The scent of old paper and blood magic clings to the air in the archives like a curse.
I stand in the dim glow of enchanted lanterns, my fingers trembling as I unroll the copied scroll for the tenth time. The ink doesn’t change. The words don’t shift. It’s still there—Wildblood Execution Order – Signed: Riven Ashthorne—written in bold, unyielding script beneath the official seal of the Seelie Court.
He did it.
There’s no doubt. No room for misinterpretation. This isn’t rumor. This isn’t hearsay. This is proof—cold, official, stamped with the authority of the High King himself.
My mother is dead because of him.
Our bloodline was erased because of him.
And now, he wants me to fuck him.
The thought coils in my gut like poison, hot and bitter. I press my palm to my stomach, trying to steady myself, but the bond pulses beneath my skin—low, insistent, wrong. It doesn’t care about justice. It doesn’t care about vengeance. It only knows hunger. Need. Want.
And gods help me, I feel it too.
Not just the bond.
He.
Riven.
His voice. His hands. The way his storm-lit eyes hold mine like he can see every secret I’ve ever buried. The way his breath felt on my neck this morning when he claimed my scent in front of the entire court—public, possessive, primal.
I shiver.
Not from fear.
From desire.
I hate myself for it.
I clench my fists, crumpling the edge of the scroll. I came here to burn his world down. To expose him. To make him pay. And instead, I’m standing in the shadows of his archives, trembling at the memory of his touch.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Betrayal.
My wolf snarls beneath my skin, pacing, restless. It wants to run. To hunt. To kill. But I can’t. Not yet. Not without more. This scroll is proof—but it’s not enough. I need to know why. I need to know if he acted alone. If he gave the order willingly. If he watched my mother die.
I need to see the truth with my own eyes.
I roll the scroll carefully and tuck it into the inner pocket of my dress, close to my heart. Then I turn back to the shelves, scanning the labels. The archivist said I had access to the Blood War files. Not just the execution orders—but the full records. The reports. The testimonies.
And if I’m lucky—
—I’ll find something that breaks him.
I move down the aisle, my boots silent on the stone floor. The air grows heavier with each step, thick with the weight of old magic and older sins. The spines of the tomes glow faintly—some red, some black, some pulsing with a sickly green light. I ignore them. I’m looking for one thing.
Wildblood Line – Final Judgment.
There.
A narrow cabinet at the end of the row, its lock glowing crimson. The same one the archivist couldn’t open. The same one only Riven can unlock.
I press my palm to the metal.
Nothing.
Of course not. The bond may tie me to him, but it doesn’t grant me his power. His authority. His keys.
I step back, jaw tight.
But I’m not giving up.
If I can’t get inside, I’ll find another way.
I turn and walk to the central desk, where the archivist—a thin, sharp-faced fae with silver eyes—sits writing in a ledger. He looks up as I approach, wary.
“Consort,” he says, voice flat.
“I need access to the sealed Wildblood records,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Only the High King can authorize that.”
“And if I were to… persuade him?”
He studies me. “You’d need more than charm. That cabinet is warded with blood magic. It responds only to his touch. His blood. His voice.”
My stomach twists.
But then—
—an idea.
“What if I had a sample of his blood?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Theoretically? It would need to be fresh. Untainted. And you’d have to speak the unlocking phrase in Old Fae. But even then, the ward might reject you. Blood magic is… particular.”
“And the phrase?”
He hesitates. “Ashthorne’s blood commands. The past obeys.”
I commit it to memory.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to leave.
“Consort,” he calls after me. “Be careful. Some truths are better left buried.”
I don’t answer.
Because I already know that.
But I don’t care.
I need this.
I need to know.
I leave the archives and head back toward the royal wing, my mind racing. Riven’s blood. How do I get it without him knowing? Without triggering the bond? Without him realizing what I’m after?
Then I remember.
Last night, when we signed the contract—he cut his palm. Let his blood drip onto the parchment. I did the same. And when the magic sealed it, the wound closed instantly. Fae healing is fast. But not instantaneous.
There was a moment.
A split second when his blood was exposed.
If I could recreate that… if I could get him to bleed again—
—I might have a chance.
I reach the study. It’s empty. The fire is low, the room silent. I step inside, closing the door behind me. My pulse kicks. I shouldn’t be here. This is his space. His domain. But I need to think. To plan.
I walk to his desk, running my fingers over the smooth obsidian surface. Maps. Scrolls. A silver dagger—my dagger—resting beside a half-finished glass of wine. I pick it up, testing the weight. It’s balanced. Lethal. Just like the man who took it from me.
Then I see it.
A single drop of blood, dried on the edge of the contract scroll.
My breath catches.
It’s from last night. From when he cut his palm. The magic sealed his wound—but it didn’t clean the desk.
I grab a blank parchment, carefully scraping the dried blood into a fold. It’s not much. Barely a speck. But it’s something.
My hands shake as I tuck it into my pocket.
It’s not ideal. It’s old. It might not work.
But it’s all I have.
I’m about to leave when the door opens.
Riven steps in.
He freezes when he sees me—his storm-lit eyes narrowing, his body going still. The air shifts, thickens. The bond hums beneath my skin, reacting to his presence, to his scent—storm and cedar, power and something darker, something primal.
“You’re in my study,” he says, voice low.
“I was looking for you,” I lie.
“Were you?” He closes the door behind him, locking it with a flick of his wrist. “Or were you looking for something else?”
My pulse roars.
He knows.
He has to.
But I don’t show it. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “I wanted to discuss the council session. You said I had to attend. But you never told me what it was about.”
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “It’s about the bond. The Council wants proof of our… compatibility. They’ll be watching. Testing. If you slip, if you hesitate, if you look at me with anything less than desire—they’ll know.”
My stomach twists.
“And if they know?”
“Then we die,” he says simply. “Before dawn.”
I glare at him. “You’re asking me to pretend I want you.”
“I’m asking you to survive,” he corrects. “And if you can’t fake it… maybe you should stop pretending you don’t.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
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 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 smiles.
Slow. Satisfied.
“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. Just… amusement. “You’re a terrible liar, Zara. Your body betrays you every time.”
“And yours?” I snap. “Does it betray you too? When you touch me? When you smell me? When you inhale me like you did this morning?”
His eyes darken.
“You noticed that,” he says.
“Everyone noticed,” I hiss. “You marked me in front of the entire court.”
“I did,” he agrees. “Because they needed to see it. Because you needed to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” he says, stepping closer. “And I don’t share.”
My breath catches.
He sees it.
Again.
And this time, he doesn’t let go.
He grabs my wrist, pulls me close, his other hand sliding to the small of my back, pressing me against him. His body is hard, hot, unyielding. My pulse hammers. My wolf whines—mate, king, ours—and I hate myself for it.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he growls, his lips brushing my ear. “You think I don’t wake up every night with your scent in my lungs, your name on my lips? You think I don’t burn for you?”
My knees weaken.
Heat pools low in my belly.
“Then why?” I whisper. “If you want me so much, why haven’t you taken me yet?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes storm-dark, intense. “Because I don’t want a conquest. I want you. All of you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. I want your fire. Your fury. Your truth.” He cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “And I’ll wait however long it takes.”
I want to believe him.
Gods help me, I want to.
But then I remember the scroll in my pocket. His signature. The order to kill my mother.
I shove him back.
Hard.
He doesn’t budge. Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
“I’ll never be yours,” I say, voice raw.
“You already are,” he says. “The bond doesn’t lie.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Then let it curse me,” he says. “As long as it’s with you.”
I turn away, walking to the window. The city glows below, a tapestry of light and shadow. “You signed the order,” I say, voice low. “To execute my mother. To erase our bloodline.”
He goes still.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I saw it,” I say, turning to face him. “In the archives. The Wildblood Execution Order. Signed by Riven Ashthorne.”
His jaw tightens.
But he doesn’t deny it.
And in that silence—
—I know.
He did it.
He really did it.
My vision blurs.
My wolf snarls.
My hands clench into fists.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why would you do that? She was no threat to you. She was innocent.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes full of something I can’t name.
Guilt?
Sorrow?
Or just cold, unfeeling power?
“You’re right,” he says finally. “I signed it.”
My breath stops.
“But I didn’t give the order.”
I freeze.
“What?”
“I signed it,” he says, voice low, “because I was forced to. The Council demanded it. They said the Wildbloods were a threat. That their magic could unravel the realms. And if I didn’t comply… they would have executed me instead.”
My stomach drops.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He steps to his desk, pulls open a drawer, and takes out a second scroll—sealed with black wax, marked with the Council’s sigil. He unrolls it and hands it to me.
My hands shake as I read.
Directive from the Supernatural Council: The High King is hereby ordered to sign the execution of the Wildblood Line. Failure to comply will result in immediate deposition and execution.
Dated the same day.
Same seal.
Same handwriting.
My breath comes in sharp bursts.
“You’re saying… you had no choice?”
“I had a choice,” he says. “I could have died. Or I could sign. And hope that one day, the truth would come out.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I wonder.
Was he a monster?
Or was he just… trapped?
Like me.
My wolf whines.
Not in warning.
In pity.
I look down at the scroll in my hands—the one with his signature. The one that condemned my mother.
And for the first time—
—I wonder if it was forged.
“Was it you?” I whisper. “Did you sign it… or did someone else?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his storm-lit eyes full of something dark, deep, and true.
And in that silence—
—the bond screams.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
Because for the first time—
—I’m not sure I want to kill him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.