The first thing I notice when I wake is the silence.
Not the kind that comes with dawn—the fragile hush before the world stirs. No, this is heavier. Thick. Like the air after a storm, when the thunder has passed but the sky still holds its breath. My chambers are too still. The drapes don’t flutter. The torches don’t crackle. Even the magic in the walls—the ancient pulse of the Silver Spire—feels muted, as if holding its tongue.
And then I feel it.
The mark.
Not the bond-mark, the whisper of silver that’s been growing on my neck since the ritual. No, this is different. Deeper. A brand. A claim.
I press my fingers to my throat, and a jolt of heat rips through me—sharp, intimate, undeniable. My breath hitches. My core tightens. My body remembers what my mind cannot.
I don’t remember.
I don’t remember his hands on me. His mouth on my skin. His cock inside me, stretching, filling, claiming. I don’t remember the way I screamed his name, the way I begged for more, the way I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him deeper.
I don’t remember surrendering.
But my body does.
I sit up too fast. The silk sheets slide off my bare skin, cool against my fevered flesh. My shift is gone. My clothes are nowhere in sight. The last thing I remember is the Chamber of Union—the magic surging, our bodies pressed together, his lips on mine—
And then nothing.
Darkness. A veil. A void.
Did he do this?
Did *Kaelen* claim me while I was unconscious? While I couldn’t fight? While I couldn’t say no?
My pulse hammers. My fire flares, unbidden, a wild thing clawing at its cage. The torches along the walls flicker red. The mirror cracks. The air hums with heat.
No.
I won’t believe it. Not yet.
Maybe it was the magic. Maybe the ritual forced it. Maybe I—
—*wanted* it.
The thought slithers in, cold and venomous. I crush it. I am not some fated fool, bowing to destiny. I am not a pawn. I am *Brielle*, daughter of Elowen, heir to the Unseelie bloodline, and I did not come here to fall at the feet of a Fae prince.
I came to burn.
I throw off the sheets and stride to the wardrobe. My hands tremble as I pull out a gown—black this time, the color of ash and vengeance. The fabric is heavy, the sleeves long, the neckline high. Armor. Not invitation. I dress quickly, yanking the laces tight, braiding my hair back with rough, angry movements. 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.
I just need to move.
I need answers.
I need *him.*
The halls of the Silver Spire are quiet as I storm through them, my boots silent on the marble. Dawn has fully broken, the sky a pale wash of silver and rose. Servants scatter at my approach, their heads bowed, their eyes averted. Good. Let them fear me. Let them know I am not to be trifled with.
I don’t go to the throne room. I don’t go to the archives. I go straight to *his* chambers—the private wing of the Prince Regent, guarded by two stone-faced Fae warriors in silver armor.
They step in front of me.
“Diplomat Brielle,” one says, voice cold. “The Prince is not receiving visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” I say, my voice low, dangerous. “I’m a *claim.*”
Their eyes flicker to my neck. To the mark.
They hesitate.
And that’s all I need.
I shove past them, my magic flaring, a wave of heat that sends them stumbling back. The doors to Kaelen’s chambers are carved from black oak, inlaid with silver runes. I don’t knock. I don’t announce myself.
I kick them open.
The room is dim, the sconces burning low, the air thick with the scent of storm and iron. Moonlight spills through the arched windows, painting the floor in silver and shadow. The bed—large, high, draped in black silk—is rumpled. Unmade.
And then I see *her.*
Lysara Vale.
She’s standing by the hearth, adjusting the collar of a black silk shirt—one that’s far too large for her. *His* shirt. Her green silk gown is gone. Her hair is tousled. Her lips are swollen. And around her neck—
—a bite mark.
Fresh. Faintly purple. Still healing.
My breath stops.
My fire roars.
“Brielle,” she says, turning slowly, a smirk playing on her lips. “How… *early* of you.”
I don’t speak. I don’t move. 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 Chamber of Union can be… *draining.*”
My hands clench. My magic coils, a serpent ready to strike.
“Where is he?” I demand, my voice barely above a whisper.
She tilts her head. “Gone. To the war room. To discuss border patrols. To be a *prince.*” She smiles. “Unlike some of us, he has duties.”
“And you?” I step forward. “What’s your duty? To warm his bed when he’s bored?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “I warm it when he *wants* me. Unlike some of us, I don’t need magic to make him come.”
The fire in my blood erupts.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I cross the room in three strides and grab her by the throat, slamming her back against the wall. She gasps, her eyes widening, but she doesn’t fight. She just smiles—smug, cruel, *victorious.*
“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 harder. The wall cracks. Dust falls. The fire in my blood surges—uncontrolled, *unstoppable.* The torches along the walls flicker red. The sconces burst. The mirror shatters.
And then—
—the door opens.
Kaelen stands in the doorway, his presence like a storm rolling in. His silver eyes lock onto mine, then flick 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 bare feet silent on 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.