I came here to burn your court to ashes.
The thought is a blade between my teeth as I step across the threshold of Midnight Court, my boots silent on the black marble. The air hums with ancient wards, the kind that flay souls bare and scream at lies. I keep my head down, the hood of my servant’s gray tunic pulled low, fingers curled around the silver tray I carry like it’s the only thing grounding me. It’s not. It’s the rage. The memory of my mother’s neck snapping in the courtyard, her last breath a curse on the wind. That’s what keeps me standing. That’s what keeps me breathing.
The hall stretches before me, vaulted and cold, lit by floating orbs of violet flame. Fae glide past in silks and shadows, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Werewolves stand guard along the walls—Moonfangs, all of them, broad-shouldered and lethal, eyes tracking every movement. I don’t look at them. I don’t look at anything but the path ahead. One misstep, one flicker of my true magic, and I’m dead. Or worse—exposed.
I’m not supposed to be here. The Shadow Fae were banished fifty years ago, their bloodlines erased, their names burned from the scrolls. My mother was the last heir. And when they hanged her for treason, they thought they’d killed the line.
They were wrong.
I survived. I learned. I waited.
And now I’ve come back.
The tray holds goblets of moonwine, laced with a truth serum for the High Priestess. My first move. A small one. But every war begins with a spark.
I reach the dais where the Supernatural Council gathers—Fae, werewolf, vampire, witch, hybrid—seated in a half-circle of obsidian thrones. At the center, the High Priestess raises her hand, and the room stills. The ritual begins. Blood oaths. Binding promises. Lies wrapped in sacred words.
Perfect.
I move to the edge of the dais, setting the tray on a low table. My pulse is steady. My breath, controlled. My magic—witch-blood and Shadow Fae glamour—curls beneath my skin like smoke, waiting. I’ve spent years mastering it, burying my scent, twisting my aura so no one can sense the power coiled in my bones. Not the Fae. Not the witches. And certainly not the werewolves.
But then I feel it.
A ripple in the air. A shift in the dark.
And I look up.
He’s standing at the back of the hall, just inside the archway, like he’s been there the whole time and I only now notice him. Kaelen Dain. Alpha King of the Moonfangs. The man who holds the leash on the Fae exiles. The monster they whisper about in the Hollow—how he rips out hearts with his bare hands, how his eyes glow red under the full moon, how no one defies him and lives.
He’s taller than I expected. Broad, but not bulky. Dressed in black leather and silver armor, a wolf’s pelt draped over one shoulder. His hair is midnight, cut short at the sides, longer on top, and his face—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips that look like they’ve never smiled—should be beautiful. But it’s not. It’s dangerous. Like a blade wrapped in silk.
And his eyes—
Gold. Not amber. Not honey. Gold. Like molten metal, burning with something ancient and feral.
They lock onto mine.
And the world stops.
My breath catches. My blood surges. A jolt runs up my spine, sharp and electric, like lightning splitting my ribs. My skin prickles, heat flaring under my collar, down my arms, pooling low in my belly. I stagger, just slightly, catching myself on the table. The tray rattles. No one notices. No one but him.
He takes a step forward.
And I feel it again—deeper this time. A pull. A hunger. Not mine. His. It rolls off him in waves, thick and primal, filling the space between us like fog. His scent hits me—pine and fire and something wild, something male—and it floods my lungs like sin.
What the hell is this?
I’ve never felt anything like it. Not from a man. Not from magic. It’s like my body knows him. Like my blood remembers him. Like every cell in me is screaming to run—or to submit.
I don’t move.
I won’t.
He takes another step. Then another. The werewolves at the walls tense, but they don’t stop him. No one does. The High Priestess pauses mid-incantation, her gaze flicking to him, then to me. Confusion. Then alarm.
Something’s happening. Something they can’t see. Something supernatural.
And then—
He’s in front of me.
I look up. He’s so close I can see the pulse in his throat, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his nostrils flare as he inhales—me. His eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. And then, without a word, he reaches out and grabs my wrist.
Fire erupts.
I cry out—actually cry out—as pain sears up my arm, white-hot and blinding. I try to yank back, but his grip is iron. His thumb presses into my pulse point, and the pain shifts—burning, yes, but now there’s something else. Heat. Pleasure. A deep, aching throb between my thighs that makes my knees weak.
And then I see it.
A sigil. Glowing on the inside of my wrist. Black lines curling like smoke, pulsing with dark light. It burns, but it doesn’t scar. It brands. And as I stare at it, I feel it—him—in my head. A presence. A voice. Not words. Just… knowing. That he’s here. That he’s mine. That I’m his.
No.
No.
I yank my arm back with a snarl, stumbling away from him. The sigil still glows, fading slowly. My wrist throbs. My heart hammers. My skin is too tight, too sensitive, like I’ve been stripped bare.
“What did you do?” I hiss, low enough that only he can hear.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, his golden eyes blazing, his chest rising and falling like he’s fighting for control. And then—
“You’re Shadow Fae,” he says. His voice is rough, deep, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not supposed to exist.”
My blood runs cold.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, backing up. “I’m a servant. Nothing more.”
He takes a step forward. “Don’t lie to me. I can smell it. Your blood. Your magic. And the bond—”
“Bond?” I cut in, sharp. “What bond?”
He smiles. Not a kind one. Not even close. It’s a predator’s smile. A conqueror’s.
“The fated mate bond,” he says. “And it just ignited.”
The room erupts.
Gasps. Shouts. The High Priestess rises, her voice cutting through the noise. “Impossible! The Shadow Fae are extinct! This is a trick!”
“It’s no trick,” Kaelen says, still staring at me. “She’s mine. The bond doesn’t lie.”
“The bond can be broken,” snaps a voice—female, cold. I turn to see her: Lysara, the Light Fae princess, draped in silver and arrogance. “If she’s not truly his mate, the mark will fade by dawn.”
Kaelen doesn’t look at her. “It won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” she hisses.
“I feel it,” he says. “She’s mine.”
And then he looks at me again. And says the words that seal my fate.
“You are mine.”
I don’t think. I just move.
I step forward, close enough that my breath fans his jaw, my voice a venomous whisper.
“I came here to burn your court to ashes.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks. Slow. Dangerous. Like he’s already won.
“Then you’ll burn with me.”
The sigil on my wrist pulses, hot and alive.
And I know—
This changes everything.
I came here for revenge.
But now?
Now I have to survive him.