The ring burns in my pocket like a live coal.
I haven’t taken it out since Kaelen handed it to me, but I can feel it—its weight, its cold silver, the sigil etched into the band that matches the one on the forged decree, the one Cassian wore like a crown of lies. It’s a key. A confession. A ghost from the past I wasn’t ready to face.
And now, as I stand before the mirror in Kaelen’s chambers, adjusting the sleeves of my deep violet gown—simple, dignified, the kind of dress a neutral envoy would wear—I can’t stop thinking about it.
About *him*.
Cassian.
My father?
The thought is a blade to the gut, sharp and sudden, twisting with every breath. I don’t want to believe it. I *can’t* believe it. The man who condemned my mother to the Veil, who framed Kaelen, who tried to have me exiled—how could he be the one who gave me my blood? How could the monster be family?
But the ring says otherwise.
And so do the dreams.
I close my eyes, and I see it again—the night they came for us. Fire. Screams. The door bursting open, Council guards in silver-laced armor, their faces masked, their voices cold. My mother fighting, her magic flaring like lightning, her voice raw as she screamed for me to run. And then—
A hand.
Reaching through the flames.
Not to grab me.
Not to hurt me.
But to *pull* me back, into the shadows, out of sight.
A hand wearing that ring.
I open my eyes, my breath ragged. The woman in the mirror—storm-gray eyes, dark hair coiled at her nape, lips still faintly swollen from the kiss that wasn’t a kiss—doesn’t look like a daughter. She looks like a weapon. A storm with a blade in her hand and vengeance in her blood.
And yet.
For the first time since I walked into this place with a knife at my throat, I’m not sure what I’m fighting for.
Not just justice.
Not just revenge.
But *truth*.
And the truth might destroy me.
“You’re quiet,” Kaelen says from the doorway.
I don’t turn. I can feel him—his presence, his proximity, the bond humming between us like a plucked wire. He’s dressed in black again, his jacket tailored to perfection, his face unreadable. But I feel the tension in him, the way his wolf is coiled tight beneath his skin, the way his gaze lingers on the back of my neck like he’s waiting for me to break.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“About the ring.”
It’s not a question.
I finally turn to face him. “You knew it was his.”
“I suspected.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe it would have made you reckless. You already want to burn the Council to ashes. Knowing Cassian might be your father?” He shakes his head. “That kind of fire consumes the one who carries it.”
I stare at him. “Since when do you care if I get burned?”
His jaw tightens. “Since the moment you kissed me.”
The words hang between us, sharp as glass.
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
That kiss—violent, desperate, *true*—changed everything. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a crack in the armor, a glimpse of something deeper, something I can’t name. And now, every time I look at him, I see it—the way his hand trembles when he thinks I’m not watching, the way his breath hitches when I’m near, the way his wolf *knows* me, even if his mind refuses to.
“We’re attending the evening gathering,” he says, shifting the weight. “Cassian will be there. So will the others. You’ll need to be careful.”
“Careful how?”
“You’re not just a suspect anymore. You’re a threat. And threats draw attention.”
“From Cassian.”
“From others too.”
“Like who?”
He hesitates. “Maeve Thorne.”
The name lands like a stone.
Maeve Thorne. Vampire heiress. Council liaison. And, according to whispered rumors, Kaelen’s ex-lover.
I’ve seen her once—across the Chamber, draped in blood-red silk, her lips painted the color of fresh blood, her eyes sharp as daggers. She didn’t speak to me. Didn’t acknowledge me. But the way she looked at Kaelen—possessive, hungry, *knowing*—made my skin crawl.
“What about her?” I ask, voice flat.
“She’s dangerous. Manipulative. And she doesn’t like competition.”
“Competition?” I laugh, short and bitter. “You think she sees me as competition? I’m bound to you by magic, not choice. I’m not your mate. I’m your *prisoner*.”
He doesn’t flinch. “She doesn’t see it that way. To her, any woman near me is a threat. And she plays to win.”
“Then let her play.” I step past him, heading for the door. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Torrent.”
I stop.
He’s behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the scent of pine and wildness that clings to him. His voice drops, rough, low.
“If she tries to provoke you—ignore her. If she touches you—walk away. If she says anything about us, about the bond, about *me*—don’t react. She wants a reaction. Don’t give her one.”
I turn slowly. “And if I do?”
“Then you play her game.”
“And what if I want to?”
His eyes narrow. “This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?” I step closer, tilting my chin up. “You’ve spent two centuries building walls, Kaelen. Pretending you don’t feel. Pretending you don’t want. But I’ve seen behind the mask. I’ve felt your wolf. I’ve tasted your *need*.”
His breath hitches.
“And if Maeve wants to test me?” I whisper. “Let her. Because I’m not afraid of a vampire who thinks she owns you. I’m not afraid of lies. And I’m *definitely* not afraid of the truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his gold eyes burning, the bond humming between us like a storm about to break.
And then—
He steps back.
“Let’s go.”
—
The gathering is held in the Aerie’s east hall—a long, vaulted chamber of black marble and silver veins, lit by floating orbs of blue flame that drift like will-o’-the-wisps above the guests. The air is thick with the scent of vampire bloodwine, fae incense, and the metallic tang of magic. Council members mingle in their silks and leathers, their voices low, their eyes sharp. Power hums beneath the surface, a current I can feel in my bones.
Kaelen and I enter together, ten paces apart but never truly separated. The bond thrums—steady, warm—his presence a weight against my spine. I keep my face neutral, my steps measured, my magic coiled tight beneath my skin. No spells. No tricks. Just observation.
And then I see her.
Maeve Thorne.
She’s standing near the hearth, draped in a gown of liquid crimson that clings to her like blood, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, her lips curved in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s beautiful—vampiric perfection, ageless, dangerous. And when she sees us, her smile widens.
She doesn’t approach.
She waits.
And when Kaelen and I pass her table, she lifts a crystal goblet, her voice smooth as poisoned silk.
“Kaelen. How… *pleasant* to see you.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at her. “Maeve.”
She turns to me, her gaze sharp, assessing. “And you must be the infamous Torrent. The woman who tried to kill him. And now—” her eyes flick to the bond sigil on my chest, visible just above the neckline of my gown—“is *bound* to him. How… *convenient*.”
I don’t react.
Just keep walking.
But then—
She moves.
Fast.
One second she’s at the table. The next, she’s beside me, her hand brushing my arm as she “accidentally” spills a drop of bloodwine onto the fabric of my sleeve.
“Oh, *darling*,” she purrs, dabbing at the stain with a silk cloth. “I’m *so* clumsy.”
I freeze.
Her touch is cold, deliberate. And beneath the scent of wine, I catch it—the faint, intoxicating aroma of *him*. Kaelen’s blood. On her skin. In her veins.
My stomach twists.
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling my arm back.
But she leans in, her lips brushing my ear, her voice a whisper only I can hear.
“He let me taste his blood for three nights. Do you know what that feels like? His fangs in my neck. His hands on my body. The way he *groans* my name when he comes?”
I don’t breathe.
“He’s *mine*,” she murmurs. “And one day, when this little farce of a bond is over, he’ll come back to me. Because no hybrid—no *tainted* bloodline—could ever satisfy a wolf like him.”
Then she steps back, smiling, and walks away.
And I’m left standing there, my skin on fire, my heart hammering, my hands trembling so hard I have to clench them into fists.
Jealousy.
It hits like a blade—sharp, sudden, *unwanted*. I don’t want to care. I don’t want to feel. I came here to kill him, not to fight over him.
But the thought of her—her lips on his skin, her body beneath his, his fangs in her neck—makes something in me *snap*.
And then—
A hand on my thigh.
Under the table.
Strong. Possessive. *Kaelen’s*.
I look up.
He’s sitting across from me, his face a mask of ice, his eyes unreadable. But his hand—hidden beneath the long tablecloth, his fingers pressing into the muscle of my thigh—is burning me alive.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“You’re trembling,” he says, voice low, rough. “Not from fear. From *want*.”
My breath catches.
“She’s lying,” he continues, his thumb brushing the inside of my thigh, just once. “I’ve never let her taste my blood. I’ve never touched her. Not like that.”
“Then why does she smell like you?”
“Because she stole a vial from my chambers. Because she’s desperate. Because she wants you to doubt me.”
My pulse hammers.
“And do you?” he asks, his voice dropping. “Do you doubt me?”
I don’t answer.
Because I *should*. Because he’s the High Alpha. Because he’s spent centuries hiding the truth. Because he let the world believe he was the monster who killed my mother.
But when I look at him—really look—I see it.
The truth.
In the way his jaw clenches. In the way his hand trembles. In the way his wolf *howls* for me, even now, even here, even with another woman claiming him.
He’s not lying.
And that terrifies me.
Because if he’s not lying…
Then I might actually *believe* him.
And if I believe him…
Then I might actually *want* him.
And if I want him—
Then I’m already lost.
“She’s watching,” he murmurs, his fingers tightening. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
I force my hands to relax. Force my breath to steady. Force my face to stay neutral.
But inside?
I’m burning.
From jealousy.
From need.
From the quiet, traitorous part of my heart that whispers—
You came here to kill him.
But what if you’re already falling for him?
—
The gathering ends in silence.
Kaelen and I walk back to his chambers without speaking, the bond humming between us, heavy with unspoken words. When we reach the door, he stops, turning to face me.
“She was trying to break you,” he says.
“I know.”
“And you didn’t let her.”
“No.”
He studies me, his gold eyes searching mine. “But you’re still angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re trembling.”
I look away. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “You think I don’t feel it? Your jealousy? Your *need*? It pulses through the bond like a second heartbeat.”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t belong to her,” he says, low, rough. “I don’t belong to anyone. But if I did… it would be you.”
My head snaps up.
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze, his hand rising to brush the bond sigil on my chest, his touch sending fire through my veins.
“You’re not my prisoner,” he whispers. “You’re my *storm*.”
And then he turns and walks into the chamber, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding, my skin on fire, the words echoing in my mind.
You’re my storm.
I don’t follow.
Not yet.
Because I need to think.
Need to breathe.
Need to remember why I’m here.
But as I stand in the silence, my fingers brushing the sigil on my chest, the ring burning in my pocket, the taste of his words on my lips—
I realize something.
I’m not just here to burn the Council to ashes.
I’m here to burn the lies.
The ones they told about my mother.
The ones they told about Kaelen.
The ones I’ve told myself.
And the most dangerous one of all—
That I could ever hate him.
Because I don’t.
And that’s the real betrayal.
Not Maeve’s lies.
Not Cassian’s schemes.
But the truth I can no longer deny.
I don’t want to kill him.
I want to *know* him.
And that?
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.