The first thing I feel when I wake is the absence.
No dagger at my thigh. No hidden blade in my sleeve. No contract burning in my palm. Just the soft weight of silk against my skin, the faint hum of fae magic in the walls, and the ghost of him—Riven—still clinging to my senses like smoke after a fire.
I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. Dawn hasn’t broken yet, but the city of Elarion is already awake—lanterns flickering in the floating spires, fae nobles gliding through the air on wings of illusion, the distant echo of a harp drifting through the enchanted sky. It’s beautiful. Deceptive. Like everything in this court.
Like him.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the steady thud of my heart. The bond pulses in time with it—a low, insistent thrum beneath my skin, a constant reminder that I’m not free. That I’m bound. That I signed a contract with the man who murdered my mother.
Did he?
The thought slithers in, unwelcome. I shove it down. Of course he did. The High King of the Seelie Court doesn’t rise to power by being kind. He doesn’t survive eight centuries by showing mercy. He signed the order. He erased my bloodline. He let my mother die in silence.
And now he wants me to fuck him.
The memory of his words last night sends a jolt through me—hot, sharp, wrong. I throw the sheets back and stride to the wardrobe, yanking open the doors. Inside are dresses—dozens of them—silk, velvet, lace, all in shades of midnight and storm. All designed to please him.
I grab the darkest one and pull it on, ignoring the way the fabric clings to my curves, the slit that runs up to my hip. I don’t care how I look. I don’t care what he thinks.
But I do.
And that’s the problem.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—pale skin, dark eyes, lips still slightly parted from sleep. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless. It wants out. It wants to run. To hunt. To fight.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I need information. I need proof. And the only way to get it is to play the game.
So I smooth my hair, lift my chin, and walk out the door.
The study is empty.
Riven’s not there. His desk is untouched, the contract gone, the fire reduced to embers. I scan the room—no hidden drawers, no loose floorboards, no enchanted scrolls tucked beneath the tomes. Nothing. He’s too careful for that.
But the archives? That’s where the truth will be.
I turn to leave—
—and the door opens.
He steps in, dressed in black armor edged with silver thorns, his hair slightly damp, like he’s just bathed. His scent hits me first—storm and cedar, power and something darker, something primal. My wolf whines, not in warning, but in recognition. I clamp down on it, teeth grinding.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice low, amused.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Too busy thinking about how to kill you.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “Charming. I’ll have breakfast sent to the solar.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity,” he says, stepping closer. “It’s protocol. My consort doesn’t eat alone.”
“I’m not your consort.”
“You signed the contract,” he reminds me, eyes glinting. “For thirty days, you are. And unless you want the Council questioning your commitment, you’ll play the part.”
I glare at him. “And what if I don’t care?”
“Then you’ll die,” he says simply. “And I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”
My stomach twists.
Not from fear.
From jealousy.
I hate myself for it.
“Fine,” I snap. “Breakfast. Then the archives.”
“The archives aren’t open yet,” he says. “They won’t be for another hour. Until then, you’re mine.”
“You don’t own me.”
“The bond says otherwise,” he murmurs, stepping even closer. “But if you’d like a reminder…”
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, but there’s no bite to it this time. Just… amusement. “Come. Breakfast awaits.”
I follow him through the silent corridors, my spine straight, my jaw tight. The palace is waking—servants bowing as we pass, nobles pausing to watch, their eyes sharp with curiosity. I feel their gazes like needles in my skin. They’re waiting for me to fail. Waiting for me to slip. Waiting for the Wildblood to fall.
But I won’t.
The solar is a sunlit chamber with glass walls that overlook the city. A table is set for two—crystal goblets, silver platters, fruit I don’t recognize, bread that smells like honey and ash. I sit, refusing to look at him.
He pours wine—dark, smoky, laced with magic. “Drink,” he says, offering me a goblet.
“I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “But you will.”
I take the goblet, sip. The wine slides down my throat like liquid fire. My pulse kicks.
He watches me, eyes dark. “Good?”
“It’ll do.”
He smirks. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re insufferable.”
“Yet here we are.”
“Trapped.”
“Bound,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
I don’t answer. I focus on eating, on keeping my hands steady, on not looking at him. But I can feel his gaze—hot, heavy, knowing. He sees every flicker of my pulse, every hitch in my breath, every time my wolf stirs beneath my skin.
And he likes it.
When breakfast ends, he rises. “Come. I’ll take you to the archives.”
I follow him through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors, until we reach a massive iron gate etched with glowing sigils. A fae archivist stands at the entrance, eyes wary.
“High King,” he says, bowing. “And… Consort.”
Riven nods. “She has clearance. Full access to public records. No sealed war councils. No private correspondence.”
The archivist hesitates. “Even the Blood War files?”
“Even those.”
My breath catches.
The Blood War—three hundred years ago, when the fae purged the hybrids. When my mother was killed.
“Thank you,” I say, voice steady.
Riven turns to me. “One hour. Then I expect you at the morning council.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then the bond will remind you,” he says, stepping close. His hand brushes my lower back—just a whisper of contact—but it sends heat spiraling through me. “Painfully.”
Then he’s gone.
I turn to the archivist. “Take me to the Wildblood records.”
He leads me through towering shelves of ancient tomes, their spines glowing faintly with sealed magic. The air is thick with dust and power. My heart hammers.
Finally, he stops in front of a narrow cabinet, its lock glowing red. “This is it. But it’s sealed. Only the High King can open it.”
My stomach drops.
“What about the Blood War files?” I ask.
He leads me to another section—rows of scrolls, each labeled with names, dates, execution orders. My fingers tremble as I scan them.
And then I see it.
Wildblood Execution Order – Signed: Riven Ashthorne.
I snatch the scroll, unrolling it with shaking hands. There it is—his signature, bold and black, beneath the official seal of the Seelie Court. The order to purge my bloodline. To erase us. To kill my mother.
My vision blurs.
My wolf snarls.
My hands clench into fists.
He did it.
He really did it.
“Can I take this?” I ask, voice tight.
“No,” the archivist says. “It’s a public record. You can read it here. Copy it if you wish. But it doesn’t leave the archives.”
I nod, forcing myself to breathe. I pull out a blank scroll and begin to copy the order, my hand steady despite the storm inside me. When I’m done, I hand the original back and turn to leave.
But I don’t go to the council.
I go to the gardens.
The royal gardens of Elarion are a labyrinth of black roses, silver vines, and thorned hedges that shift when you’re not looking. I walk fast, my breath coming in sharp bursts, the copied scroll burning in my pocket.
He signed it.
He killed her.
And now he wants me to fuck him?
“Zara.”
I freeze.
Kael steps out from behind a hedge—tall, scarred, his wolf eyes sharp with concern. My childhood friend. My only ally in this court.
“You’re here,” I breathe.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, pulling me into a quick embrace. “Are you okay? What happened at the Accord?”
I pull back, my voice low. “I touched him. The Mark of Twin Thrones—it activated. We’re bound.”
His eyes widen. “Fated mates?”
“Forced bond,” I correct. “And I’m not his mate. I’m his prisoner.”
He studies me. “You look… different.”
“I feel different,” I admit. “The bond—it’s strong. It pulls. It wants.”
“And you?” he asks. “Do you want him?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “I came here to kill him. And I will.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me.
“I found proof,” I say, pulling out the scroll. “He signed the order to execute my mother. He erased our bloodline.”
Kael reads it, his jaw tightening. “This is bad.”
“It’s over,” I say. “I have what I need. Now I just need to get close enough to kill him.”
“Zara,” he says, voice urgent. “You’re playing with fire. And you’re not the only one who can burn.”
Before I can answer, a voice cuts through the air.
“There you are.”
Riven steps into the garden, his presence like a storm rolling in. His eyes lock onto Kael. “The Beta of the Northern Pack. What an… unexpected visit.”
Kael straightens. “I came to see Zara.”
“And now you’ve seen her,” Riven says, stepping closer. “Leave.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” Kael growls.
Riven smiles. Cold. Dangerous. “You will.”
The air crackles.
I step between them. “Kael, go. Please.”
He hesitates—then nods, shooting me one last warning look before disappearing into the hedges.
Riven turns to me. “You shouldn’t be seen with him. Not now. Not when the court is watching.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
“You should,” he says, stepping closer. “Because if they think you’re conspiring against me, they’ll execute you before sunset.”
I glare at him. “And what if I am?”
“Then I’ll stop you,” he says, voice low. “But not before I make you beg for mercy.”
I shove him. Hard.
He doesn’t move.
Instead, he grabs my wrist, pulls me close. “You’re playing a dangerous game, little wolf.”
“Let go.”
“No.”
And then—
—he leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to inhale.
His nose brushes my neck, his breath hot against my skin, as he takes a deep, slow breath—claiming my scent in front of the entire court.
My knees weaken.
Heat pools low in my belly.
The bond screams.
And for the first time—
I want him to keep doing it.