The quill scratches across the parchment like a blade dragged over bone.
I write slowly, deliberately. Each word is a weapon. Each clause, a chain. The contract must be ironclad—binding not just by law, but by magic. The ink is mixed with my blood, the sigils etched in Old Fae, the terms sealed with a whisper of oath-magic that hums beneath my breath. By the time she signs, it will be unbreakable. And if she tries to twist it? The bond will punish her before I ever have to.
The fire in the hearth flickers, casting long shadows across the obsidian desk. Midnight. The palace is quiet, the city of Elarion suspended above London like a dream no mortal will ever remember. Outside, the stars pulse in their enchanted constellations, but I don’t look. My focus is here—on the document, on the game, on her.
Zara.
She’s in the adjoining chamber, the one I’ve assigned her—soft bedding, warm fire, a view of the floating spires. I’ve had guards posted, not to keep her in, but to keep others out. The court is already whispering. The moment we returned from the Solstice Accord, the rumors began: The Wildbloods live. The prophecy has returned. The High King has found his fated consort.
Fools.
They don’t understand what’s happened. They don’t feel it—the raw, electric pull between us, the way the air crackles when she’s near. They don’t know that when she looked at me and said, I came here to bury you, something in me answered.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Hunger.
And that terrifies me.
I am Riven Ashthorne. High King of the Seelie Court. I have ruled for eight centuries with ice in my veins and silence in my heart. I do not want. I do not need. I take what I must, when I must, and I do not look back.
Until her.
She smells like storm and jasmine. Like fire and defiance. Like truth—something so rare in this court it’s almost painful to breathe it in. And when she lied to me tonight, when she stood in my chambers and threatened to slit my throat in my sleep, I didn’t see fear in her eyes.
I saw fire.
And gods help me, I wanted to burn with her.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Because if she’s telling the truth—if she really is a Wildblood, if she really came here to destroy me—then this bond is a death sentence. Not just for her, but for the fragile peace I’ve built. The Council will demand proof of consummation. They’ll watch. They’ll test. And if they suspect the bond is false, they’ll execute us both before dawn.
So I will give them what they want.
A show.
And in return, I’ll take what I want.
Her secrets.
Her truth.
Her.
The final sigil flares as I press my thumb to the parchment. The ink darkens, the magic sealing the contract with a low, resonant hum. It’s done. Thirty days. She plays the role of my consort. She attends court. She dines with me. She smiles when I tell her to. And in return, she gains access to the archives—the records, the treaties, the sealed orders. If her mother was murdered, if her bloodline was erased, the truth will be there.
And if she’s lying?
Then I’ll break her before she breaks me.
I rise, rolling the parchment and sealing it with black wax stamped with my sigil—a crown of thorns. I don’t call for a servant. I’ll deliver it myself.
Her door is slightly ajar.
I pause.
She’s not asleep.
I can hear her—soft, uneven breaths. The rustle of fabric. The faint, desperate whisper of a name.
“Mother.”
My hand tightens on the scroll.
She’s grieving.
And for a single, traitorous moment, I wonder—what if she’s telling the truth? What if she’s not here to destroy me, but to avenge someone I never meant to fail?
No.
I push the thought away. Sentiment is weakness. And weakness gets you killed.
I knock.
Footsteps. The creak of floorboards. Then the door opens, and she’s there—barefoot, in a thin silk nightgown, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her spine is straight. Defiant.
“You’re still awake,” I say.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she replies. “Too busy plotting your demise.”
I smirk. “Charming. May I come in?”
She hesitates—then steps aside.
I enter, closing the door behind me. The room is warm, the fire low. She crosses her arms, watching me like I’m a wolf at the edge of her camp.
“What do you want?”
I hold out the scroll. “Your contract.”
She doesn’t take it. “I thought you were going to draft it tonight.”
“I did.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you expect me to sign something you just finished? Without reading it?”
“You can read it,” I say. “But the magic won’t activate until you sign. And if you don’t—”
“The bond will kill me,” she finishes. “You already said that.”
“I did.”
She takes the scroll, unrolls it slowly. Her eyes scan the text, her expression unreadable. I watch her—every flicker of her lashes, every slight tightening of her jaw. She’s good. But not good enough to hide everything.
When she reaches the clause about archive access, her breath hitches—just slightly. I catch it. A crack in the armor.
“You’re giving me access to the royal records?” she asks.
“Within reason,” I say. “No sealed war councils. No private correspondence. But the public archives? Yes. You want the truth about your mother? It’s there—if it exists.”
She looks up. “And if I find something you don’t want me to see?”
“Then you’ll be very careful how you use it,” I say, stepping closer. “Because if you betray me, if you try to expose me before the Council, the contract will ensure you die screaming. The ink is laced with oath-poison. One false move, and your blood will burn.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You’re very confident I’ll sign.”
“Aren’t you?” I counter. “You need this. You need the truth. And you need time. Thirty days is all I’m asking. Long enough for the Council to accept our bond. Long enough for me to decide if you’re a threat… or something more.”
Her eyes flash. “And what if I am a threat?”
“Then I’ll enjoy breaking you,” I say, voice low. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you beg for mercy.”
She steps forward, closing the distance between us. Her scent floods my senses—jasmine, heat, defiance. My pulse kicks. The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum.
“I will never beg,” she says.
“We’ll see,” I murmur.
For a moment, we just stand there—too close, too charged. The air between us is thick with tension, with magic, with something darker, deeper. I can feel her breath on my chest. The rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. The way her fingers tighten around the scroll.
Then she steps back.
“I’ll sign,” she says.
“Just like that?”
“I don’t have a choice,” she says, but there’s a spark in her eyes. “But don’t think this means I trust you. Don’t think this means I won’t still kill you.”
“I don’t expect you to,” I say, pulling a silver dagger from my belt. I slice my palm, letting the blood drip onto the bottom of the scroll. The ink absorbs it, the sigils flaring gold. “I only expect you to play the part.”
She takes the dagger from me—her fingers brushing mine. A jolt runs through me. The bond pulses. Her breath hitches. She feels it too.
Without looking away, she cuts her own palm and presses it to the parchment.
The magic screams.
A shockwave rips through the room—the fire flares, the windows rattle, the shadows on the wall twist like living things. The bond surges, stronger than before, deeper, hungrier. I feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of me.
And then—silence.
The scroll seals itself, the wax melting and reforming into my sigil. The contract is binding.
She looks at me, her hand still outstretched, blood dripping from her palm. Her eyes are wide—not with fear, but with something else. Recognition. Need.
I reach out, not to hurt her, not to dominate—but to take her hand.
Her skin is warm. Her pulse races beneath my fingers. I press my thumb to the cut, the magic in my blood sealing it closed. She doesn’t pull away.
“You’re mine now,” I say, voice rough. “For thirty days. In the eyes of the law. In the eyes of the Court. In the eyes of the bond.”
She lifts her chin. “I’ll never be yours.”
“Your body disagrees,” I say, sliding my hand up her arm, feeling the shiver that runs through her. “The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do you—not completely.”
She yanks her arm back. “This changes nothing.”
“It changes everything,” I say. “But you’re right. It doesn’t mean you trust me. It doesn’t mean you’ve given up your revenge.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “But it does mean you’ll be at my side. Every meal. Every council. Every night.” I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “And I promise you, Zara—by the end of thirty days, you’ll know exactly who I am.”
She turns away, walking to the window. The city glows below, a tapestry of light and shadow. “And what if I don’t like what I see?”
“Then kill me,” I say. “But not before you’ve tasted everything I have to offer.”
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t expect her to.
Instead, I turn to leave. But at the door, I pause.
“One more thing,” I say, not looking back. “The Council has decreed that the bond must be consummated within thirty days. If it is not, we will both be executed at dawn.”
She freezes.
“So whatever game you’re playing,” I continue, “whatever you’re planning—remember this: if you want to live, you’ll have to fuck me first.”
Then I leave.
The door clicks shut behind me.
And for the first time in centuries—
I feel something like hope.
Not because I believe she’ll stay.
Not because I trust her.
But because when she looked at me tonight, when she signed that contract, when her blood mixed with mine—
—I saw it.
Not just hatred.
Not just revenge.
Desire.
Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
And if that’s the weapon she thinks she’s hiding—
Then let her wield it.
Because I’ll be waiting.
And when she finally breaks?
I’ll be the one to catch her.
I return to my study, pouring myself a glass of wine—dark, bitter, laced with enough magic to keep me awake for days. I don’t drink. I just hold it, watching the liquid swirl.
Malrik appears in the doorway, silent as a shadow.
“The contract is signed,” I say without turning.
“And?”
“She’s mine,” I say. “For now.”
He steps closer. “Do you believe her? About her mother? About why she’s here?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’ll find out.”
“And if she’s telling the truth?”
I finally turn, meeting his gaze. “Then I’ll make it right.”
He studies me. “You sound different.”
“I feel different.”
“She’s dangerous,” he warns.
“So am I,” I say. “But for the first time in centuries, I don’t feel alone.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the bond hums in my veins, a constant, living thing.
And somewhere down the hall, behind a locked door, a woman with storm-dark eyes and a heart full of fire is learning the same truth.
We are bound.
Not just by magic.
But by something far more dangerous.
Want.
And if that’s the path to my destruction—
Then let it come.
I’ll welcome it.
With her name on my lips.