The moment her hand left mine, the world snapped back into focus—but not the same one I’d lived in before.
The Grand Hall, once a familiar arena of power and pretense, now felt thin, brittle, like glass about to shatter. The floating starlight orbs dimmed as if recoiling from what had just passed between us. The nobles whispered, but their voices were distant, muffled beneath the roar still echoing in my skull. And she—Brielle—walked away without looking back, her spine rigid, her steps measured, as though she could outpace the bond.
She couldn’t.
I could feel her. Not just the echo of her touch on my skin, but deeper—like a pulse beneath my ribs, a second heartbeat stitched into my own. The fated bond. A myth I’d dismissed as superstition, a weakness the Seelie elite scoffed at. But this wasn’t myth. This was fire in the blood, ice in the bones, a current so raw it left me breathless.
And she felt it too.
That flicker in her eyes when our skin met—fear, yes, but beneath it, something else. Recognition. The same dawning horror I felt: This changes everything.
I watched her vanish through the archway, the emerald train of her gown disappearing like a dying flame. Then I turned to the High Priestess. “Dismiss the court.”
Her pale brows lifted. “Sire, the alliance—”
“Is sealed,” I cut in, voice low, final. “The magic bore witness. The rest is ceremony. Dismiss them.”
She hesitated—only for a heartbeat—then raised her hands. “By the Prince Regent’s command, the ritual is complete. All may retire.”
The hall emptied with quiet efficiency. Fae don’t argue with orders, not from the heir. But as they filed out, I caught the glances—curious, calculating. Lysara lingered longest, her green silk gown whispering against the marble as she rose. She didn’t look at me. She looked toward the archway where Brielle had disappeared.
“Interesting,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. “She burns so easily.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She knew better than to press.
When the last noble had gone, I stepped out of the ritual circle. The sigils dimmed beneath my boots. I flexed my hand—the one that had touched hers—and the memory of her skin sent a jolt through me. Warm. Alive. Powerful. Not the controlled flicker of a diplomat, but a storm barely leashed. And when our magic met, it didn’t just flare—it recognized.
That’s what unsettled me most.
I strode to the west wing, my guards falling into step behind me—silent, disciplined. Taryn, my Beta, matched my pace, his wolf-blooded senses sharp. He’d felt the shift in the air too. All shifters did. The bond had vibrated through the hall like a struck bell.
“You felt it,” I said, not looking at him.
“Yes, sire.”
“Say it.”
He exhaled. “Fated.”
The word hung between us, heavy with implication. For a werewolf, the mate-bond was sacred, unbreakable. For a Fae? It was a vulnerability. A liability. And for me—Prince Regent, heir to a throne balanced on lies and blood—it was a threat.
“She’s not who she claims to be,” I said. “Eastern Coven? Fire magic in a diplomat? That’s not diplomacy. That’s espionage.”
“Or desperation,” Taryn offered.
I shot him a look. “Desperation doesn’t walk into the Silver Spire with a name forged in lies and a gaze that dares me to challenge her.”
“No,” he agreed. “But fated mates don’t lie to each other. Not in the bond.”
That stopped me.
He was right. The bond didn’t lie. When our hands touched, I hadn’t just felt attraction, or magic, or even the pull of destiny. I’d felt truth. Beneath her fury, beneath the walls she’d built, there was something raw, real. A grief so deep it mirrored my own. A fire that wasn’t just magic—it was purpose.
And it terrified me.
We reached my chambers—a high-ceilinged suite of black marble and silver filigree, lit by cold blue flames in sconces along the walls. I dismissed the guards, leaving only Taryn. The door sealed behind us with a soft click.
“Run her name,” I said, stripping off my gloves. “Brielle of the Eastern Coven. Full background check. Pull every record from the Council archives, the Hybrid Tribunals, even the Black Veil Network if you have to.”
“You think she’s a spy?”
“I know she is.” I turned to the hearth, where a fire burned without wood—pure magic, drawn from the earth’s core. I stared into the flames, but all I saw was her. The way her breath caught when I touched her. The way her fire flared in response to mine. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then why?”
“Revenge.”
Taryn went still. “Against who?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He saw it in my face.
“Veylan?” he whispered.
I nodded. “She’s too young to have known him in the old wars. But her magic—fire, raw and untamed—it’s not Eastern Coven. It’s Unseelie.”
His eyes widened. “The last Unseelie king died decades ago. His line was purged.”
“Officially.” I clenched my jaw. “But rumors persist. A child, hidden. A hybrid. A curse.”
“And the bond?”
“Means nothing to her mission,” I said, but even as I spoke, I felt the lie. The bond meant everything. It was a weapon, a weakness, a trap. And she was walking into it blind.
Or maybe not so blind.
I remembered the sigil on her palm—the one she’d hidden. I’d seen it the moment she extended her hand. A spiral, jagged, etched in black iron. A curse-mark. Veylan’s signature.
He’d branded her.
Why?
I turned from the fire. “I want her watched. Every move. Every word. But discreetly. No one else knows about the bond. Not yet.”
“And if she tries to leave?”
“She won’t.” I met Taryn’s gaze. “The bond will keep her close. And if it doesn’t—I will.”
He nodded, then hesitated. “Sire… the bond. It’s not just magic. It’s alive. You can’t control it. You can’t suppress it.”
“I’ve spent my life suppressing things,” I said coldly. “Emotion. Weakness. Need. I’ll suppress this too.”
But even as I said it, my body betrayed me.
The memory of her touch surged—her skin warm under my fingers, her pulse racing against my thumb. My breath hitched. Heat coiled low in my abdomen, a rare, unwelcome arousal. I hadn’t felt this in decades. Not since Lysara. And even then, it had been duty, not desire.
This was different.
This was hunger.
I turned back to the fire, clenching my fists. “Get out.”
Taryn didn’t argue. He bowed and left.
Alone, I stripped off my tunic, the fabric heavy with the scent of storm and iron. I poured a glass of black wine—aged in moonlight, bitter on the tongue—and drank it in one swallow. Then I went to the mirror.
My reflection stared back—pale skin, sharp features, silver eyes that looked more like weapons than windows to a soul. I looked like my father. Cold. Controlled. Dead inside.
But beneath the surface, something was shifting.
I rolled up my sleeve and traced the old scar on my forearm—a wound from a battle long ago, one that never healed right. The skin was numb there. Dead. And for years, that’s how my magic had been too—waning, unreliable, like a flame starved of air.
But since the ritual?
It was stronger.
I closed my eyes and reached for it—the storm magic that ran in my blood. Lightning crackled at my fingertips, brighter than it had in years. The air hummed. The sconces flickered.
The bond was feeding it.
Fae magic thrives on truth, on emotion, on connection. And the fated bond? It was the deepest connection of all. It could restore what was lost. It could make me whole.
Or it could destroy me.
I slammed my fist into the mirror. Glass shattered. Crimson bloomed across my knuckles. I didn’t flinch.
“You will not destroy me, little witch,” I whispered to the shards. “I will break you first.”
—
The next morning, I found her in the east garden.
She stood beneath a silver willow, its branches weeping like frozen tears. The dawn light caught the red in her hair—deep auburn, like embers in ash. She was in simpler clothes now—dark trousers, a fitted tunic, her sleeves rolled to the elbows. No glamour. No pretense. Just her.
And she was training.
A small flame danced above her palm, swirling like a living thing. She flicked her wrist, and it split into three, then coiled into a spiral. Her control was precise, but beneath it, I felt the power—wild, ancient, dangerous.
I stepped onto the path. Gravel crunched under my boots.
She didn’t turn. “Come to gloat, Prince?”
“Come to observe,” I corrected, stopping a few paces away. “You’re not subtle.”
“Neither are you.” She closed her fist. The flame vanished. “Your guard has been following me since last night.”
“Taryn is observant.”
“He’s annoying.”
I almost smiled. Almost. “You’re lucky he’s not the one who suspects you.”
She turned then, her green eyes sharp. “Suspects me of what?”
“Of being a fraud. A spy. A killer.”
“And you don’t?”
“I know you are.” I took a step closer. “But I also know you’re not here for the Eastern Coven. You’re here for him.”
Her breath caught—just for a second. But I saw it. I saw the flicker of pain, of rage.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know your magic is Unseelie. I know you bear Veylan’s curse-mark. I know you hate him.” I tilted my head. “What I don’t know is why you’d walk into his court with a fake name and a fire in your blood.”
She laughed—short, bitter. “Maybe I just wanted to see the monster up close.”
“Or maybe,” I said softly, “you wanted to see me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re his son. That’s enough.”
“Is it?” I stepped closer. The bond hummed between us, a live wire. “Because when we touched, I didn’t feel hatred. I felt truth. And the truth is, you’re not just here to kill him.”
“Then why?”
“To reclaim what he stole.” I reached out, slow, deliberate, and brushed my fingers over her wrist—the same spot I’d touched in the ritual. Her pulse jumped. Her breath hitched. “Your mother’s magic. Your birthright. Your name.”
She pulled her arm away. “You don’t know anything about my mother.”
“I know she was executed by order of the throne. I know her fire was taken. I know she had a daughter who vanished.” I held her gaze. “I know you.”
She stared at me, her chest rising and falling. For a moment, I thought she might strike me. Or kiss me.
Then she turned and walked away.
But not before I saw it—the mark on her neck. Faint, still forming, but unmistakable.
The claim.
And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the core:
It wasn’t me who marked her.
It was the bond.
And it wasn’t finished.