The first thing I feel when I wake is the echo of his hands.
Not on my skin—though the memory of his grip on my hips, the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my training tunic, still lingers like a brand. Not in my bones—though my body aches in the deep, satisfying way that comes from a fight well fought, from pushing myself to the edge and back. No, it’s deeper than that. It’s in my blood. In my breath. In the quiet hum of the bond beneath my palm, no longer screaming in conflict, but pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat—steady, insistent, alive.
I press my fingers to my chest, feeling the warmth beneath my ribs, the slow, deliberate thud of my heart. The Mark of Twin Thrones flares faintly—just a flicker, like a candle catching flame in the dark. It’s not pain. Not fear. Not even desire, not exactly. It’s… recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this.
For him.
For us.
I don’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because after this morning—after the sparring, the clash of blades, the way he looked at me when I had him pinned beneath me, the way his voice broke when he said he’d wait however long it took—I don’t want to.
Not completely.
I rise slowly, the black silk sheets sliding from my shoulders. The room is quiet, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers. The city of Elarion glows beyond the glass, its spires piercing the enchanted twilight, stars frozen in silver constellations that pulse like living veins. It’s beautiful. Lethal. Like him.
And I’m still in his bed.
Again.
But this time, I don’t panic. Don’t scramble for the door. Don’t curse myself for being weak. This time, I just… stay. I let myself feel it—the warmth of the sheets, the lingering scent of storm and cedar, the quiet certainty that I’m not alone.
And gods help me, I like it.
I dress slowly—black silk, high collar, long sleeves, a slit up the left thigh. Not to provoke. Not to distract. But because it’s the only thing that fits right. The only thing that feels like me. I pull my hair back, tie it with a strip of leather, and step into my boots. The dagger is already in my sleeve, its weight familiar, comforting.
I don’t go to him.
Not yet.
Instead, I walk to the window, pressing my palm to the glass. The bond hums beneath my skin, reacting to his presence, to his nearness. He’s in the war chamber, two floors down, meeting with Malrik and the council elders. I can feel it—the low thrum of his power, the sharp edge of his focus, the way his thoughts move like a storm across the city.
And I know—
—he can feel me too.
Because the bond doesn’t lie.
And neither do I. Not anymore.
The summons comes an hour later—a fae servant, silent as smoke, bowing low. “The High King requests your presence at the state ball tonight, Consort. The Council will be in attendance. Protocol demands your presence at his side.”
I don’t correct her.
Don’t say I’m not his consort.
Don’t say I’m not his anything.
Because the truth is—
—I don’t know what I am.
But I know what I’m not.
I’m not leaving.
Not yet.
“Tell him I’ll be there,” I say.
She bows and vanishes.
The ballroom is a cathedral of glass and shadow, its vaulted ceiling stretching into the enchanted sky, stars swirling in slow, hypnotic patterns above. The floor is polished black stone, inlaid with silver runes that pulse with old magic. Fae nobles glide across it like ghosts, their gowns shimmering with illusion, their eyes sharp with secrets. Vampires stand in clusters, draped in velvet and poison, their fangs just visible beneath smirks. Werewolves move like predators, their eyes tracking every shift in the room. Witches linger near the edges, their hands stained with ink, their sigils hidden in the folds of their robes.
And at the center of it all—
—him.
Riven.
He stands near the dais, dressed in black armor edged with silver thorns, his storm-lit eyes scanning the room, his presence like a blade held to the throat of the world. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. Waits. And when he sees me—when his gaze locks onto mine across the room—his breath hitches.
Just slightly.
But I catch it.
And I know—
—he feels it too.
The bond pulses, deep and hungry, like a second heartbeat. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, not in warning, not in rage—but in recognition. Mate, it whispers. King. Ours.
I don’t look away.
Just walk toward him, my boots echoing on stone, my spine straight, my chin high. The room parts for me like blood before a blade. Nobles bow. Vampires step aside. Werewolves watch with narrowed eyes. And when I reach him, I don’t curtsy. Don’t lower my gaze. Just lift my chin and say, “You wanted me here. I’m here.”
He studies me—his eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my lips, the slit in my dress that reveals a flash of thigh with every step. His breath hitches again. His fingers twitch at his side.
“You look,” he says, voice low, “like a queen.”
“And you,” I reply, “look like a man who’s about to make a scene.”
He smirks. “Only if I have to.”
The music shifts—slow, sensual, a fae waltz that thrums with magic. He reaches out, takes my hand—his skin warm, his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers—and leads me to the center of the ballroom.
“We have to dance,” he murmurs. “The Council is watching. They need to see the bond is strong.”
“Then let’s give them a show,” I say.
He pulls me close, one hand at my waist, the other holding my hand high. Our bodies align—his chest against mine, his thigh brushing mine, his breath warm against my neck. The bond flares, heat surging through me, sharp and sudden. My breath catches. My skin burns where he touches me.
“You’re tense,” he says, guiding me into the first turn.
“I’m not used to being paraded,” I snap.
“You’re not being paraded,” he corrects. “You’re being seen. Acknowledged. Wanted.”
My eyes flash. “By who? You? Or the court?”
“By me,” he says, spinning me. “The court can burn for all I care.”
I stumble slightly as he pulls me back, my thigh brushing against his leg—just above his knee. But the contact is enough.
Heat surges through me.
My breath hitches.
And from the way his pupils dilate, the way his lips part, the way his pulse jumps beneath my fingers—I know he feels it too.
We move in silence, the music wrapping around us like a spell. The court watches, but I don’t care. All I see is him. The way his black armor clings to his shoulders. The way his hair falls across his forehead. The way his lips tremble when I press closer, when his hand slides down to the small of my back, pressing me against him.
“You wore that dress to provoke me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.
“Maybe I just like black,” I say, voice unsteady.
“Liar,” he says. “You knew I’d look. You knew I’d want you. You knew I’d burn for you.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I did?” I whisper. “What then?”
He spins me again, faster this time, pulling me back so hard I stumble into his chest. Our bodies collide—my breasts pressing against him, my thigh sliding between his. For a single, electric second, I feel it—his heat, his pulse, the soft gasp that escapes his lips.
We freeze.
The music plays on.
The court watches.
But we don’t move.
His heart hammers against my chest. My breath comes in shallow bursts. His hand tightens on my waist, holding me there, not letting me pull away.
“Then,” he says, voice rough, “you’d have to admit that you wanted this too.”
I lift my chin, my eyes blazing. “I don’t want you.”
“Your body disagrees,” he says, sliding his hand down, just enough to feel the bare skin of my thigh beneath the slit. “The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do you—not completely.”
I shove him.
Hard.
He lets me go, stepping back with a smirk. “You’re a terrible liar, Zara.”
“And you’re insufferable,” I hiss, straightening my dress, my cheeks flushed.
“Yet here we are,” he says, offering his hand again. “Dance with me.”
I hesitate.
Then, slowly, I take it.
We move again, the tension between us thicker than the magic in the air. I can feel him fighting it—the way his body wants to press closer, the way his breath stutters when I guide him into a turn, the way his fingers tighten around mine when I pull him into a dip.
“You’re good at this,” I say, voice low.
“Dancing?”
“Manipulating me.”
He smiles. “I don’t manipulate you. I see you. I see the way you fight your own desire. The way you hate yourself for wanting me. The way your wolf whines when I touch you.”
My eyes widen.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” he murmurs, pulling me close again. “Then why did you wear the black dress? Why did you come to me this morning? Why are you trembling right now?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just glares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“You think I don’t feel it too?” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I don’t wake up every night with your name on my lips? You think I don’t burn for you?”
Her breath hitches.
“Then why?” she whispers. “If you want me so much, why haven’t you taken me?”
I stop dancing.
Just hold her there, my hands on her waist, my eyes locked on hers.
“Because I don’t want a conquest,” I say. “I want you. All of you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. I want your fire. Your fury. Your truth.” I cup her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. “And I’ll wait however long it takes.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.
And for a single, fragile second—I think she believes me.
Then she pulls away.
“I’ll never be yours,” she says, voice raw.
“You already are,” I say. “The bond doesn’t lie.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Then let it curse me,” I say. “As long as it’s with you.”
She turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
I don’t follow.
I just watch her go, my chest tight, the bond screaming in my veins.
Malrik appears at my side, silent as a shadow.
“She’s dangerous,” he says.
“So am I,” I reply.
“She’ll destroy you.”
“Maybe,” I say, my gaze still on the spot where she vanished. “But if she does, let it be with my heart in her hands.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the truth is—
I’m already gone.