The roof still hummed in my bones.
Not from magic—though the air up here was thick with it, a low, ancient pulse beneath the silver vines that twisted into a canopy above us. Not from the bond—though it had burned between us since Cassian’s confession, since he’d bared his scars and his truth, since he’d told me what I’d only begun to suspect: that we weren’t just siblings, but heirs to a lie older than the throne itself. But from the silence.
The silence after I’d kissed him.
After I’d pressed my fingers to the scars on his chest.
After I’d felt the truth in the way his breath hitched, the way his body trembled—not from pain, but from release.
And now, as I stood at the edge of the palace roof, the wind stirring my hair, the moonlight spilling over the thorned rooftops of Elderglen, I pressed a hand to the mark on my neck—the thorned rose, still warm, still alive. My gown was torn at the shoulder, my hair loose around my face, my storm-gray eyes sharp. No illusion. No mask. Just me. My skin still burned where the prison’s poisoned water had dripped onto it. My wrists ached from the thorned iron cuffs. And between my thighs—
Empty.
Not from lack.
From need.
The bond had been quiet since the Blood Market. Not gone. Not broken. But still. Like a beast that had stopped pacing its cage and was now watching, waiting, biding its time. I could feel it—this thin, fragile thread between us, thrumming with something deeper than magic. Blood. Truth. History. And beneath it—hunger. Not for food. Not for sleep. But for him. For the heat of his skin, the taste of his breath, the way his body moved like liquid under his clothes.
Cassian stood beside me, silent, his presence a wall of heat and power. His coat was gone, his shirt open, the scars on his chest exposed to the night air. His gold eyes scanned the city below, his jaw tight, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike.
“They’ll come,” he said, voice low.
“Let them,” I said.
He turned to me, his gaze sharp. “You’re not afraid.”
“I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know what’s coming.”
“The full moon.”
“The bond.”
“The ritual.”
“And if we don’t do it?”
“Then it will consume us,” he said. “Slowly. Painfully. And when the moon rises, it’ll finish us.”
I exhaled, long and slow. Then I nodded. “Then we do it. But not here. Not like this.”
“Where, then?”
“The Thorn Chamber,” I said. “The heart of the palace. Where the magic is strongest. Where they can’t interfere.”
He hesitated. The Thorn Chamber was sacred. A place of judgment. Of execution. Of truth. To use it for this—
“It’s the only place,” I said, stepping closer. “And we’re not doing this for them. We’re doing it for us.”
And he was right.
So he reached for my hand.
And the thread between us—
It didn’t flare.
It roared.
—
The Thorn Chamber was deep beneath the palace, accessible only by royal blood and thorn magic.
The walls were grown from a single, ancient tree, its bark black and cracked, its roots bursting through the stone like veins. The air was thick, warm—too warm—with the scent of damp bark and something deeper, something primal. At its center stood the Throne of Thorns—a seat of gnarled wood and black iron, where justice was rendered and lives were taken.
But tonight, it would serve another purpose.
Cassian stepped forward, the vines groaning as they parted for us. The thread between us pulsed, a live wire, feeding on proximity, on breath, on the way our bodies knew each other.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
I didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “We don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“Not this time.” I turned to him, my eyes blazing. “If we don’t do this, we die. And if we die, Veylan wins. The throne stays his. The lies live on.”
“And if we live?”
“Then we burn it all down.”
He smiled. Cold. Sharp. Like a man who already knew the ending.
“Then let’s begin.”
He stepped toward me, his hand brushing my cheek. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin.
“This isn’t about pleasure,” I said, voice low. “It’s about magic.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s about survival.”
“And if we give in—”
“—we lose control,” he finished. “And Veylan wins.”
I nodded. “So we don’t give in.”
“We don’t,” he said. “We resist.”
And then—
He reached for me.
Not with his hand.
With thorns.
Living vines, coiling from his sleeve, sharp as blades, glistening with dew. They brushed my skin, cold, then hot, then—
Pain.
Sharp. Precise. A line drawn across the back of my hand. I gasped, but didn’t pull away. The thorns didn’t cut deep. Just enough to draw blood. Just enough to mark.
And then—
The sigil flared.
Not on my neck.
On my hand.
A thorned rose, dripping crimson, glowing with magic. His mark. His claim. A binding contract.
I moaned.
Not from pain.
From pleasure.
Electric. Sharp. So deep it made my knees weak.
The thread screamed, a surge of heat, of need, of something deeper, darker. My breath punched out of me. My knees weakened. Between my thighs—wet, aching.
He stepped closer, his hand brushing my cheek. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin.
“You’re beautiful when you’re afraid,” he said.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
“You’re terrified,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re wet for me.”
My breath hitched.
He knew. Fae didn’t lie. But they could taste truth. Emotion. Arousal.
And I was dripping for him.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t play this game with me.”
“What game?” His voice dropped, rough, intimate. “I’m simply stating a fact.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your pulse is racing. I know your skin is warm. I know you’re wet for me.” His eyes held mine. “And I know you hate that I can tell.”
I clenched my fists. “You’re not supposed to—”
“—want you?” he finished. “I’m not. I need you.”
“As a sister.”
“As an heir.”
“As a weapon.”
“As mine.”
The word hit me like a blade.
Mine.
Not just a claim.
A truth.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Brutal.
His mouth crashed into mine, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my wrist, pressing me back against the stone wall. The thread roared, a molten wave crashing through me, pooling between my legs, making me hard for him.
I should have stopped him.
Should have pulled away.
But I didn’t.
I kissed him back.
Hard. Desperate. Hungry.
And when he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes blazing, I didn’t speak.
Because the truth was written in the fire between us.
In the way our blood knew each other.
In the way our hearts ached for each other.
And in the way, when he looked at me, I finally understood—
This wasn’t just survival.
This was surrender.
—
He stepped back, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then he reached for the hem of his trousers.
And pulled them down.
Just enough.
Revealing his hip.
And there—
A bite mark.
Not on her.
On him.
Deep. Jagged. The edges still pink, the center a dark, healing bruise.
My breath stopped.
“You marked me,” he said, voice rough. “Not with thorns. Not with magic. With your teeth. Your blood. Your truth.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“You knew,” he said. “Your body did. And your blood remembers. It always does.”
I swallowed, my throat tight. The memory was hazy—flashes of heat, of his hands on my hips, of my mouth on his neck, of the sharp, electric snap of my teeth breaking skin. But I hadn’t felt it. Not then. Not until now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Would you have believed me?” he countered. “You thought I’d marked Lirien. That I’d fed her my blood. that I’d let her wear his ring. You believed her lie before you believed my truth.”
My face burned.
He was right. I had. I’d seen the bite on her shoulder, fresh and real, and I’d believed her. I’d let jealousy claw through me, let rage twist my thoughts, let my body ache with the idea that he had touched her, claimed her, wanted her—
And all of it had been a lie.
“She faked it,” I said, pulling my hand back. “The bite. The ring. The shirt.”
“She fakes a lot of things,” he said, lowering his trousers. “But not her desperation. Not her hunger. She wants power. And she thinks the only way to get it is through me.”
“And you let her?”
“I let her believe she has leverage,” he said, stepping closer. “Because a watched enemy is a controlled enemy. But you—”
He reached out, his thumb brushing my jaw. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin.
“You don’t need lies,” he said. “You don’t need tricks. You have the truth. And you have this.”
He pressed his palm flat against my chest, right over my heart. The sigil beneath my skin flared—hot, insistent. The thread pulsed, a surge of heat that made my knees weak.
“We’re not just siblings,” he said. “We’re heirs. And the throne isn’t just built on lies. It’s ours.”
I didn’t speak.
Just looked at him, my storm-gray eyes holding his, my breath trembling. And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
Not because of the thread.
Not because of the mark.
But because of him.
Because he had shown me the truth. Because he had bared his skin, his scars, his blood—and trusted me to see it.
And because I had marked him.
Not as a lover.
Not as a pawn.
As family.
—
And then—
I reached for the hem of my gown.
And pulled it over my head.
—
He didn’t move.
Just watched me, his gold eyes blazing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I stood before him, bare, my skin glowing in the dim light, my storm-gray eyes holding his. My body was a weapon—lean, strong, marked with scars of my own. And between my thighs—wet, aching, ready.
“Do it,” I said, voice low. “Before I change my mind.”
He stepped forward, his hands trembling. Not from fear.
From need.
He reached for me, his fingers brushing my hip, my thigh, the curve of my ass. The thread screamed, a surge of heat, of hunger, of something deeper—desire, raw and unchecked. My cock was hard, aching, desperate to be inside her.
But I didn’t.
Just pressed my palm flat against her stomach, feeling the heat of her skin, the way her body trembled, not from cold, but from want.
“This isn’t about pleasure,” I said, voice rough. “It’s about magic.”
“Then make it quick,” she whispered.
I slid my hand higher, until my thumb brushed the peak of her breast. A jolt of pleasure shot through her. Her breath hitched. Her hips rocked forward, seeking friction.
“You want this,” I said. “You want me.”
“Liar,” she whispered.
But she was. And worse—I knew.
My hand slid down, gripping her ass, pulling her against me. She moaned, the sound low, desperate, shameful. My cock pressed against her thigh, hard, aching, needing.
And then—
The chamber changed.
Not slowly. Not subtly.
Violently.
The thorns on the walls twisted, their barbs lengthening, their vines coiling like serpents. The air thickened, charged with something ancient, something hungry. The sigils on the dais flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion.
And the thread—
It didn’t just pulse.
It exploded.
Fire. Not metaphor. Fire. It ripped through my veins, molten and electric, surging from the point of contact straight to my core. My breath punched out of me. My knees buckled. I would have fallen if Cassian hadn’t caught me.
Heat. So much heat. My skin burned. My blood sang. My pulse roared in my ears, a drumbeat of pure, animal need. Between my thighs—wet. Aching. My nipples tightened against the fabric of my gown, sensitive, throbbing.
And worse—him. I could feel him. Not just his hand on mine. His thoughts, his hunger, his cold, controlled rage. A flicker of shock. A surge of something darker—desire, raw and unchecked. It slammed into me like a fist.
“What’s happening?” I gasped.
“The ritual,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s—beginning.”
“But we haven’t—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gold eyes blazing. “The magic knows. It knows we’re ready. It’s starting on its own.”
“Then we have to—”
“—complete it,” he said, stepping closer. “Not as lovers. Not as enemies. As siblings. As heirs. The ritual doesn’t require passion. It requires blood. And truth.”
“And if we do it… what happens?”
“The magic stabilizes. The bond dissolves. We live.”
“And the throne?”
“Still ours.”
“And Veylan?”
“Dies,” he said. “Or kneels. Either way, he loses.”
I exhaled, long and slow. Then I nodded. “Then we do it. But not like this. Not forced. Not trapped.”
“Then how?”
“On our terms,” I said. “Not the magic’s. Ours.”
He looked at me, his gold eyes blazing. “You’re not afraid.”
“I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know what’s coming.”
“And you’re still willing?”
“I’m not willing,” I said. “I’m ready.”
And then—
I reached for his hand.
And pressed it to my chest.
Over my heart.
Where the sigil still pulsed—hot, insistent.
“Begin,” I said.
And the ritual—
It answered.