The quill slips from my fingers, clattering against the obsidian desk.
I don’t move to pick it up.
My gaze is fixed on the mirror across the chamber—enchanted silver glass, its surface rippling like water. It shows me the ballroom, three floors below, where the court gathers for tonight’s gala. Fae in gilded silks, vampires draped in velvet, werewolves in polished leather, witches in ink-stained lace. The air thrums with magic, music, and the sharp edge of political maneuvering. They’re waiting for us. For her.
And there she is.
Zara.
She stands near the grand staircase, surrounded by nobles who watch her like vultures circling prey. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower. She holds herself like a queen already crowned—spine straight, chin high, dark eyes scanning the room with cold precision. She’s dressed in silver—silk so fine it looks like liquid moonlight, hugging her curves, splitting up the left thigh to reveal a flash of pale skin with every step. Her hair is loose, falling in waves down her back, and her lips—those sharp, defiant lips—are painted the color of storm clouds.
She’s dangerous.
And she’s mine.
The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum that flares every time she moves, every time her scent—jasmine and wolf musk—floods my senses through the mirror’s magic. I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of her pulse, the heat of her blood. Thirty days. That’s all I asked for. Thirty days to prove I’m not the monster she thinks I am. Thirty days to make her see me—not as the king who signed her mother’s death order, but as the man who would burn the world to keep her safe.
But tonight?
Tonight, I don’t want to prove anything.
Tonight, I just want to look at her.
And gods help me, I can’t stop.
She turns, laughing at something a vampire lord says—though her eyes don’t warm. It’s a performance. A weapon. She’s playing them, just like she’s playing me. Flirting with Dain, the Blood Senator, letting him brush her hand, lean too close, whisper in her ear. Her smile is sharp. Her posture open. Inviting.
And it kills me.
My fingers curl into fists. The bond pulses, angry, possessive. I should go down there. I should pull her away. I should mark her again—this time with my fangs, my hands, my body—until every creature in this court knows she is untouchable.
But I don’t.
Because I know what she’s doing.
She’s testing me.
She wants to see if I’ll break. If I’ll lose control. If I’ll prove her right—that I’m just another power-hungry tyrant who can’t stand the thought of his woman speaking to another man.
And I won’t give her the satisfaction.
Not yet.
Instead, I rise, straightening my black coat edged with silver thorns. I don’t wear a crown tonight. No gilded chains or ceremonial robes. Just power—cold, silent, absolute. I take one last look at the mirror, watching her tilt her head as Dain leans in, his fangs just visible beneath a smirk.
Then I turn and walk out.
The corridors are silent as I descend, my boots echoing on marble. Servants bow. Nobles step aside. The air shifts with my presence—magic curling in my wake, shadows stretching too long. I don’t look at anyone. I don’t speak. I just move, a storm given flesh, until I reach the grand ballroom.
The doors open before I touch them.
Music swells. Conversations pause. A hundred eyes turn to me.
And then, slowly, they find her.
Zara doesn’t turn. Doesn’t react. But I see it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tighten around her goblet. She knows I’m here. She’s felt me since I left my study. The bond doesn’t let us hide from each other.
I walk through the crowd, ignoring the bows, the whispers, the way the vampires part like blood before a blade. Dain is still at her side, one hand resting too casually on the railing behind her, caging her in.
“Your Majesty,” he says, turning with a smile. “How kind of you to join us.”
“Dain,” I say, voice low. “I wasn’t aware you’d been invited to touch my consort.”
The smile falters.
The court holds its breath.
Zara finally turns, her storm-dark eyes locking onto mine. There’s no fear. No submission. Just challenge. Fire.
“He wasn’t touching me,” she says, voice cool. “We were having a conversation. Something you might try sometime.”
A ripple of shock runs through the room.
No one speaks to the High King like that.
No one lives.
But I don’t punish her.
I step closer, until my body is just a breath from hers. Her scent floods me—warm, wild, right. My pulse kicks. The bond flares, hot and heavy in my veins.
“You look,” I say, voice low, “like a queen.”
Her breath hitches.
Just slightly.
But I catch it.
“And you,” she says, lifting her chin, “look like a man who’s about to make a scene.”
“Only if I have to,” I murmur, my gaze dropping to her lips. “But I’d rather make you dance.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her chest rising and falling too fast. I reach out, take her hand—her skin warm, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers—and lead her to the center of the ballroom.
The music shifts—slow, sensual, a fae waltz that thrums with magic. I pull her close, one hand at her waist, the other holding her hand high. Her body is taut, rigid, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You’re tense,” I say, guiding her into the first turn.
“I’m not used to being paraded,” she snaps.
“You’re not being paraded,” I correct. “You’re being seen. Acknowledged. Wanted.”
Her eyes flash. “By who? You? Or the court?”
“By me,” I say, spinning her. “The court can burn for all I care.”
She stumbles slightly as I pull her back, her thigh brushing against my leg—just above my knee. But the contact is enough.
Heat surges through me.
My breath catches.
And from the way her pupils dilate, the way her lips part, the way her pulse jumps beneath my fingers—I know she feels it too.
We move in silence, the music wrapping around us like a spell. The court watches, but I don’t care. All I see is her. The way her silver dress clings to her hips. The way her throat bares when she tilts her head. The way her lips tremble when I pull her closer, my hand sliding down to the small of her back, pressing her against me.
“You wore that dress to provoke me,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear.
“Maybe I just like silver,” she says, voice unsteady.
“Liar,” I say. “You knew I’d look. You knew I’d want you. You knew I’d burn for you.”
Her breath hitches.
“And if I did?” she whispers. “What then?”
I spin her again, faster this time, pulling her back so hard she stumbles into my chest. Our bodies collide—her breasts pressing against me, her thigh sliding between mine. For a single, electric second, I feel it—her heat, her pulse, the soft gasp that escapes her lips.
We freeze.
The music plays on.
The court watches.
But we don’t move.
Her heart hammers against my chest. Her breath comes in shallow bursts. My hand tightens on her waist, holding her there, not letting her pull away.
“Then,” I say, voice rough, “you’d have to admit that you wanted this too.”
She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing. “I don’t want you.”
“Your body disagrees,” I say, sliding my hand down, just enough to feel the bare skin of her thigh beneath the slit. “The bond doesn’t lie. And neither do you—not completely.”
She shoves me.
Hard.
I let her go, stepping back with a smirk. “You’re a terrible liar, Zara.”
“And you’re insufferable,” she hisses, straightening her dress, her cheeks flushed.
“Yet here we are,” I say, offering my hand again. “Dance with me.”
She hesitates.
Then, slowly, she takes it.
We move again, the tension between us thicker than the magic in the air. I can feel her fighting it—the way her body wants to press closer, the way her breath stutters when I guide her into a turn, the way her fingers tighten around mine when I pull her into a dip.
“You’re good at this,” she says, voice low.
“Dancing?”
“Manipulating me.”
I smile. “I don’t manipulate you. I see you. I see the way you fight your own desire. The way you hate yourself for wanting me. The way your wolf whines when I touch you.”
Her eyes widen.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I murmur, pulling her close again. “Then why did you wear the silver dress? Why did you flirt with Dain? Why are you trembling right now?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just glares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“You think I don’t feel it too?” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I don’t wake up every night with your name on my lips? You think I don’t burn for you?”
Her breath hitches.
“Then why?” she whispers. “If you want me so much, why haven’t you taken me?”
I stop dancing.
Just hold her there, my hands on her waist, my eyes locked on hers.
“Because I don’t want a conquest,” I say. “I want you. All of you. Not just your body. Not just your blood. I want your fire. Your fury. Your truth.” I cup her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. “And I’ll wait however long it takes.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.
And for a single, fragile second—I think she believes me.
Then she pulls away.
“I’ll never be yours,” she says, voice raw.
“You already are,” I say. “The bond doesn’t lie.”
“The bond is a curse.”
“Then let it curse me,” I say. “As long as it’s with you.”
She turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
I don’t follow.
I just watch her go, my chest tight, the bond screaming in my veins.
Malrik appears at my side, silent as a shadow.
“She’s dangerous,” he says.
“So am I,” I reply.
“She’ll destroy you.”
“Maybe,” I say, my gaze still on the spot where she vanished. “But if she does, let it be with my heart in her hands.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the truth is—
I’m already gone.
I return to the study later, long after the gala has ended. The fire is low, the room silent. I pour 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.
The door opens.
She steps in.
Zara.
Her silver dress is gone, replaced by a simple black robe. Her hair is loose, her face bare of glamour. She looks tired. Vulnerable. Real.
“You left,” I say.
“You noticed,” she replies, walking to the window. The city glows below, a tapestry of light and shadow.
“I always notice you,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
Just stands there, her back to me, her hands pressed against the glass.
“Why did you wear the silver dress?” I ask.
She turns, her eyes storm-dark. “To distract you.”
“And did it work?”
“Ask yourself,” she says. “Were you distracted?”
I smirk. “Is that a trick question?”
She doesn’t smile.
Just watches me, her expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, she walks toward me. Stops just inches away.
“You said you wanted me,” she whispers. “All of me.”
“I do.”
“Then prove it.”
My breath catches.
“How?”
She leans in, her lips brushing my ear.
“Let me see the truth.”
I freeze.
Because I know what she’s asking.
The sealed cabinet. The Wildblood records. The truth about her mother.
And if I open it—
I might lose her forever.
But if I don’t—
I’ll never have her at all.
So I do the only thing I can.
I take her hand.
And lead her to the door.
“Come with me,” I say.
And for the first time—
—she doesn’t resist.