The first thing I notice is how silent the palace is.
Not empty—never that. Elarion hums with life, a living city woven from magic and marble, its towers spiraling into the enchanted sky like thorned vines reaching for stars. But inside the High King’s private wing, the noise stops. No whispers, no footsteps, no rustle of silk. Just the low, rhythmic pulse of fae magic beneath my feet, thrumming through the floor like a heartbeat.
Riven walks ahead of me, his grip still tight on my marked hand, dragging me through corridors lined with glowing crystal and black ivy. The walls shift subtly as we pass—faces forming in the stone, watching, vanishing. Fae architecture doesn’t just obey magic. It remembers.
I keep my breath steady. My pulse under control. My wolf pressed down so hard it aches. One wrong move, one flicker of fear, and he’ll smell it. And he’ll use it.
He already knows I’m lying. He smelled it the second our hands touched. But the bond—the cursed, burning Mark of Twin Thrones—is real. And in the eyes of the law, that makes me his.
His fated consort.
The words taste like ash.
He stops in front of a pair of towering silver doors carved with thorned roses. They swing open before he touches them, revealing a chamber that steals my breath.
The room is vast, circular, its ceiling lost in shadow. A fire burns in a hearth carved from black stone, flames shifting between blue and violet. The walls are lined with shelves of ancient tomes, their spines glowing faintly with sealed magic. A massive obsidian desk dominates one side, covered in scrolls, maps, and a dagger I recognize—my dagger, the one I thought was hidden in my sleeve.
He took it.
Without me feeling it.
My stomach twists.
But I don’t react. I can’t.
Riven releases my hand and steps inside, his boots echoing on the polished floor. I follow, forcing my spine straight, my chin high. The doors close behind me with a soft, final click.
Then he turns.
And just like that, the air changes.
It’s not just his presence—though that’s enough. It’s the way he looks at me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve. Like I’m prey he’s decided to savor.
“Remove your cloak,” he says.
I don’t move.
“I said,” he repeats, voice low, “remove your cloak.”
Slowly, I reach up and pull the hood back, then let the fabric slide from my shoulders. It pools at my feet, revealing the dark silk dress I wore for the ceremony—high-necked, long-sleeved, designed to hide. To protect.
He steps closer.
Too close.
I can feel the heat of him now, the storm-dark energy that clings to his skin. His scent—cedar and lightning, something ancient and untamed—fills my lungs. My wolf stirs, not in warning, but in want. I clamp down on it, teeth grinding.
He circles me.
Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator testing its prey.
“You’re not a witch,” he murmurs, stopping behind me. I feel his breath on my neck. “Not fully. Your magic is too sharp. Too wild.”
I say nothing.
“And your scent—” He inhales deeply, just behind my ear. “Jasmine. Wolf musk. And something else. Something forbidden.”
My breath hitches.
He notices.
“There it is,” he says, voice dark with satisfaction. “Fear.”
“It’s not fear,” I snap, turning to face him. “It’s disgust.”
He smiles.
Slow. Dangerous.
“Liar.”
And then he moves—fast, inhumanly fast—closing the space between us, one hand gripping my waist, the other tilting my chin up. His fingers are strong, unyielding, and the contact sends a jolt through me—heat flaring in my veins, the bond pulsing on my palm.
“You flinch when I touch you,” he says, thumb stroking the line of my jaw. “But your pulse jumps. Your breath quickens. Your pupils dilate.” He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s not disgust, little wolf. That’s desire.”
I shove him back.
Hard.
He doesn’t budge. Just laughs, low and dark, as I stumble back, my heart hammering.
“You can deny it,” he says, stepping toward me again. “You can hate me. You can plot my death every night in that sharp little mind of yours.” He picks up my dagger from the desk, turning it in his fingers. “But the bond doesn’t lie. And neither does your body.”
I glare at him. “I came here to bury you.”
“And yet,” he says, tossing the dagger onto the bed, “here you are. In my chambers. In my world. Bound to me by magic older than your bloodline.” He steps closer, crowding me against the wall. “So tell me, Zara of the Wildbloods—what happens now?”
My name on his lips is a violation.
But I don’t show it.
Instead, I lift my chin. “Now? I play the part you want. I wear the dress. I smile when you tell me to. I let you parade me in front of your court like some prize.” I lean in, my voice a whisper. “And while I do, I learn everything. Your secrets. Your weaknesses. The truth about what you did to my mother.”
His expression doesn’t change.
But his eyes—those storm-lit eyes—darken.
“And when I have it?” I continue. “When I know exactly how to destroy you? I’ll slit your throat in your sleep. And I’ll smile while I do it.”
For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then he laughs.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
But amused.
“You’re extraordinary,” he says, stepping back. “Do you know that? Most would beg. Most would weep. Most would try to bargain.” He picks up a silver goblet from the desk, pours dark liquid from a crystal decanter. “But you? You threaten me. To my face. While your body burns for me.”
He offers me the goblet.
I don’t take it.
“Drink,” he says. “It’s only wine. Fae vintage. Not poisoned.”
I hesitate—then take it. I don’t trust him. But I won’t show fear. I bring the cup to my lips and sip.
The wine is rich, smoky, laced with something faintly sweet—magic, maybe. It slides down my throat like liquid fire.
“Good?” he asks.
“It’ll do,” I say, setting the goblet down.
He watches me for a long moment. Then he moves to the hearth, pouring himself a drink. “You’ll stay here. In my chambers. The bond requires proximity. More than fifty miles apart, and it will kill you. Slowly. Painfully.”
My stomach drops.
I knew the bond was binding. But I didn’t know it was lethal.
“You’ll have your own room,” he continues. “But you’ll dine with me. Attend court with me. And you’ll play the role of my consort—convincingly.” He turns, his gaze locking onto mine. “Fail me, and I’ll make you regret it.”
“And if I succeed?” I ask. “If I play your perfect little queen?”
“Then,” he says, stepping toward me, “you’ll live. And you’ll have access to everything I have. The archives. The records. The truth.”
My breath catches.
That’s what I need. That’s why I’m here.
“You’re offering me a deal?”
“A contract,” he corrects. “One I’ll draft tonight. You sign it, and you’re mine—for thirty days. Long enough for the Council to accept our bond. Long enough for me to decide if you’re a threat… or something more.”
“And if I refuse?”
He steps closer, until his body is just a breath from mine. “Then the bond will kill you. Or I will. Your choice.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to claw his eyes out.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time, I see it—
A path.
Not to kill him. Not yet.
But to use him.
Access to the archives. Proximity to power. A front-row seat to his secrets.
If I play this right, I won’t need to slit his throat in the dark.
I can destroy him in the light.
So I lift my chin. “Then draft your contract, Your Majesty. I’ll sign it.”
He smiles.
Slow. Satisfied.
And then he does something I don’t expect.
He reaches out—not to touch my face, not to grip my arm—but to brush his fingers along the inside of my wrist, just above the pulse point.
The contact is light.
But the effect is devastating.
Heat surges through me, sharp and sudden. My breath catches. My skin burns where he touches me. The bond on my palm flares, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
And for a single, traitorous second—
I forget my mother’s face.
I forget my mission.
I forget everything except the feel of his skin on mine.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
His thumb strokes my wrist, slow, deliberate. “You feel it,” he murmurs. “The bond. The pull. The need.”
I yank my arm back. “I feel nothing.”
“Liar,” he says again.
And this time, I don’t argue.
Because the truth is—
I do feel it.
The bond. The magic. The hunger.
And the worst part?
It’s not just the bond.
It’s him.
His voice. His scent. The way his eyes hold mine like he can see every secret I’ve ever buried.
It’s wrong.
It’s unnatural.
And yet—
My body aches for him.
I turn away, walking to the window. The city of Elarion stretches below, floating above London like a dream. Humans walk the streets, unaware. Unprotected. Living in the shadow of monsters.
Just like I did.
Just like my mother.
“You’re quiet,” Riven says behind me.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“About how to kill me?”
“Among other things.”
He steps closer. “You should know—I don’t sleep much. And when I do, I don’t dream. Not anymore.” He pauses. “But tonight? I think I will.”
I don’t answer.
“Goodnight, Zara,” he says, voice low, intimate. “Sweet dreams of revenge.”
I don’t turn.
I don’t speak.
But when the door to my room clicks shut behind me, when I’m finally alone—
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of his touch, the burn of the bond, the traitorous beat of my heart.
And I whisper the truth to the darkness.
“I will not want him.”
But my body trembles.
And for the first time—
I’m not sure I believe myself.