The aftermath of the Chamber of Union lingers in my bones like smoke after a fire.
I should be furious. I should be plotting. I should be sharpening my knives and rehearsing my lies, not lying in my bed at dawn with my thighs still trembling and my skin humming from a touch that never happened. But the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about the way his hand felt on my thigh. The way his breath warmed my ear. The way my body arched into him, *begging* without words.
And the worst part? He knows.
He *knew* I wouldn’t say no.
I roll onto my side, pulling the silk sheets tighter around me. The mark on my neck pulses faintly, a silver scar that’s grown darker overnight. It’s not a full claim—no, that would require intent, a kiss, a vow. This is something else. A *bond-mark*. A sign that the magic has taken root. That the connection between us is no longer just in our blood, but on our skin.
I press my fingers to it, and a shiver runs through me.
“No,” I whisper to the empty room. “You don’t own me.”
But the mark doesn’t answer. It just burns.
A knock at the door.
“Diplomat Brielle?” A different voice this time—softer, sweeter. Female. “Lady Lysara has sent tea. She requests your company in the solarium.”
I frown. Lysara Vale. Kaelen’s former lover. The woman who wears his ring like a trophy. The one who smirked at me in the Grand Hall, her green silk gown whispering secrets I couldn’t hear.
And now she wants to *have tea*?
My instincts scream trap. My magic coils tighter. But I can’t refuse. Not without drawing suspicion. And right now, suspicion is the last thing I need. The bond is already making me reckless. I can’t afford to be careless too.
“Tell her I’ll be there shortly,” I say, sitting up.
The servant doesn’t answer. I hear footsteps retreating down the hall.
I rise, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. My shift from last night is crumpled on the stone platform by the bed—evidence of a night that should have been silent, but wasn’t. I kick it under the bed and pull on a fresh gown—deep crimson this time, the color of blood and fire. The fabric clings to my curves, the neckline high, the sleeves long. Armor. Not seduction. I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me weakened.
I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t need to see the shadows under my eyes, the flush on my cheeks, the way my lips are still slightly swollen from biting them last night. I just need to survive this.
The solarium is on the east wing, a glass-domed room filled with rare plants and floating lanterns that drift like fireflies. It’s too bright. Too peaceful. Too *false*. The Fae don’t do peace. They do control. They do power. They do lies wrapped in beauty.
Lysara stands by a crystal table, pouring tea from a silver pot. She’s dressed in pale gold, her hair coiled in intricate braids, her lips painted the color of crushed roses. She looks like a queen. A *real* one. Not a fraud like me.
“Brielle,” she says, smiling. “So glad you could join me.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” I say, stepping forward.
She laughs—light, melodic, like wind chimes. “Oh, we always have choices. It’s just that some of us are better at pretending otherwise.”
She hands me a delicate cup—crystal, rimmed in gold. The tea inside is pale amber, steaming gently. It smells sweet. Floral. Innocent.
Too innocent.
I don’t take it.
“You’re wary,” she says, her smile not faltering. “I don’t blame you. This court eats the unprepared.”
“And you’re not unprepared?”
“I was once.” She takes a sip of her own tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “But I learned. Power isn’t taken. It’s *given*. Or stolen. Or *earned*.”
“And which did you do?”
She sets her cup down. “All three.”
She reaches into the folds of her gown and pulls out a small vial—crystal, stoppered with silver. She uncorks it and lets three drops fall into my tea. The liquid shimmers, the scent deepening—honey, jasmine, and something else. Something sharp. Familiar.
Truth serum.
My stomach drops.
“What is that?” I ask, my voice steady.
“A gift,” she says, pushing the cup toward me. “A blend from the Eastern Coven. Said to open the mind, clarify the spirit. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t drink what I don’t understand.”
“Then you’ll never understand this court.” She tilts her head. “Or *him*.”
There it is. The bait.
“Kaelen?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Of course.” She smiles. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? The way his magic reacts when you’re near? I’ve known him for decades. I’ve *slept* in his bed. I’ve felt his hands on my body, his mouth on my neck—”
“You’re wearing his ring,” I interrupt. “Yet you’re not marked.”
Her smile flickers. “The ring is a symbol. The mark is a *claim*. He never claimed me. Not fully.”
“And you want to know why.”
“I want to know *you*.” She leans forward. “Who are you, Brielle of the Eastern Coven? Why does the bond flare when you touch him? Why does your fire burn with Unseelie blood?”
My breath catches.
She *knows*.
But how?
Before I can react, she pushes the cup into my hand. “Drink. It’s not poison. It won’t hurt you. It’ll only help you *be honest*.”
My fingers tighten around the crystal. The tea is warm. Inviting. Dangerous.
I have two choices: refuse and confirm her suspicions, or drink and risk losing control.
I choose the latter.
But not her way.
I bring the cup to my lips and inhale—deep, slow—drawing the scent into my lungs, letting my magic rise to meet it. The truth serum is strong, but it’s not invincible. And I’ve spent years learning how to resist.
Then I drink.
The liquid is sweet, cloying, but beneath it, I taste the sharp tang of the serum. It hits my bloodstream fast—heat spreading through my chest, my throat, my skull. My thoughts feel lighter. Clearer. *Exposed.*
Lysara watches me, her eyes sharp. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I lie.
She smiles. “Good. Then tell me—what brings you to the Silver Spire?”
My lips part. The truth surges—*I came to kill your king. I came to burn this place to the ground. I came to reclaim what was stolen from me.*
But I clamp down. I focus on the fire in my blood, on the sigil in my palm, on my mother’s last words. *Burn bright, my daughter.*
“Diplomacy,” I say, my voice steady. “An alliance between the Witch Circles and the Fae.”
She tilts her head. “And yet, you’re not a diplomat. You’re a fighter. A witch of fire. A *hybrid*.”
My pulse spikes. The serum tugs at my tongue. *Tell her. Tell her everything.*
“I’m whatever I need to be,” I say, forcing the words out.
“And what do you need to be with Kaelen?”
The question hits like a blade. My breath hitches. The fire in my blood flares, unbidden. The truth is *right there*, pressing against my teeth, begging to be spoken.
But I won’t let it.
“I don’t need him,” I say. “I don’t want him.”
Lysara’s smile turns cruel. “Liar.”
She leans in. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. The way your body responds when he’s near. The mark on your neck—it’s growing. The bond is *consuming* you. And you’re *afraid*.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“No,” she agrees. “You’re afraid of what you feel. Of what you *want*.”
My hands tremble. The cup rattles in my grip. The serum is working—my defenses are cracking. I can feel it—the truth rising, *pushing*, demanding to be spoken.
And then, before I can stop it, it slips out.
“The fire in my blood,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “It’s not just magic. It’s *her*. My mother. Her power. Her *vengeance*.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I freeze.
No. *No.*
I didn’t mean to say that. I *fought* it. I *resisted*.
But the serum was too strong. And I was too weak.
Lysara’s eyes widen. Then she smiles—slow, triumphant. “Ah,” she says. “So you *are* one of them. A child of the Unseelie. A *bastard heir*.”
My stomach drops. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do.” She stands, circling the table. “The last Unseelie king had a daughter. Hidden. Cursed. *Hunted*. And now you’re here, walking into the lion’s den, pretending to be someone you’re not.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough.” She stops in front of me. “And I know Kaelen will *destroy* you if he finds out the truth.”
“He already knows.”
Her smile falters. “What?”
“He knows I’m not who I say I am. He knows my magic is Unseelie. He knows I hate his father.” I stand, my voice steady now. “But he doesn’t care. Because the bond doesn’t lie. And it’s *choosing* me.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think he’ll protect you?”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Then why are you still here? Why haven’t you run?”
“Because I’m not running.” I step closer. “I’m *hunting*.”
She laughs—sharp, bitter. “You’re a fool. The bond will break you. It will make you weak. It will make you *his*.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But at least I’ll burn with purpose. Not die in silence like a forgotten mistress.”
Her hand snaps out—fast, vicious—and slaps me across the face.
The crack echoes through the solarium. My head snaps to the side. My cheek burns.
But I don’t flinch.
I turn back slowly, my gaze locking onto hers. The fire in my blood surges—uncontrolled, *unstoppable*. The torches along the walls flicker red. The lanterns dim. The plants wither.
Lysara takes a step back.
“You’re not just a hybrid,” she whispers. “You’re *her*. The lost heir.”
“And you’re *nothing*,” I say, my voice low, dangerous. “A ghost of a woman who thought she mattered.”
She opens her mouth to speak—
—and then the door bursts open.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, his presence like a storm rolling in. His silver eyes lock onto mine, then flick to Lysara, to the shattered cup on the floor, to the red mark on my cheek.
“What happened here?” he demands.
Lysara straightens. “She attacked me, sire. Spoke of rebellion. Of *bloodright*.”
He doesn’t look at her. His gaze is still on me. “Is that true?”
My pulse hammers. The serum still hums in my veins. The truth is *right there*, begging to be spoken.
But I won’t give her the satisfaction.
“She poisoned my tea,” I say. “Truth serum. She wanted to break me.”
His eyes darken. “And did she?”
I hold his gaze. “No.”
He steps forward—slow, deliberate. His hand closes around my arm, not rough, but *firm*. Heat flares between us, the bond responding to his touch. My breath hitches. My skin prickles.
“Next time,” he says, his voice low, dangerous, “I won’t let go.”
Lysara’s face pales. “Sire—”
“Leave,” he says, not looking at her. “Now.”
She hesitates—only for a second—then turns and walks out, her gold gown whispering against the marble.
The moment the door closes, Kaelen turns me to face him. His hand slides up my arm, to my neck, his thumb brushing over the mark. “She hit you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Clearly.” His eyes search mine. “But you’re trembling.”
“It’s the serum.”
“Or the bond.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You want to burn her. You want to burn *me*. But you’re not fighting it anymore, are you?”
My breath catches. The fire in my blood roars. The mark on my neck burns.
And for the first time, I don’t deny it.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
He smiles—just once. Just enough to show the edge of his teeth.
“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how bright you can burn.”