The first thing I feel when I wake is his scent.
Not just around me—though the room still hums with it, storm and cedar clinging to the black silk sheets, the obsidian walls, the very air—but on me. Deep in my skin. In my lungs. In the blood pulsing through my veins. Riven’s scent. His heat. His heartbeat, still echoing in my ears from where I slept pressed against his chest.
I don’t move.
I lie there, eyes closed, breathing him in, memorizing the rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his arm still draped over my waist, the way his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, like he’s holding onto me even in dreams.
And I hate myself for it.
For wanting this. For needing this. For letting him touch me, hold me, save me.
I came here to kill him.
Not to fall asleep in his arms.
The fever broke in the night—slowly, painfully. The visions faded. The pain dulled. The bond settled, no longer screaming in my bones but humming, low and steady, like a second heartbeat. And through it all, he stayed. He didn’t leave. He didn’t send for a servant. He didn’t use this as leverage, as proof that I was weak, that I needed him.
He just held me.
And gods help me, I let him.
I shift slightly, trying to ease out from under his arm without waking him. My body aches—deep, bone-deep exhaustion from the fever, from the fight, from the endless war inside me. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless, but quieter now. Calmer. Sated.
Then I freeze.
Because I see it.
On his neck.
A bite.
Fresh. Raw. The skin broken, the edges still pink, a faint smear of dried blood just beneath his jaw. Not mine. Not from the fever. Not from any struggle.
Recent.
Too recent.
My breath stops.
My wolf snarls.
And then—
—the image of Lira flashes in my mind. Her silver hair. Her low-cut gown. The way she touched the ring on her finger. The way she whispered, He used to bite me here…
No.
It can’t be.
He wouldn’t—
But the proof is right there. On his skin. In the scent that lingers beneath his own—sweet, cloying, unmistakably fae female.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I shove him.
Hard.
He wakes instantly—alert, focused, no grogginess, no confusion. His storm-lit eyes snap open, locking onto mine, sharp and calculating. But then he sees my face. Sees the fury. Sees the betrayal.
And for the first time since I’ve known him—he looks guilty.
“Zara—”
I don’t let him speak.
I’m on him in a second, my hands fisted in his shirt, shoving him back against the headboard. My knee presses into his stomach, my other leg straddling him, pinning him down. My wolf howls beneath my skin, not in fear, not in need—but in rage.
“Who was she?” I hiss, my voice low, dangerous. “Lira? Was it Lira?”
His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snarl, yanking his shirt open, exposing the bite on his neck. “This. This. Who did this to you? When? Last night? While I was burning up in your bed, you were letting her sink her fangs into you?”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just watches me, his jaw tight, his breath steady.
And that’s worse.
“Answer me!” I slam his head back against the wood. “Did you fuck her? Did you whisper her name in the dark while I was helpless in your arms?”
“No,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t.”
“Then explain this,” I demand, my fingers pressing into the wound. He flinches—just slightly—but doesn’t pull away. “Explain how another woman’s bite is on your neck while I was your consort, your fated mate, your—”
“I was drugged,” he growls, grabbing my wrists, flipping me in one fluid motion. I hit the mattress with a gasp, and suddenly, he’s above me, his body caging me in, his hands pinning my wrists to the sheets. His eyes blaze—storm-dark, furious. “Lira slipped something into my wine last night. I didn’t know. I didn’t want her. She forced herself on me. I fought her. I pushed her off. But not before she bit me.”
I stare up at him, my chest heaving, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“And you didn’t kill her?” I whisper. “You didn’t burn her alive for touching you?”
“I would have,” he says, voice rough, “if I hadn’t been half-unconscious. But I remembered you. I remembered you were sick. That you needed me. So I came to you instead.”
My breath catches.
“You came to me… instead of killing her?”
“Yes,” he says, his grip tightening on my wrists. “Because you matter more.”
I want to believe him.
Gods help me, I want to.
But the bond—
—is screaming.
Not in pain.
In conflict.
It doesn’t know what to believe. It doesn’t know if he’s lying. If he’s manipulating me. If he’s using this moment to make me need him more.
And then—
—he does something I don’t expect.
He releases my wrists.
Just lets go.
I don’t move. I don’t try to shove him off. I just lie there, my hands at my sides, my chest rising and falling too fast. He watches me, his eyes searching mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“You don’t trust me,” he says.
“You gave me no reason to,” I whisper.
“Then let me give you one.”
And before I can react—
—he kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Hard.
Desperate.
His mouth crashes into mine, teeth and tongue, claiming me like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for centuries and can’t take it anymore. My breath catches. My body arches. My hands fly to his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer, I don’t know.
But I don’t stop him.
And gods help me, I don’t want to.
His lips are hot, demanding, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me up against him. The bond explodes—fire and ice tearing through my veins, the Mark of Twin Thrones flaring on my palm, burning like a brand. The room trembles. The windows rattle. The fire in the hearth surges, flames turning violet, then gold, then white.
And still, he kisses me.
Like he’s trying to devour me. Like he’s trying to prove something. Like he’s trying to break me.
So I bite him back.
Hard.
My teeth sink into his lower lip, breaking skin. Blood spills—hot, metallic, laced with magic. It floods my mouth, and the bond screams, a deafening, otherworldly crack that splits the air. The walls shake. The chandelier above us shatters, glass raining down like stars.
He doesn’t pull away.
Just groans—deep, guttural, pleased—and kisses me harder, his tongue sweeping over the cut, tasting his own blood on my lips. My wolf howls. My body ignites. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading through my limbs, coiling in my core.
And then—
—the magic surges.
Not just from the bond.
From us.
Raw, unfiltered power erupts—witch magic, wolf strength, fae enchantment, vampire hunger—all channeled through the kiss, through the blood, through the bond. The sigil on our palms flares brighter, the thorned vines twisting, the crown of stars blazing. The air hums. The floor trembles. The very fabric of the room bends, shadows stretching too long, light bending in impossible ways.
And still, we kiss.
Until we’re both gasping, until our breaths are ragged, until we’re trembling from the force of it.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild, his lips swollen, blood smeared across his mouth. My breath hitches. My pulse hammers. His hands are still on my waist, his body still pressed against mine, his erection hard against my thigh.
“You felt it,” he whispers, voice rough. “The bond. The magic. The truth.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
I felt it.
Not just desire.
Not just need.
Connection.
Deeper than magic. Deeper than blood. Deeper than hate.
And it terrifies me.
“Don’t lie,” he says, thumb stroking my cheek. “You know it’s real. You know we’re real.”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” I whisper.
“Then let me show you,” he says, leaning in again.
But this time, I turn my head.
“No,” I say, shoving him back. “I can’t— I can’t do this.”
He lets me push him off, doesn’t fight me as I scramble off the bed, my legs unsteady, my breath coming in sharp bursts. I don’t look at him. I don’t speak. I just walk—fast, unsteady—to the door.
“Zara,” he says, voice low.
I don’t stop.
“You can run,” he says. “But the bond will always bring you back.”
I pause.
Just for a second.
Then I turn the handle and walk out.
The corridor is silent. The torches flicker. The air is cold. I walk fast, my boots echoing on marble, my hands clenched into fists. My lips still burn from his kiss. My body still aches with unspent need. My wolf whines—mate, king, ours—and I hate myself for it.
I reach my room, slam the door shut, and lock it.
Then I press my back against the wood, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
And I do the one thing I swore I’d never do.
I cry.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m broken.
But because for the first time—
—I don’t know what I want.
I came here to kill him.
But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is his face.
His storm-lit eyes.
His blood on my lips.
His hands on my body.
And the worst part?
It’s not the bond.
It’s not the magic.
It’s not even the fever.
It’s the way my heart aches when I think of losing him.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of his touch, the burn of the bond, the traitorous beat of my heart.
And I whisper the truth to the darkness.
“You felt it. Don’t lie.”
And the silence answers.
Because I already know.
I did.
And that’s what scares me most of all.
I don’t sleep that night.
I can’t.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel his mouth on mine. Taste his blood.
And worse—I want it.
So I stay awake, pacing, thinking, planning. I need proof. Not just about Lira. Not just about the bite. But about everything. About my mother. About the order. About whether he truly loved her. About whether he’s capable of love at all.
And I know where to find it.
The sealed cabinet. The Wildblood records. The truth.
I wait until the palace is silent, until the torches dim, until the guards change shifts. Then I slip out, moving through the shadows, silent as a ghost. The corridors are empty. The air is still. I reach the archives, the iron gate etched with glowing sigils.
The archivist is gone.
The lock is closed.
But I have what I need.
I pull out the dried blood I scraped from Riven’s desk—his blood, old but still potent. I press it to the lock, whisper the phrase: Ashthorne’s blood commands. The past obeys.
For a second—nothing.
Then—
—a click.
The lock glows gold. The cabinet opens.
And inside—
—is the truth.
I don’t touch it.
Not yet.
Because behind me, a voice cuts through the silence.
“I told you some truths are better left buried.”
I turn.
Riven stands in the doorway, his storm-lit eyes dark, his expression unreadable.
And I know—
—this changes everything.