to bury you. Again.”
Her breath stills.
“What did you say?”
Too late. The words are out.
But I don’t retract them.
“I’ve buried people I loved before,” I say, voice low. “I won’t do it again. Not for you.”
She stares at me, searching my face.
And I let her look.
Let her see the centuries of grief. The weight of the crown. The ghost of Elara’s smile.
Let her see that I’m not just a king.
I’m a man who’s lost everything.
And I won’t lose her too.
She doesn’t speak.
Just turns and walks back inside.
I follow.
Back in the wing, I close the door, lock it with a whisper of blood-magic.
“You’re confined to my chambers,” I say. “No more walks. No more Council. No more tests. You stay with me. Under my protection. Under my *chains*, if that’s what it takes.”
She whirls on me. “You’re not my savior,” she hisses. “You’re my jailer.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m the only one who’ll keep you alive.”
She steps forward, close enough that I feel the heat of her, smell the wild magic in her blood.
“You think this changes anything?” she whispers. “You think saving me makes you noble? Makes you *good*?”
“No,” I say. “But it makes me necessary.”
Her breath hitches.
And the bond—
It *surges*.
Not just heat.
Not just need.
Something deeper.
Something like *recognition*.
She feels it too. Her eyes widen. Her lips part. Her pulse jumps beneath her skin.
And for one fragile, dangerous second—
I think she might kiss me.
But then she steps back.
“I don’t need you,” she says again. “And I won’t be your prisoner.”
“You already are,” I say. “And not because of the law. Not because of the bond.”
I step closer.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, “because every time you try to run, you come back to me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns, walks to the balcony, throws open the doors.
The night air is cold.
But it does nothing to cool the fire in my veins.
Behind me, I hear her move.
Then silence.
Then—
“Silas,” I say, voice low. “Double the guards. No one enters this wing without my say. And find me every record on Mab’s assassins. Every name. Every mark. Every *whisper*.”
“And her?” he asks, nodding toward Magnolia.
“Her?” I say, watching her silhouette against the moonlight. “She stays with me. Always.”
He hesitates. “She’ll hate you for this.”
“Let her,” I say.
“She’ll try to kill you.”
“Let her try.”
“And if she succeeds?”
I don’t look away from her.
“Then I’ll die knowing I kept her alive as long as I could.”
Silas leaves.
I don’t move.
Just watch her.
And the bond hums—
Not with triumph.
Not with possession.
With something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Because if she hates me…
Then she’s still alive.
And if she’s alive—
Then I can love her.
Even if she never loves me back.