The gold glow of the water still shimmered in my veins when we left the Hall of Still Waters.
Not just the magic—the ritual’s blessing, the bond’s acceptance—but something deeper. A warmth that had nothing to do with fire or fury. Something soft. Something *new*.
I had come to the Shadow Court to destroy a monster.
And now, wrapped in a fresh black gown, my skin still damp from the ritual bath, my body humming with the echo of Lysander’s touch, I had to face the truth:
I wasn’t sure which one of us was the monster anymore.
Or if we ever were.
Kaelen walked ahead of us, silent, watchful, his broad frame cutting through the torch-lit corridors like a blade. Behind us, the distant murmur of the court rose and fell—whispers, laughter, the clink of goblets. The photo of me—half-naked, flushed, Lysander’s hand on my thigh—was still circulating, still fueling scandal. But something had shifted.
They weren’t calling me a whore anymore.
They were calling me *queen*.
And I hated how much I liked it.
Lysander walked beside me, his presence a storm barely contained. He hadn’t touched me since we left the bath, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked at me. But I could feel him—his heat, his power, the slow, steady pulse of the bond between us. It no longer screamed. It no longer flared with violence. It *sang*. A low, golden hum that vibrated in my bones, in my blood, in the space between my thighs.
And worse—so did I.
I kept my spine straight, my face neutral. But inside, I was unraveling.
I had let him touch me. Let him kiss me. Let him make me come in the water, screaming his name, my body arching, my thighs trembling. And I hadn’t fought it.
I had *wanted* it.
And now, as we approached the grand dining hall for the evening feast, as the scent of blood-poached venison and shadow-kissed wine filled the air, as nobles turned to watch us enter—two figures bound by fate, by magic, by something that felt dangerously like love—I had to face the truth:
I was no longer here to destroy the bond.
I was here to survive it.
The hall was packed—vampire lords in velvet, werewolf enforcers in leather, fae emissaries shimmering in iridescent silk. At the head of the long black marble table, two thrones stood side by side. One for the king.
One for his mate.
We took our seats in silence. Lysander’s fingers brushed mine as he reached for his goblet, and the bond flared—just a pulse, just a whisper—but it was enough to make my breath hitch, my skin flush.
Across the hall, Lord Malrik sat with his pack, silver brand glowing faintly on his cheek. His wolf-gray eyes locked onto mine, sharp with suspicion, with hunger. He didn’t believe the ritual. Didn’t believe the bond had been sanctified. And he wouldn’t stop until he had proof I was a fraud.
Or worse—until he had me dead.
I kept my face still. My hands steady.
Let him watch.
Let him try.
Because for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I wasn’t alone.
Lysander was beside me.
And whether I liked it or not—he was mine.
The feast began—courses of blood-infused delicacies, wine that burned like fire, music played on strings made from the sinews of fallen warriors. I picked at my food, my stomach too tight for eating. My mark pulsed beneath my sleeve, a dull, insistent ache. The bond was restless. So was I.
And then—
She entered.
Lady Nyxara.
Dressed in crimson silk that hugged every curve, her hair a cascade of black waves, her lips painted blood-red. And on her neck—fresh, glistening—shone Lysander’s bite mark.
The hall fell silent.
Malrik smirked.
My blood ran cold.
She didn’t walk. She *glided*—a predator in silk, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on me. She stopped at the foot of the dais, curtsied to Lysander, then turned to me, smiling like a viper.
“My king,” she purred. “My *queen*.”
Her voice dripped with venom.
“I’m so glad I didn’t miss the feast.”
Lysander didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. Just sipped his wine, his expression unreadable.
“You were exiled,” I said, voice tight.
“And I was recalled,” she said, touching the bite on her neck. “Your king has need of me. Again.”
My stomach twisted.
Liar. Manipulator. But worse—*believer*. She didn’t just wear his mark. She wore it like a crown. Like she thought it meant something.
Like she thought she mattered.
“The mark fades in seven days,” Lysander said, voice low. “It’s temporary. Political.”
“And yet,” she said, stepping up the dais, “he let me keep it. He let me wear it. He let me believe—”
“Believe what?” I snapped. “That he cares for you? That he *wants* you?”
She smiled. “He fed from me. He let me into his chambers. He let me—”
“Enough,” Lysander said, voice like steel. “You’re here to deliver a message, not to humiliate my mate.”
“Mate?” she laughed, sharp and bitter. “She’s not your mate. She’s your prisoner. Your weapon. Your *whore*.”
The hall erupted.
Vampires snarled. Werewolves growled. Fae whispered, their eyes alight with scandal.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared at her.
And then—
She stepped closer.
Close enough that I could smell her—rose oil and blood and something darkly sweet. Close enough that I could see the triumph in her eyes, the way her fingers traced the bite on her neck like it was a trophy.
“He likes it when I scream his name,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “He likes it when I beg. He likes it when I—”
I didn’t let her finish.
I stood.
Grabbed my goblet.
And threw the contents in her face.
Blood-wine splattered across her cheeks, her lips, her neck, dripping down her gown like a wound. She gasped, stumbling back, her eyes wide with shock.
The hall fell silent.
Malrik’s lips curled into a smirk.
Lysander didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
“You don’t know him,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “You don’t know what he is. You don’t know what he wants.” I stepped down from the dais, closing the distance between us. “But I do.”
She wiped the wine from her face, her expression twisting into something feral. “And what do you think he wants?”
“Me.” I leaned in, close enough that my breath warmed her ear. “He wants *me*. Not your body. Not your blood. Not your lies. *Me*. And you’ll never be enough.”
She slapped me.
The crack echoed through the hall.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t step back.
Just looked at her.
And then—I smiled.
“You think that hurt?” I whispered. “You think that scares me?” I reached up, touching the sting on my cheek. “I’ve been hunted. I’ve been marked. I’ve been *broken*. And I’m still standing. So go ahead. Hit me again. Scream. Lie. Wear his mark like it means something.” I stepped back, my voice rising. “But know this—
He’ll never want you like he wants me.”
The hall erupted.
Gasps. Whispers. Snarls.
And then—
Lysander stood.
Not fast. Not violent.
Slow. Deliberate. *Inevitable*.
His gold eyes burned as he looked at Nyxara. “You’re exiled. Again. This time, permanently. If I see you within the walls of the Shadow Court, I’ll have your head.”
She stared at him. “You can’t—”
“I just did.” He turned to Kaelen. “Escort her out. Strip her of title, land, and blood rights. By dawn, she’s gone.”
Kaelen nodded, stepping forward. “Lady Nyxara. Come with me.”
She didn’t move. Just looked at Lysander, her eyes wide, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “You said I was the only one who ever made you feel alive.”
“I lied,” he said, voice cold. “To keep the peace. To maintain an alliance. But you were never my mate. And you never will be.”
She laughed, sharp and broken. “Then why does your mark still burn on my skin?”
“Because it’s temporary,” he said. “And because you’re a pawn. Nothing more.”
Kaelen took her arm, guiding her toward the exit. She didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. Just walked, her head high, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a river of blood.
And then—
She stopped.
Turned.
And smiled.
“Enjoy your queen,” she said, voice dripping with venom. “While she lasts.”
And then she was gone.
The hall was silent.
Malrik’s smirk had faded. His eyes were sharp, calculating. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected Lysander to choose me over a political alliance.
And neither had I.
I turned to Lysander.
He was already looking at me.
Gold eyes burning.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, voice low.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
“She’s not worth it.”
“She’s not,” he agreed. “But you are.”
My breath caught.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin, the slow, steady pulse of his power. “I don’t care about alliances. I don’t care about politics. I care about *you*. And if anyone threatens you—” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing the sting on my cheek. “I’ll burn the world for you.”
My heart stuttered.
Not from the bond.
Not from magic.
From *him*.
From the raw, aching honesty in his voice, the way his eyes burned with something that looked dangerously like love.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered.
“And you’re mine.”
I didn’t argue.
Didn’t pull away.
Just leaned into his touch, my breath hitching, my pulse jumping.
And then—
A scream.
From the corridor.
We both froze.
Another scream. Closer. Shrill. Terrified.
Lysander was on his feet in an instant, pulling me up with him. “Stay here.”
“No.” I grabbed his arm. “I’m not staying.”
He didn’t argue. Just pulled me forward, moving fast, silent. We reached the door, opened it—
And froze.
The corridor was chaos.
Nobles shouting. Guards running. Fae emissaries shimmering with alarm.
And in the center—
A servant, on her knees, face pale, hands trembling.
And in her hands—
Another photo.
Larger. Clearer.
Lysander, shirt open, lying in a bed.
Nyxara, half-naked, her head on his chest.
His hand on her thigh.
Her lips curved in a smirk.
And the caption, glowing in crimson magic:
The king’s true mate.
I stared.
My breath stopped.
My heart shattered.
And then—
I turned.
And ran.