The third night passed in silence.
No heat. No flare. No desperate, breathless near-claiming. Just stillness—thick, heavy, charged. I lay on my side of the bed, fully clothed, back to him, every nerve ending raw, every breath a war between want and will. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, a foot of space between us, his presence a weight against my spine, his breath a rhythm I couldn’t ignore.
The bond pulsed, slow and steady, like a second heartbeat. But it didn’t scream. Didn’t burn. It waited. Like it knew.
Like it was giving me time to break.
And I was close.
So close.
By dawn, my resolve was a frayed thread, my body a live wire, my mind a battlefield. I didn’t hate him anymore. Not truly. I hated what he made me feel. I hated the way my hands still trembled from the ghost of his touch, the way my thighs clenched at the memory of his fingers inside me, the way my lips still burned from his kiss.
I hated that I wanted more.
I slipped out of bed before he woke, dressed in a fresh black gown—high collar, long sleeves, modest, safe—and slipped the key to the Archives into the hidden pocket beneath my bodice. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t check if he was watching. I just walked out, boots clicking against marble, spine straight, face neutral.
Let him think I was strong.
Let him think I was winning.
But as I moved through the shadowed corridors, as I passed vampires in velvet and werewolves in leather, as I felt their eyes on me—assessing, hungry, suspicious—I knew the truth.
I was losing.
And the worst part?
I didn’t care.
Breakfast was a silent affair in the royal dining hall—long table, black marble, floating candles burning crimson. I sat at the head, Lysander beside me, his presence a storm barely contained. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Just sipped dark wine from a crystal goblet, his gold eyes scanning the room, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
I picked at a plate of blood-poached eggs and shadow-kissed fruit, my stomach too tight for food. My mark pulsed beneath my sleeve, a dull, insistent ache. The bond was restless. So was I.
Then—Kaelen entered.
The werewolf Beta moved like a shadow, tall and broad, his gray eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. He stopped beside Lysander, handing him a sealed scroll marked with the Council’s crimson wax.
Lysander broke the seal, scanned the contents.
And for the first time since I’d known him, his jaw tightened.
“What?” I asked, voice low.
He didn’t answer. Just handed me the scroll.
I took it, scanning the elegant script.
And froze.
It wasn’t a decree.
It wasn’t a summons.
It was a *photo*.
Not paper. Not parchment.
Magically preserved. Crystal-clear.
Me.
Half-naked.
Lying on the bed in the royal suite.
My gown torn at the shoulder, my breast exposed, my skin flushed, my mouth parted in a gasp.
And Lysander—
His hand on my thigh.
His mouth near my neck.
His eyes burning gold.
It was from the second night.
The night he touched me. The night I came screaming his name. The night I kissed him back.
And worse—
The photo showed *heat*. Real heat. Real need. My body arched toward him, my fingers gripping his arm, my thighs trembling. His hand possessive, his body dominant, his fangs bared.
It wasn’t staged.
It wasn’t faked.
It was *us*.
And it was being circulated.
“Where did this come from?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“Nyxara,” Kaelen said, voice grim. “She had a spy in the suite. A servant with a glamour lens. The photo was sent to every noble house, every werewolf pack, every fae envoy before dawn.”
I looked at Lysander. “Did you know?”
His gaze was cold. “No.”
“Then how—”
“She’s resourceful,” he said. “And vengeful. She wanted proof. Now she has it.”
“Proof of what?” I snapped. “That you *raped* me? That you forced yourself on me while I was trapped in this—this *cage*?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.
Just looked at me—gold eyes burning. “You didn’t say stop.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
I hadn’t.
Not once.
Not when his fingers slipped beneath my gown. Not when he thrust inside me. Not when he kissed me like he was claiming my soul.
I had arched. I had gasped. I had *come*.
And the photo proved it.
“You *used* me,” I said, voice breaking. “You knew the bond would flare. You knew I’d be weak. You *took* advantage—”
“I took *nothing*,” he interrupted, voice low, dangerous. “You wanted it. You *begged* for it.”
“I didn’t—”
“You whimpered my name. You ground against my hand. You kissed me back like you were starving.” He leaned in, close, his breath warm on my ear. “And you were *drenched*, Stella. Soaked. Dripping with need. That’s not force. That’s *fate*.”
I shoved back from the table, the chair scraping against marble. “Don’t you *dare* twist this. Don’t you *dare* make me the villain in your sick game.”
“I’m not making you a villain,” he said, rising. “I’m making you *mine*.”
“I’m not yours!”
“Then why did you let me touch you?” he demanded. “Why did you let me *feel* you? Why did you—”
“Because I was *weak*!” I screamed, the words tearing from my throat. “Because the bond flared! Because I couldn’t— I couldn’t *think*—”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You could’ve said no. You could’ve fought. You could’ve *run*. But you didn’t. You stayed. You *wanted* it.”
I backed away, shaking. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I tasted it,” he said, voice rough. “In your blood. In your memories. In the way your body responds to me.”
“It’s not *me*!”
“Then why does it only happen with *me*?” he challenged. “Why does your pulse spike when I walk into a room? Why does your breath hitch when I touch you? Why does your *soul* call to mine?”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because he was right.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want him to stop.
“I need air,” I whispered, turning.
“Stella—”
I didn’t look back.
I ran.
Through the dining hall. Through the corridors. Past guards, nobles, servants—all watching, all whispering. I didn’t care. I just ran, boots echoing against stone, breath ragged, tears burning in my eyes.
The photo was everywhere.
Projected on floating crystals in the grand hall. Whispered about in the war room. Laughed over in the blood market.
Look at her. The king’s fated mate. Half-naked. Dripping with it.
She’s not a queen. She’s a whore.
He’s not claiming her. He’s breaking her.
I reached our chambers, slammed the door behind me, and slid to the floor, back against the wood, hands pressed to my face.
I wasn’t crying because I was humiliated.
I wasn’t crying because I was angry.
I was crying because I *believed* them.
Because the photo showed the truth.
Not just of what happened.
But of what I *felt*.
I hadn’t been forced.
I hadn’t been powerless.
I had *wanted* it.
And that—more than any lie, more than any betrayal—was the most dangerous thing of all.
A knock.
“Go away,” I snarled.
The door opened anyway.
Lysander stepped in, tall and dark, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes burning gold. He didn’t speak. Didn’t apologize. Just walked to the balcony, pulled open the doors, and let the night wind rush in.
“You’re not the first woman I’ve shared a bed with,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t look up. “I don’t care.”
“You should.” He turned, leaning against the railing. “I’ve had lovers. Political alliances. Strategic unions. I’ve fed from them. I’ve let them wear my mark. I’ve let them believe they meant something.”
“And?”
“None of them made me feel *alive*.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “None of them made the darkness quiet. None of them made the bond *sing*.”
“So I’m special?” I spat. “The chosen one? The fated mate? The *key*?”
“You’re *mine*,” he said, voice rough. “Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because when I touch you, when I taste you, when I *feel* you—I don’t feel like a monster.”
I looked up at him. “And what am I supposed to feel? Grateful? Honored?”
“No.” He knelt in front of me, his hands on my knees, his gaze holding mine. “You’re supposed to feel *real*. You’re supposed to feel *seen*. You’re supposed to feel—”
“Used,” I whispered. “Humiliated. Like a pawn in your game.”
“Then why did you kiss me back?” he asked, voice soft. “Why did you moan my name? Why did you—”
“Because I was *weak*!” I screamed, shoving at his chest. “Because the bond flared! Because I couldn’t— I couldn’t *think*—”
“No,” he said, catching my wrists, pulling me forward. “You could’ve said no. You could’ve fought. You could’ve *run*. But you didn’t. You stayed. You *wanted* it.”
“I don’t want to want you,” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I don’t want to need you. I don’t want to—”
“But you do,” he murmured, pulling me into his arms. “And I don’t care why. I don’t care how. I just care that you’re *here*. That you’re *mine*.”
I didn’t fight.
Didn’t push him away.
Just buried my face in his chest, his scent—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filling my nose, my lungs, my soul.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I didn’t feel like a weapon.
I didn’t feel like a prisoner.
I felt… *held*.
And that terrified me more than anything.
He held me for a long time—silent, steady, strong. His fingers traced circles on my back, soothing, possessive. The bond pulsed, slow and steady, like it was calming, like it was *content*.
Finally, I pulled back.
“If you wanted me,” I said, voice raw, “why didn’t you just say it? Why all the games? The rituals? The lies?”
“Because I didn’t know how,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I’ve spent centuries hiding. Controlling. Pretending I didn’t feel. And then you walked in—defiant, dangerous, *alive*—and the bond screamed. And I didn’t know how to be anything but a king.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I don’t want to be a king with you.” He cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “I want to be a man. A lover. A *partner*.”
“And Nyxara?”
“A distraction. A pawn. Nothing more.”
“And the photo?”
“I’ll destroy it. I’ll exile her. I’ll burn the hands of anyone who keeps it.” His gaze burned. “But I won’t deny what happened. I won’t pretend I didn’t touch you. Because I *needed* to. I *wanted* to. And I’d do it again.”
I stared at him. “You’re impossible.”
“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.
Not to the chambers.
Not to the Archives.
Not to the library.
To the armory.
I didn’t care about the bond.
Didn’t care about the Council.
Didn’t care about the war.
I just needed a weapon.
I burst into the armory, the heavy door slamming behind me. Racks of blades, daggers, stakes lined the walls. I didn’t hesitate. Grabbed a silver dagger, tested the weight. Perfect.
Then another.
And another.
I tucked them into my sleeves, my bodice, my thigh sheath. I didn’t care if they were seen. Didn’t care if they were taken. I just needed to *feel* them. To *know* I wasn’t powerless.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Stella.”
I turned.
Mira stood in the doorway, her silver hair shimmering, her violet eyes filled with concern. The Seelie exile. The fae spy. My only ally in this court of vipers.
“You saw it,” I said, voice flat.
She nodded. “The photo. The lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” I whispered. “He slept with her. He *wanted* her.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “He didn’t. That photo was faked. Glamour. Illusion. The bed isn’t even in the castle. It’s from a brothel in the blood market.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Nyxara used a glamour lens. She took an old image, altered it, made it look real.” Mira reached out, touching my arm. “Lysander didn’t sleep with her. He never has.”
“Then why—”
“Because he needed to maintain an alliance. Because he needed to keep the peace. But he never touched her. Never let her into his bed. Never let her—”
“But the mark,” I said, voice breaking. “She wears his mark.”
“A temporary one. Political. It fades in a week. It means *nothing*.”
“And the first photo?”
“Real. But not what you think. He didn’t force you. You *let* him touch you. You *wanted* it.”
“I was weak—”
“No,” she said, voice firm. “You were *awake*. For the first time in ten years, you were *alive*. And he saw it. Felt it. *Claimed* it.”
I pressed a hand to my temple. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe this,” she said, stepping closer. “He’s not like the others. He’s not using you. He’s *fighting* for you. And if you run now—”
“Then what?” I snapped. “Then he’ll come after me? Drag me back? Force me to be his?”
“No,” she said, voice soft. “He’ll let you go. And he’ll die.”
I froze. “What?”
“The bond,” she whispered. “If you leave. If you reject it. If you walk away—he’ll wither. His power will fade. His heart will stop. He’ll die in agony. And you’ll be the last thing he sees.”
My breath caught.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She stepped back. “Then go. Run. Pack your bag. Escape. And see what happens.”
She turned and left.
I stood there, trembling, the daggers cold against my skin, the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—still clinging to my clothes.
I could leave.
I could run.
I could be free.
And he would die.
And I would be the last thing he saw.
I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was supposed to be.
And found it wasn’t there anymore.
It was in his.
And he was already breaking it.
I walked back to the suite slowly, each step heavier than the last. The photo was still on the minds of the court, still whispered about, still laughed over. But I didn’t care.
I just needed to see him.
When I opened the door, he was there—standing by the balcony, back to me, coat slung over one arm, head bowed.
“You’re back,” he said, voice low.
“I’m not running,” I said, stepping inside. “But I’m not staying because you want me.”
He turned. “Then why?”
“Because I need to know the truth.” I walked to him, close, my eyes locking onto his. “Did you sleep with Nyxara?”
“No.”
“Did you let her into your bed?”
“No.”
“Did you ever want her?”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. “The only woman I’ve ever wanted is standing in front of me. The only woman I’ve ever *needed*.”
“And the photo?”
“Glamour. Illusion. A lie.”
“And the first one?”
“Real.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Every second. Every touch. Every gasp. And I’d do it again. A thousand times. A million. Just to hear you say my name like that.”
I didn’t pull away.
Didn’t fight.
Just leaned into his touch, my breath hitching, my pulse jumping.
And then—
I whispered the words I never thought I’d say:
“I’d let you.”
He stilled. “What?”
“I’d let you touch me again,” I said, voice raw. “I’d let you kiss me. I’d let you—”
“Mark me?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer.
Just looked at him.
And for the first time, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
And I saw myself in his eyes.
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
Not a pawn.
But *his*.
And maybe—just maybe—
I was okay with that.