The vial burns in my hand like a live coal.
Not from heat. Not from magic. But from *weight.* The crystal is cold, the silver stopper unyielding, the blood-red liquid inside swirling with a life of its own. It feels like a promise. Like a threat. Like a choice I’m not ready to make.
I stand in the east garden, beneath the silver willow where I once trained in secret. Dawn light spills through the branches, painting the grass in silver and shadow. The air is sharp, clean, laced with the scent of frost and old stone. I press my fingers to the mark on my neck—deep silver, permanent, pulsing faintly with magic—and a jolt of heat rips through me. My core tightens. My breath hitches. The fire in my blood flares, unbidden, a wild thing clawing at its cage. The torches along the path 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 don’t want it.
I *can’t* want it.
And yet.
I do.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together. The vial glints in the morning light. Cassien’s voice echoes in my mind—*“I’ve come to collect what’s mine.”* And Kaelen’s—*“You’re mine.”* And my own, whispering in the dark—*“Did I want it?”*
I don’t know the answer.
Not after the storm. Not after the tower. Not after Kaelen carried me through the spire, his grip unyielding, his body a wall of heat and strength. Not after he pinned me to the cot, his hands everywhere, his mouth claiming me, his cock filling me, his voice growling *“Say it”* like a vow, like a curse, like a truth.
I said it.
I said *“Yours.”*
And I meant it.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because I didn’t say it to survive. I didn’t say it to manipulate. I didn’t say it to buy time.
I said it because I *wanted* to.
A branch snaps behind me.
I turn.
Lysara Vale steps onto the path, dressed in pale gold, her hair coiled in intricate braids, her lips painted the color of crushed roses. But it’s not her gown that draws the eye. It’s the black tunic beneath it—*his* tunic. And the bite mark on her neck. Faint. Purple. *His.*
My breath stops.
My fire roars.
“Brielle,” she says, voice sweet, melodic. “How… *early* of you.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the mark. At *his* mark. At the proof that while I was unconscious, while I was lost in darkness, *he* was here. With *her.*
“Did you sleep well?” she asks, stepping closer. “I heard the storm was… *draining.*”
My hands clench. My magic coils, a serpent ready to strike.
“You’re dead,” I say, my voice low, deadly. “You’re *nothing.* A ghost of a woman who thought she mattered.”
She laughs—short, breathless. “You think I care? You think I haven’t *wanted* this? To see you broken? To see you *humbled?*” She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “He marked me last night, Brielle. After he left you. After he *claimed* you. He came to *me.*”
My vision whites out.
“Liar,” I hiss.
“Check the sheets,” she whispers. “Smell the air. He’s still *on* me.”
I shove her—hard. She stumbles back, her heel catching on a root, but she doesn’t fall. She just smiles—smug, cruel, *victorious.*
“You think I haven’t *wanted* this?” she says, straightening her tunic. “You think I don’t *deserve* him? I’ve been by his side for centuries. I’ve bled for him. I’ve *loved* him.”
“And yet he marked me,” I snap. “Not you.”
“The bond,” she sneers. “Not choice. Not desire. Just *magic.*”
“Then why wear his shirt?” I step forward. “Why flaunt his mark? If it means nothing, why wear it like a *trophy?*”
Her smile falters. Just for a second. But I see it. The crack in the mask. The jealousy. The *fear.*
“Because I can,” she says, lifting her chin. “Because I know what he’s like. How he tastes. How he feels inside me. How he *screams* my name.”
My fire erupts.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I cross the distance in one stride and grab her by the throat, slamming her back against the silver willow. The bark cracks. Leaves rain down. She gasps, her eyes widening, but she doesn’t fight. She just smiles—smug, cruel, *victorious.*
“You’re nothing,” I say, my voice low, deadly. “A shadow. A memory. A woman who clings to scraps because she knows she’ll never have the whole.”
She laughs—short, breathless. “And you? You’re a *claim.* A *vessel.* He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t *want* you. He just needs the bond. Needs your fire. Needs your blood.”
“And you don’t?”
“I *earned* him.” Her hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and traces the bite mark. “I bled for him. I fought for him. I *bled* for him.”
“And yet he chose me.”
“Did he?” She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “Or did the magic choose for him?”
My grip tightens. Her face turns red. Her fingers claw at my wrist. But she still smiles.
“You’re pathetic,” she says, voice strained. “You think you’re special? You think you’re *the one?* He’s marked dozens. He’s *had* dozens. You’re just the latest.”
“Then why does he protect me?” I hiss. “Why does he *want* me? Why does his magic surge when I’m near?”
“Because you’re *useful.*” She laughs—gurgling, broken. “Because your fire can save him. Because your blood can restore him. Because you’re a *weapon,* Brielle. Not a woman. Not a lover. A *weapon.*”
“And you?” I lean in, my breath hot against her skin. “What are you? A relic? A keepsake? A woman who clings to a past that’s already dead?”
Her eyes flash. “I’m the woman who knows him. Who’s seen him weak. Who’s held him when he’s broken. Who’s *loved* him when no one else would.”
“And yet he marked me.”
“The bond,” she spits. “Not love.”
“Then why does he look at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling, her lips parted.
And then—
—the air shifts.
Not a sound. Not a breath. Just a *presence.* A storm rolling in.
I turn.
Kaelen stands on the path, his silver eyes locked onto mine, then flicking to Lysara, to my hand on her throat, to the wreckage around us.
“Brielle,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Let her go.”
I don’t move. My grip tightens. Lysara gasps, her face turning red, but she still smiles.
“She’s lying,” I say. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He steps forward—slow, deliberate. “Let. Her. Go.”
“Tell me!” I shout. “Did you *fuck* her after you claimed me? Did you come to her while I was unconscious? While I was *yours?*”
He doesn’t answer. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes—those *fucking* silver stars—darken with something I can’t name.
And that’s all the answer I need.
I release her. She stumbles back, coughing, her hand at her throat. But she’s still smiling.
“You’re pathetic,” she says, straightening his shirt. “You think you’re special? You think you’re *the one?* He’s marked dozens. He’s *had* dozens. You’re just the latest.”
“Get out,” Kaelen says, not looking at her.
She hesitates. “Sire—”
“*Now.*”
She glares at me—hate, triumph, *jealousy*—then turns and walks out, her gold gown whispering against the marble.
The moment the door closes, Kaelen turns to me. His gaze is sharp, assessing. “You’re angry.”
“You think?” I snap. “You *claimed* me. You took my memory. You made me yours—and then you went to *her.*”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I step forward, my voice breaking. “I saw the mark. I *smell* her on you. The shirt—your *shirt*—she was wearing it like a *trophy.*”
He exhales, slow, controlled. “Lysara came to me last night. After the ritual. She said she sensed the claim. That she needed to… confirm something.”
“And you *let* her?”
“I didn’t *fuck* her,” he says, voice low, rough. “I didn’t touch her. I let her wear the shirt to throw you off. To make you think—”
“To make me *jealous?*” I laugh—sharp, bitter. “You think I care? You think I *want* you?”
“You do.” He steps closer. “You wanted me in the Chamber. You begged for me. You came apart in my hands, Brielle. You *screamed* my name.”
My breath hitches. My skin prickles. The fire in my blood flares.
“I don’t remember,” I whisper.
“But your body does.” He reaches out, slow, deliberate, and brushes his fingers over the mark. “It remembers every touch. Every thrust. Every time I made you come.”
I shiver. “Stop.”
“No.” His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face up. “You think I’d let her touch me? You think I’d let *anyone* touch me? You’re the only one who burns me, Brielle. The only one who *matters.*”
“Then why her shirt?”
“Because I knew you’d come. I knew you’d storm in here, furious, *alive.* I wanted to see you like this. Angry. Passionate. *Mine.*”
My heart hammers. My breath hitches. The mark on my neck burns.
“You’re a monster,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“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,” he murmurs. “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.
—
Later, 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—
“Next time,” I say, “I’ll mark you back.”