The first thing I feel is the weight of blood on my lips.
Not mine.
His.
Riven’s.
Warm. Rich. Mine.
The metallic tang lingers as I pull back from his neck, my fangs retracting, my breath ragged. The bite mark pulses—a perfect crescent of broken skin, already sealing with the slow, golden glow of fae healing. But it won’t fade completely. Not ever. This is a claim. A vow. A declaration.
And gods help me, I don’t regret it.
He stares at me, his storm-lit eyes wide, his breath coming too fast. One hand is still tangled in my hair, the other pressed to the bite, not to stop it, not to heal it, but to feel it. To know it’s real.
“You marked me,” he says, voice breaking. “A wolf’s claim. A mate’s bite.”
“You always had mine,” I say, pressing my forehead to his, my breath mingling with his. “Now the world knows.”
And I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of him.
Because he took a blade for me.
Because he waited for me.
Because he let me go when I wasn’t ready.
And because now—now he’s standing here, blood on his neck, eyes blazing, heart pounding, whispering, “You marked me,” like it’s a miracle, like it’s a promise, like it’s the only truth he’s ever wanted.
So I do the only thing I can.
I kiss him again.
Not soft. Not gentle. But hard, desperate, real. My lips crash into his, tasting his blood, his power, his surrender. His hands fly to my waist, pulling me closer, his body caging mine in, his breath hot against my skin. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand. The corridor trembles. The torches flicker. The air hums with power, with magic, with the weight of what we’ve just done.
And still, I kiss him.
Like I’m trying to devour him. Like I’m trying to prove something. Like I’s trying to break him.
And gods help me, I let him.
Because for the first time—
—I don’t have to be the weapon.
I can just be his.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his lips swollen, his eyes blazing. “You’re dangerous,” he says, voice rough.
“So are you,” I say, stepping back, smoothing my gown. “And don’t you forget it.”
He smirks. “I won’t.”
We don’t speak as we walk back to the war chamber. Just move in silence, our hands still joined, our bond humming beneath our skin. The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what we’ve just done.
And then—
—the summons comes.
A fae servant, silent as smoke, bowing low. “Your Majesty. The Unseelie Princess requests an audience. She claims to have new evidence.”
I don’t flinch.
Just look at Riven. “Again?”
He nods, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “She’s not done.”
“Neither am I,” I say.
The servant bows and vanishes.
And I know—
—this isn’t over.
But I don’t care.
Because I’ve already won.
The war chamber is quiet when we enter—fire low, maps spread across the obsidian desk, silver pins marking territories, threats, alliances. Riven walks to the window, his silhouette sharp against the glowing city. I don’t follow. Just stand there, my spine straight, my chin high, my fingers curled around the hilt of my dagger. The bite mark on his neck pulses faintly, a reminder. A testament. A promise.
And I love that I put it there.
“You’re quiet,” he says, not turning.
“You’re marked,” I say.
He turns.
And for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks… soft.
Not weak. Not afraid. But… seen.
“You bit me,” he says, voice low.
“You let me,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense.
And then—
—the doors burst open.
Lira steps in.
Unseelie Princess. Riven’s ex-lover. The woman who claims they were bonded for thirty years. She wears a crimson gown, her dark hair flowing, her lips curved in a cruel smile. But this time—
She’s not alone.
Two Unseelie guards flank her, their hands on their weapons. And behind her—
A servant.
Carrying a bundle of black fabric.
Riven’s cloak.
And she’s wearing it.
Wrapped around her shoulders like a shroud. Like a trophy. Like a claim.
My breath stops.
But I don’t flinch.
Just lift my chin, my storm-dark eyes locking onto hers. “You’re bold,” I say. “Wearing his cloak. After I just marked him as mine.”
She laughs—low, musical, wrong. “Marked him? Is that what you call a petty bite?” She steps forward, the cloak swirling. “I’ve had him for decades. I’ve worn his scent. I’ve tasted his blood. I’ve slept in his bed while you were nothing but a ghost in the shadows.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping forward, “he’s never marked you.”
Her smile falters.
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “Because you’re not his mate. You’re not his equal. You’re not even his consort. You’re a pawn. A lie. A ghost.”
“You think so?” she asks, stepping forward, her eyes blazing. “Then explain this.”
She pulls the cloak open.
And I see it.
Her nightgown.
Slit up the thigh.
And on her hip—
A bite mark.
Fresh. Red. Real.
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“He fed from me last night,” she says, voice low. “His fangs were in my neck while you slept alone.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t look at Riven.
Just keep my eyes on her, my storm-dark gaze sharp with something I can’t name. “And you expect me to believe that?” I ask, voice steady.
“The mark doesn’t lie,” she says, stepping closer. “Just like your little bite doesn’t lie. But his? His is deep. Hungry. Real.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward, my hand going to my dagger. “What’s real is that you’re desperate. You’re pathetic. You’re a woman clinging to a man who’s already moved on.”
“Then why is his cloak on my shoulders?” she snaps.
“Because you stole it,” I say, stepping closer. “Because you’re a thief. A liar. A fraud.”
“And you?” she hisses. “A hybrid. A weapon. A woman who came here to kill him. And now? Now you’re his whore?”
My hand flies to her throat before she can blink, my fingers pressing into her skin, not to kill, but to claim. “Call me that again,” I say, voice low, deadly. “And I’ll make sure you never speak again.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles, slow and cruel. “You think you’ve won? You think love makes you strong?”
“No,” I say, pressing harder. “But it makes me unbreakable.”
“Then let’s test it,” she says, her voice breaking. “Let’s see whose mark lasts. Let’s see whose blood he craves. Let’s see—”
“Enough,” Riven says, stepping forward, his voice like ice. “You’ve said enough.”
She turns to him, her eyes blazing. “You let me wear your cloak. You let me—”
“I let you,” he says, stepping between us, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “Because I wanted to see how far you’d go. How deep your lies run. And now I know.”
“You’re lying,” she says, stepping forward. “You wanted me. You still want me. You—”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I never wanted you. Not like that. Not ever. You were a distraction. A political alliance. A means to an end. And now?” He turns to me, his eyes soft, intense. “Now I have something real.”
Her breath hitches.
But she doesn’t break.
Just steps forward, her hand going to the bite mark on her hip. “Then explain this.”
“I don’t have to,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I know the truth. And so does she.”
“Then prove it,” she says, voice breaking. “Let the Truth Mirror show it. Let it reveal—did you feed from me last night?”
The room stills.
And I know—
—this is it.
The final test.
The bond won’t lie.
But neither will I.
“I’ll do it,” I say, stepping forward. “I’ll face the mirror.”
Riven turns to me, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
The Truth Mirror is brought forward—a tall, silver surface etched with ancient runes. It hums with power, with judgment, with the weight of centuries. I step before it, my boots echoing on stone. The runes flare. The air shimmers. And then—
—a voice.
Not loud. Not cruel. But final.
“Did he feed from you last night?”
I don’t hesitate.
“No,” I say, voice clear, strong. “He did not.”
The mirror pulses—bright, white light filling the chamber. The runes glow. The air stills.
And then—
—it speaks.
“Truth.”
The room erupts.
Lira’s face twists—fury, disbelief, defeat. She steps back, her hand flying to the bite mark. “It lies,” she says. “The mirror is corrupted.”
“No,” Riven says, stepping beside me, his hand at my back, possessive, claiming. “It speaks truth. And the truth is—you are the liar. You are the traitor. And you will pay.”
“You can’t do this,” she says, stepping back. “I’m Unseelie royalty. I—”
“You’re nothing,” I say, stepping forward, my storm-dark eyes locking onto hers. “You’re a woman clinging to a dead dream. A woman who thinks a stolen cloak and a fake bite can break us.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “But you’re wrong. Because we were never meant to survive. We were meant to rule.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns, her crimson gown swirling, her boots echoing on stone as she storms from the chamber.
And I know—
—this isn’t over.
But I don’t care.
Because I’ve already won.
We don’t speak as we walk back through the palace. Just move in silence, our hands still joined, our bond humming beneath our skin. The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what we’ve just done.
And then—
—he stops.
Turns to me, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “You were incredible,” he says, voice rough.
“So were you,” I say, stepping into him, pressing my body to his. “But I’m not done yet.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his breath coming too fast. “What now?”
“Now,” I say, rising on my toes, my lips brushing his ear, “I claim what’s mine.”
And I do.
I kiss him—hard, desperate, real. My hands fly to his coat, yanking it open, my fingers digging into his chest, my body pressing to his. He groans—low, rough, real—and his hands fly to my waist, pulling me closer. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand.
And still, I kiss him.
Like I’m trying to devour him. Like I’m trying to prove something. Like I’m trying to break him.
And gods help me, I let him.
Because for the first time—
—I don’t have to be the weapon.
I can just be his.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his lips swollen, his eyes blazing. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice breaking.
“Claiming you,” I say, my fingers going to the buttons of his shirt. “Like you claimed me.”
He doesn’t stop me. Just watches, his breath coming too fast, his body trembling. I undo the buttons, one by one, until his chest is bare, his skin glowing faintly with fae magic. I press my palm to his heart, feeling the steady thud, the echo of my own. The bond pulses, deep and hungry.
Then I do the one thing I don’t expect.
I sink my teeth into his neck.
Not soft. Not gentle. But hard, deep, real. My fangs break skin, blood welling, warm and rich. He gasps—sharp, broken, real—and his hands fly to my head, not to push me away, but to hold me closer. The bond screams—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand.
And still, I bite.
Like I’m trying to devour him. Like I’m trying to prove something. Like I’m trying to claim him.
And gods help me, I do.
I pull back, his blood on my lips, my breath ragging. The bite mark is there—perfect, final, mine. He stares at me, his storm-lit eyes wide, his breath coming too fast.
“You marked me,” he says, voice breaking.
“You always had,” I say, pressing my forehead to his, my breath mingling with his. “But now the world knows.”
And for the first time—
—I don’t fight it.
I just let it in.
Because maybe—just maybe—
I don’t have to destroy him.
Maybe I can save him instead.
And in doing so, save myself.