The mark on my neck burns like a brand.
Not from pain. Not from shame. But from exposure. From knowing that every noble, every guard, every whispering servant in the Silver Spire can see it. That they know. That they *understand.* That I, Brielle of the Eastern Coven—fraud, infiltrator, weapon—am now *claimed.* Bound to Kaelen Dain, the Prince Regent, the heir to the throne I mean to burn.
And I don’t know if I surrendered.
I don’t know if I was taken.
But the mark doesn’t care about consent. It only knows truth. And the truth is, I woke with his seed still warm inside me, my body humming with the echo of his touch, my skin imprinted with the memory of his mouth.
I press two fingers to the silver sigil—now deep, permanent, pulsing faintly with magic—and a jolt of heat rips through me. My core tightens. My breath hitches. My fire flares, unbidden, a wild thing clawing at its cage. The torches along the wall flicker red. I clamp down. I smother it. But it’s no use. The bond is awake. It’s *alive.* And it’s hungry.
I stand before the mirror, naked, unashamed. My body is a battlefield—fingers marks on my hips, teeth marks on my neck, my thighs still slick with him. I look like a woman who’s been ravaged. Claimed. *Conquered.*
And I hate that part of me likes it.
I pull on a gown—deep crimson, the color of blood and fire. The fabric is heavy, the sleeves long, the neckline high. Armor. Not invitation. I don’t braid my hair. I let it fall loose, auburn and wild, like embers in ash. I don’t hide the mark. I won’t. Let them see it. Let them know I am not afraid.
But I am.
Not of the court. Not of the politics. Not even of Kaelen.
I’m afraid of *me.*
Of the way my body answers his before my mind can stop it. Of the way my fire rises when he’s near. Of the way I *wanted* him in the Chamber, even if I don’t remember saying yes.
I grab my cloak—black, lined with silver thread—and throw it over my shoulders. The fabric catches on something. I turn. A tear. The hem of my gown is ripped, just above the left thigh, the velvet split like a wound. I don’t remember how it happened. Maybe during the ritual. Maybe during the claiming. Maybe during the storm of his hands, his mouth, his cock.
Doesn’t matter.
I leave it.
Let them see that too.
The halls of the Silver Spire are alive with whispers as I descend to the dining hall. Nobles turn. Servants scatter. The air thickens with magic and judgment. I keep my spine straight, my expression neutral. My pulse is steady. My fire is caged. But beneath it, I’m shaking.
Because I know what’s coming.
The morning meal is not a formality. It’s a battlefield. A stage. And today, I am the spectacle.
The double doors to the dining hall are carved from moonstone, inlaid with silver runes that pulse faintly with dormant power. Two guards stand on either side, faces impassive. They don’t speak as I approach. They don’t need to.
I shove the doors open.
The dining hall is a cathedral of ice and arrogance—long tables of white oak stretching toward the dais, where the royal family sits in silent judgment. Floating orbs of captured starlight drift above, casting cold illumination. The air hums with magic and tension.
And every eye turns to me.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. I walk forward, my boots silent on the marble, my cloak billowing behind me like a shadow. I can feel their gazes—curious, calculating, cruel. The women smirk. The men leer. And at the head of the table, Kaelen sits, dressed in black and silver, his hair pulled back, his expression unreadable.
His silver eyes lock onto mine.
And for a heartbeat—just one—he lets me see it. Not triumph. Not cruelty. *Relief.*
Then it’s gone. Locked away behind that cold, regal mask.
But I saw it.
And it terrifies me.
I take my seat at the diplomats’ end of the table, beside the envoy from the Northern Coven. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just shifts slightly in his chair, as if afraid to be associated with me.
Good.
Let them fear me.
A servant approaches with a silver tray—steaming tea, fresh bread, a plate of fruit. I don’t touch it. My stomach is a knot of fire and nerves. I reach for the teacup, my fingers trembling slightly.
And then—
—the whisper starts.
Not loud. Not direct. Just a murmur, low and venomous, passing from table to table. “*Marked.*” “*Claimed.*” “*The hybrid whore.*” “*She let him take her.*” “*She’s not one of us.*”
I don’t react. I keep my gaze forward. My hand is steady as I lift the cup to my lips. The tea is bitter. Cold.
And then—
—a laugh.
Sharp. Bitter. Familiar.
Lysara Vale.
She sits two tables down, dressed in pale gold, her hair coiled in intricate braids, her lips painted the color of crushed roses. Her green silk gown is gone. In its place, a black tunic—*his* tunic. And around her neck—
—a fresh bite mark.
Faint. Purple. *His.*
My breath stops.
My fire roars.
She sees me looking. Smiles. Slow. Cruel. She lifts her own teacup in a mock toast. “To the newly claimed,” she says, voice loud enough to carry. “May your fire burn bright.”
A ripple of laughter follows. Some nobles smirk. Others whisper. One man leans over and says, “I hear the Chamber of Union can be… *draining.*”
I set my cup down. Carefully. Deliberately. My hands are steady. My voice is calm. “And I hear the Prince Regent doesn’t fuck women who wear his clothes like trophies.”
The laughter dies.
Lysara’s smile falters.
And then—
—he speaks.
“Enough.”
Kaelen’s voice. Low. Rough. *Dangerous.*
He stands, slow, deliberate. The room falls silent. Even the floating orbs seem to dim, as if bowing to his presence. He walks down the dais, his boots silent on the marble, his eyes on me.
And then—
—he stops beside me.
His hand closes over the back of my chair. Heat flares between us, the bond responding to his touch. My breath hitches. My skin prickles. The mark on my neck burns.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“It’s rage,” I whisper.
“It’s want.”
He straightens. Then, without a word, he removes his cloak—black, lined with silver thread—and drapes it over my shoulders. The fabric is heavy. Warm. *His.*
And then—
—his hand rests on my lower back.
Not high. Not polite. Low. Possessive. A claim. Heat seeps through the fabric of my gown, a slow, devastating burn. My breath hitches. My core tightens. The fire in my blood surges.
“Brielle of the Eastern Coven,” he says, voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear, “is under my protection. Any insult directed at her is an insult to the Crown. And I do not tolerate insults.”
The silence is absolute.
Lysara’s face pales. She opens her mouth to speak—
—and then the doors burst open.
Taryn stands in the doorway, his wolf-blooded eyes wide. “Sire,” he says, voice tight. “The King demands you. Now.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. His hand is still on my back. His gaze is still on me.
“Later,” he says.
“He said immediately.”
Kaelen exhales—slow, controlled. Then he leans down again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “This isn’t over,” he murmurs.
And then he’s gone.
The moment he leaves, the whispers return. Louder. Crueler. “*Bastard heir.*” “*Fated whore.*” “*She’ll be dead by winter.*”
I don’t react. I keep my spine straight. My fire caged. My breath steady.
But inside—
—I’m burning.
—
Later, I stand in the east garden, beneath the silver willow where I once trained in secret. The dawn light catches the red in my hair. The air is sharp, clean, laced with the scent of frost and old stone. I press my fingers to the mark, and a jolt of heat rips through me. My body remembers. My fire answers.
“You’re not subtle,” a voice says.
I turn.
Kaelen stands on the path, his presence like a storm rolling in. He’s in simpler clothes—dark trousers, a fitted tunic, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. No crown. No fanfare. Just him.
And he’s watching me.
“Neither are you,” I say.
He steps forward. Gravel crunches under his boots. “You wore the tear.”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You didn’t have to.” He stops a few paces away. “I saw it this morning. The rip. Above your thigh.”
My breath hitches. “And?”
“And I remembered.” His voice drops. “I remembered how it happened. How I tore it. How I pulled you onto the floor. How I buried myself inside you.”
My skin prickles. My core tightens. The fire in my blood flares.
“I don’t remember,” I whisper.
“But your body does.” He steps closer. “It remembers every thrust. Every time I made you come. Every time you begged for more.”
“Stop.”
“No.” His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and brushes over the mark. “You think I’d let them humiliate you? You think I’d let Lysara wear my clothes, flaunt her bite, whisper poison in your ear?”
“You did.”
“I *used* her.” His eyes darken. “I knew she’d provoke you. I knew you’d fight. I wanted to see you *alive.* Angry. Passionate. *Mine.*”
My heart hammers. “You’re a monster.”
“And you love it.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You love the fire. You love the fight. You love *me.*”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face up. “You hate that you want me. That you *need* me. That you’re *fated* to me.”
His lips brush my neck, just above the mark. “And I’ll never let you forget it.”
I close my eyes. The fire in my blood roars. The bond hums, a live wire, a current of need.
And for the first time, I don’t fight it.
Because the truth is—
I don’t know if I was taken.
Or if I gave myself.
And either way—
I’m no longer mine.
I’m his.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want to be free.
Or if I want to burn.
—
That night, I stand before the mirror again.
My body is still marked—his fingers on my hips, his teeth on my neck, his come still warm inside me. The claim on my throat pulses, a live wire, a warning.
And the vial sits on the table.
Full.
Waiting.
I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I know one thing—
I came here to kill the Fae King.
And I will.
But not before I burn.
Not before I burn with him.
Not before I burn with me.
And as I trace the mark with my fingers, I whisper—
“Did I want it?”