The mark on my neck still burns.
Not from Lysara’s venom. Not from the truth serum that slithered through my veins like a serpent. No, it burns because *he* touched me. Because his thumb brushed over the silver sigil, because his breath warmed my ear, because he said, *“Next time, I won’t let go.”*
And I believed him.
I shouldn’t have. I should’ve pulled away. Should’ve lit his hand on fire, should’ve spat in his face, should’ve reminded him that I came here to destroy his father, not fall apart at the brush of his fingers. But I didn’t. I stood there, trembling, my skin alive with the echo of his touch, my body remembering the way it arched into him in the Chamber of Union, the way my hips pressed back against his, the way my breath caught when his hand slid down my thigh.
I am losing control.
And that is unacceptable.
I pace my chambers now, the crimson gown clinging to my body like a second skin. The sun has risen fully, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The Silver Spire hums with quiet activity—servants moving through the halls, nobles whispering in alcoves, magic pulsing beneath the stone like a heartbeat. And soon, the Council will convene. The first major vote since my arrival. A decision on whether to increase taxation on the Vampire Houses to fund border fortifications against the werewolf clans.
It’s a trap.
And I’m going to spring it.
The Fae don’t tax the Blood Houses lightly. It’s a provocation. A declaration of dominance. And Cassien Nocturne, Lord of House Sanguis, won’t take it lying down. He’ll retaliate. Blood will be spilled. And if I can tip the scales just right, the chaos will spread, the court will fracture, and in the smoke, I’ll slip my knife between Veylan’s ribs.
But first, I have to survive the vote.
I stop at the mirror. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see the flush on my cheeks, the way my pupils are still slightly dilated, the way my lips part too easily when I think of *him*. But I force myself. A warrior must know her weaknesses. And right now, my greatest weakness isn’t the bond. It’s the way my body betrays me when he’s near.
I smooth my hands over the fabric of my gown—deep crimson, the color of blood and fire. I’ve left the sleeves long, the neckline high. Armor, not invitation. My hair is pulled back in a tight braid, no glamour, no pretense. I am not here to seduce. I am here to *burn*.
And yet.
When I step into the Council Chamber, he’s already there.
Kaelen stands at the head of the long obsidian table, his presence like a storm front rolling in. He’s dressed in black and silver, his hair pulled back, his expression unreadable. His silver eyes lift as I enter, and for a heartbeat—just one—he lets me see it. Not triumph. Not cruelty. *Hunger.*
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 nods at me, polite, distant. I return the gesture, my spine straight, my hands folded in my lap. The Council Chamber is a cathedral of power—high ceilings carved with ancient runes, floating orbs of starlight casting cold illumination, the air thick with magic and tension. At the far end, King Veylan sits upon his throne of blackened bone and moonstone, his face pale, his eyes like chips of ice. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to. I feel his gaze like a blade between my shoulders.
The High Priestess calls the session to order. The agenda is read. The vote on vampire taxation is announced. Murmurs ripple through the chamber. Some nobles are eager. Others wary. The Fae have always seen the vampires as decadent, parasitic. But they’re also powerful. And war with the Blood Houses would be devastating.
“The floor is open for debate,” the High Priestess says.
I rise.
All eyes turn to me. Kaelen’s most of all.
“Diplomat Brielle of the Eastern Coven,” I say, my voice clear, steady. “I speak not as a neutral envoy, but as a witch who has walked among the Blood Houses. Who has seen their cities, their people, their *children*.”
A murmur. Veylan’s fingers tighten on the arm of his throne.
“The vampires are not our enemies,” I continue. “They are our allies. They have honored every treaty, paid every tribute, stood beside us in every war. And now you would tax them into starvation? Into rebellion?”
“They feed on the living,” a noble snaps. “They are monsters.”
“And we are not?” I counter. “We drain magic from the earth. We bind souls to our will. We execute hybrids for the crime of existing. Who are we to cast the first stone?”
Another murmur. Stronger this time. Some nobles shift in their seats. Others glare.
Kaelen watches me, his expression unreadable. But I see the flicker in his eyes. *Interest.*
“The vampire alliance is fragile,” I press. “One misstep, one insult, and they will turn. And when they do, they will not come with diplomacy. They will come with *blood.*”
“Then let them come,” another noble says, rising. “We will crush them.”
“Will you?” I ask, turning to him. “Will you stand against an army that moves faster than thought? That feeds on fear as much as blood? That has *endured* for millennia while your precious court played at politics?”
He opens his mouth to respond—
—and I strike.
I raise my hand, and a flame erupts above my palm—not wild, not uncontrolled, but precise, *deliberate*. It swirls into the shape of a serpent, then splits into three, then coils into a spiral. The sigil of the Eastern Coven. A lie. A weapon.
“This,” I say, “is fire magic. Not from a diplomat. From a *warrior.* And if you think the vampires are dangerous, wait until you see what happens when you push a people to the brink.”
The flame vanishes. Silence falls.
And then—
—the vote is called.
Hands rise. Some for the tax. Some against. The High Priestess tallies. The tension is unbearable. I don’t look at Kaelen. I don’t look at Veylan. I keep my gaze forward, my expression neutral.
“The motion,” the High Priestess announces, “is *rejected.*”
A wave of shock ripples through the chamber. Some nobles curse. Others look relieved. Veylan’s face darkens. And Kaelen—
—Kaelen smiles.
Not a full smile. Just the ghost of one. The edge of his teeth. But it’s enough.
He *knew* I would do this.
And worse—he *wanted* me to.
I don’t wait for the session to end. I rise and walk out, my boots silent on the marble. I need air. I need space. I need to think. The bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire, a warning. I can feel him behind me—his presence, his magic, his *hunger*—but I don’t turn.
Not until I reach the archives.
The Fae Archives are a labyrinth of towering shelves, ancient tomes bound in leather and bone, the air thick with dust and forgotten spells. I come here to think. To plan. To remember. My mother’s name is in these books—*Elowen, daughter of the Unseelie, executed for treason.* Her magic stripped. Her body burned. Her daughter vanished.
Me.
I run my fingers over the spine of a volume—*Treaties of the Concord, 1789–1823*—and pull it free. I don’t open it. I just hold it, grounding myself in the weight of it, in the truth of it. I am not a diplomat. I am not a fraud. I am *hers.* Her blood. Her fire. Her vengeance.
And I will not be broken.
“You’re good at that.”
His voice.
Low. Rough. *Dangerous.*
I don’t turn. “At what?”
“Manipulating the Council. Turning their fear into doubt. Making them see what you want them to see.”
I close the book and slide it back into place. “It’s called diplomacy.”
“It’s called *war*.” He steps closer. I can feel the heat of him, the pull of the bond. “You didn’t come here to negotiate. You came to destabilize. To weaken the throne.”
“And if I did?” I turn to face him. “What would you do, Prince Regent? Execute me? Banish me? Or would you keep me close, where you can *watch* me?”
He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward—slow, deliberate—until he’s close enough that I can smell him. Smoke and storm. Power. *Him.*
My breath hitches. The mark on my neck burns. The fire in my blood surges.
“You think I don’t see what you are?” he growls, his voice low, rough. “I see fire. I see rage. I see a woman who’s spent her life burning for revenge.”
“And what do you see when you look at yourself?” I challenge. “A prince? A regent? Or just another puppet of your father’s?”
His eyes darken. “I see a man who knows what you want.”
“And what’s that?”
“To kill him.”
The words hang between us, sharp as a blade.
I don’t deny it.
“And you?” I whisper. “Do you want him dead too?”
He doesn’t answer. But I see it in his face—the flicker of pain, of guilt, of *hate.*
He does.
And that changes everything.
Before I can react, he moves.
Fast. Relentless. He grabs my arm and spins me, slamming me back against the bookshelf. Books rattle. Dust falls. My breath catches. His body presses against mine, his hips pinning me, his chest a wall of muscle and heat.
“You think you’re the only one with secrets?” he murmurs, his lips hovering just above my neck, just above the mark. “You think you’re the only one who wants to burn this place to the ground?”
My heart hammers. My skin prickles. The fire in my blood roars.
“Then help me,” I breathe.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “And if I do?”
“Then we both get what we want.”
He studies me—long, intense. Then, slowly, his hand slides up my arm, over my shoulder, to my jaw. His thumb brushes my lower lip. A caress. A threat.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“So are you.”
He smiles—just once. Just enough to show the edge of his teeth.
“I want to burn with you,” he says, his voice a dark promise.
And then—
—his lips hover just above mine.
Not touching. Not yet. But so close I can feel his breath, warm and unsteady. My body arches into him. My hands grip his arms. My core tightens, *aching.*
“Kaelen—”
“Shh.” His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me harder against him. “Don’t speak. Just *feel*.”
I close my eyes. The bond hums, a live wire, a current of magic and need. The fire in my blood rises, unbidden, *unstoppable.* The torches along the walls flicker red.
And then—
—a voice.
“Sire.”
Taryn.
Standing at the entrance to the archives, his wolf-blooded eyes wide. “The King demands you. Now.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. His body is still pressed against mine, his breath still warm on my skin.
“Later,” he says.
“He said immediately.”
Kaelen exhales—slow, controlled. Then he pulls back, his hands sliding from my jaw, from my waist. The loss of contact is like a blade to the chest.
He steps away. Straightens his tunic. His expression is cold again. Regal. Untouchable.
But his eyes—those *fucking* silver stars—burn with something I can’t name.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
And I know—
It’s only just begun.