The silence in the Archives after Lyria’s departure is thick, charged—like the air before a storm breaks. My magic still hums beneath my skin, thorned vines receding slowly into my flesh, leaving faint, itchy scars that fade within seconds. My breath comes too fast, too shallow. Adrenaline claws at my ribs, but beneath it—beneath the fury, the betrayal, the shock of my mother’s letter—something else stirs.
Relief.
Not because Lyria’s gone. Not because she was exposed as a liar. But because he was telling the truth.
Kaelen.
He didn’t want her. He didn’t claim her. He didn’t—
My gaze flicks to him.
He’s still standing close, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the steady pulse of his presence through the bond. His hand is no longer on my shoulder, but it lingers near my wrist, his fingers brushing the mark—just once, light as a whisper—before he steps back.
“You should return to the chambers,” he says, voice low. “We have a gala tonight. The Council expects us to appear together. United.”
I swallow. “And if I refuse?”
“Then they’ll assume the bond is failing. And they’ll accelerate the execution order.”
My stomach tightens. 72 hours. The clock is still ticking. Even after everything—the letter, the truth, the near-destruction of Lyria’s lies—I’m still trapped.
But not in the same way.
Before, I was fighting to kill him.
Now, I’m fighting to understand him.
“I’ll go,” I say, lifting my chin. “But not because you told me to. Because I want to.”
He studies me for a long moment, golden eyes unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods. “Good.”
We walk back in silence, side by side, through the winding halls of the Obsidian Court. The bond thrums between us—steady, insistent, no longer a chain but something more complex. A tether. A thread. A current I can’t ignore.
When we reach his chambers—our chambers now, I remind myself—he stops at the door.
“Dress appropriately,” he says. “Something that shows the mark.”
My fingers twitch. “You want them to see it?”
“They need proof we’re not just playing at this. That the bond is real. That you’re mine.”
“I’m not a trophy to display.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re a weapon. And tonight, you’ll be aimed at the right targets.”
He steps inside, leaving me in the hall.
I don’t move for a long moment. My skin still burns where his fingers brushed the mark. My body still remembers the weight of his hand, the warmth of his voice, the way he looked at me when he said, “You’re shaking.”
Not with fear.
With everything else.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Control. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. I’m using the bond. Using him. If the Council wants proof, I’ll give them proof. But on my terms.
I enter the chambers and go straight to the wardrobe.
This time, I don’t grab the first thing I see.
I choose.
At the back, hidden beneath layers of silk and velvet, I find it—a gown of deep crimson, the fabric so fine it shimmers like blood in moonlight. The neckline plunges, but not obscenely—just enough to draw the eye. The sleeves are sheer, edged with black lace, and the left one is cut away entirely, baring my arm from shoulder to wrist.
Perfect.
I strip off the leather jacket and tunic, stepping into the gown. It fits like it was made for me—tight through the waist, flaring slightly at the hips, the slit up the side revealing a flash of thigh with every step. I don’t need help fastening it. I don’t want his hands on me again. Not yet.
I braid my hair loosely, letting strands fall around my face, then press my palm to the mark.
It flares under my touch—warm, alive.
Good.
I’m ready.
The gala is held in the Grand Ballroom, a cavernous hall of black marble and stained glass, the ceiling arching high above like the ribs of some ancient beast. Chandeliers of black crystal hang from chains, casting fractured light across the floor. Music drifts through the air—slow, haunting, played on instruments I can’t name, their notes curling around the guests like smoke.
Vampires in dark elegance. Fae in shimmering illusions. Werewolves in tailored suits that can’t hide the wildness in their eyes. Witches in robes stitched with sigils. The Supernatural Council is here in full force, along with the elite of each species—nobles, generals, spies.
And at the center of it all—me.
They see me the second I enter.
Whispers ripple through the room like a shockwave. Thorned Blood. Half-breed. The assassin who failed. The king’s consort.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look down. I hold my head high, my spine straight, my gaze forward. I walk toward the dais where Kaelen stands, dressed in black silk, his expression unreadable, his golden eyes burning.
He doesn’t reach for me.
But the bond flares—hot, sudden—when I stop beside him.
“You’re late,” he murmurs.
“I was making an entrance,” I reply.
A flicker of something crosses his face—amusement? Approval?—but it’s gone before I can be sure.
High Councilor Vex—Lyria—stands at the edge of the dais, her mercury gown shifting, her expression icy. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. But I feel her hatred like a blade between my shoulders.
Good.
Let her hate me.
Let them all hate me.
Because tonight, I’m not here to be liked.
I’m here to be seen.
The music shifts—slower, deeper, a rhythm that pulses through the floor. Kaelen turns to me, extending his hand.
“Dance with me,” he says.
It’s not a request.
It’s a command.
And the entire room watches, waiting to see if I’ll obey.
I could refuse. I could walk away. I could make a scene.
But I don’t.
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine—warm, strong, possessive. The bond surges, a wave of heat crashing through me, so intense I stumble. He catches me, his other hand landing on my lower back, pulling me flush against him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, lips close to my ear. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”
“I don’t fall,” I whisper back.
“No,” he agrees. “You fight.”
And then we move.
He leads, of course. He’s centuries old, a king, a predator. His steps are precise, controlled, every movement calculated. But I match him—step for step, turn for turn. My body remembers the dances Mira taught me, the ones meant for courtly spies and assassins who moved like nobles to get close enough to kill.
But this isn’t about killing.
It’s about something far more dangerous.
Control.
Power.
Desire.
His hand on my back slides lower, just a fraction, his thumb brushing the curve of my hip. A spark of heat ignites where he touches, spreading low, deep, dangerous. My breath hitches. My magic stirs—vines twitching beneath my skin, eager, restless.
“Your magic is flaring,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“It’s the bond,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “It’s reacting.”
“To me.”
“To proximity. To tension. Not to you.”
He laughs—low, dark, the sound curling around me like smoke. “Liar.”
His hand shifts again, this time sliding up, beneath the sheer fabric of my sleeve, his fingers tracing the bare skin of my spine. The touch is electric. My breath stutters. My pulse hammers. And lower—lower—heat pools, a slow, aching throb between my thighs.
No.
Not now.
Not here.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, fighting it. Control. You have to stay in control.
But the bond doesn’t care about control.
It cares about connection.
About blood.
About him.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I do.
And in his eyes—gold, molten, endless—I see it.
Desire.
Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just mine.
It’s his too.
My breath catches.
His thumb strokes my spine again, slow, deliberate. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m fighting.”
“Against what? Me? Or yourself?”
Just like last night.
But this time, I don’t have the wall at my back.
This time, I’m in the open.
This time, the entire court is watching.
And I realize—
They’re not just watching us dance.
They’re watching to see if we’ll break.
If the bond is real.
If I belong to him.
So I do the only thing I can.
I lean in.
My lips brush the shell of his ear. “You want me to admit it?” I whisper. “Fine. Your touch makes my magic burn. Your scent makes my blood hum. Your voice makes my thighs clench.”
He goes still.
“But that doesn’t mean I want you,” I continue, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “It means my body is betraying me. And I hate it.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing.
Then—
He smiles.
Not kind. Not warm. But something darker. Something that makes my stomach flip.
“Good,” he says. “Hate me. Fight me. Burn for me.” His hand tightens on my back. “But don’t you dare look away.”
And then he spins me.
Fast. Hard. My gown flares, the slit revealing my leg, the sheer sleeve slipping down my shoulder. The room blurs. The music swells. And when he pulls me back into his chest, our bodies press together—chest to chest, hip to hip, breath to breath.
The bond sings.
Heat crashes through me, so intense I whimper, my head falling back. His gaze drops to my throat, to the pulse hammering there. His fangs—just a glimpse—lengthen, sharp and deadly.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but it’s weak. Shaky.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice a growl.
“Yes.”
He leans in, his lips brushing my jaw. “Liar.”
And then—
The music ends.
The room erupts into applause.
We freeze, still locked together, breathless, trembling, the bond thrumming between us like a live wire.
Slowly, reluctantly, we pull apart.
He doesn’t let go of my hand.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, voice low, meant only for me.
I smile. “So are you.”
He doesn’t reply.
But his grip tightens—just for a second—before he releases me.
The night blurs after that.
Guests approach. Vampires with cold smiles. Fae with veiled threats. Werewolves who sniff the air when I pass, their eyes narrowing at the scent of Kaelen on my skin.
I smile. I nod. I play the part.
But inside, I’m unraveling.
Because every time I breathe, I taste him.
Every time I move, I feel his touch.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the hunger in his gaze.
And when I finally slip away—through a side door, into a quiet corridor, needing air, needing space—I don’t get far.
“Running again?”
I whirl.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the ballroom. His coat is undone, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes burning.
“I needed air,” I say.
“You needed me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “You think you’re using me? That this dance, this performance—it’s all part of your plan?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He stops inches from me. “Because you don’t plan for this.” His hand lifts, fingers brushing my lower back where he touched me during the dance. “You don’t plan for the way your body betrays you. The way your magic flares. The way you burn.”
My breath hitches.
“And you don’t plan for this,” he continues, his other hand rising to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “The bond doesn’t care about your mission. It doesn’t care about vengeance. It only cares about truth.”
“And what’s the truth?” I whisper.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “That you want me. That you’ve wanted me since the first time you touched me with that blade.”
My heart stops.
“And I,” he murmurs, “have wanted you since the first time you looked at me like you’d rather kill me than kneel.”
And then he’s gone—back into the ballroom, the door closing behind him.
I stand there, trembling, my skin on fire, my body aching with the loss of contact.
The mark on my wrist burns.
And for the first time—
I don’t hate it.
I don’t fear it.
I feel it.
And worse—
I like it.
I press my palm to the mark, closing my eyes.
I came here to kill a king.
Now I’m dancing with him.
And the most dangerous part?
I don’t want the music to stop.