The sigils still burn beneath my skin, faint but persistent, like embers refusing to die. They’ve receded since last night’s dream—thank the stars—but every time I glance at my arms, I see them: golden tracings along my collarbone, the dip of my spine, the inside of my wrists. Magic I didn’t summon. Power I didn’t awaken. A bond I didn’t ask for.
And worst of all—it only flares when Cassian touches me.
I stand in front of the obsidian mirror in the warded chamber, sleeves pulled down, high collar fastened tight. I look like a diplomat. Calm. Collected. In control. The perfect fiancée of the Vampire King. But the lie sits heavy on my tongue. My pulse still races from the dream. From the memory of his fangs in my neck, his hands on my body, my own voice whispering, *“Claim me.”*
No.
I didn’t say that.
It wasn’t real.
It was the bond. Twisting my desires. Feeding me visions to break my will.
But what if it’s not?
What if I *want* him?
I press my palms flat against the cool stone of the sink, grounding myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. I am Vivienne Amarys. Daughter of Queen Lysara of the Seelie Court and Elias Veyne, the witch who defied the Accord. I am not Elara. I am not his. I am not broken.
I am here for one reason: to expose Cassian D’Vaire as my mother’s murderer.
And I will.
Even if the bond tries to make me forget.
Even if my body betrays me.
Even if the truth is worse than I think.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I feel him before I see him—like a cold draft in a sealed room, like the pull of the moon on the tide. Cassian steps into the bathroom, dressed in black as always, his hair slightly tousled from sleep. He doesn’t look at me. Just moves to the basin, splashes water on his face. Vampires don’t need to wash, but he does it anyway—ritual, not necessity. Control, not habit.
“You were dreaming again,” he says, voice low.
“You were watching.”
“I was awake.”
“Same thing.”
He glances at me in the mirror. “You cried out.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was *him*.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
“Me.” He turns, drying his face with a black linen towel. “You dreamed of me. Again.”
“You don’t know what I dreamed.”
“I know how you smell when you wake.” He steps closer. “Your pulse jumps. Your magic flares. You’re drenched between your thighs.”
I flush, furious. “You have no right—”
“The bond gives me every right.” He drops the towel. “It’s not shame, Vivienne. It’s truth. Your body knows what your mind refuses to admit.”
“My body is *mine*.”
“Then why does it respond to me?”
“Because you’re forcing this!” I snap, turning to face him. “The Claim. The Trial. This *farce* of an engagement. You think you can break me with proximity and phantom desire?”
“No.” He tilts his head. “I think you’re already broken. And I think you’re searching for a reason to hate me so you don’t have to face what you really are.”
“And what’s that?”
“Mine.”
I slap him.
The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. My palm stings. His head turns slightly from the force, but he doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Just slowly turns back, his eyes dark, unreadable.
“Again,” he says, voice calm.
“What?”
“Hit me again.”
“You’re insane.”
“No. I’m *hungry*.” He steps into my space, caging me against the sink. “And you’re the only thing that satisfies me.”
My breath comes fast. The sigils flare—golden lines burning along my arms. The bond hums, a live wire between us. I can feel his heat. His hunger. The way his gaze drops to my lips.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Kill me? Hate me? Dream of me again?”
I shove him back. “Get out.”
He doesn’t move. “You don’t want me to leave.”
“I *do*.”
“Then say it like you mean it.”
“GET OUT!”
He smiles—cold, victorious. “Fine. But breakfast is in ten minutes. And after that—”
“—what?”
“You’ll attend your first Council briefing. As my fiancée.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not ready.”
“You don’t have to be. You just have to look beautiful and say nothing.”
“I’m not a prop.”
“No.” He turns to the door. “You’re a weapon. And I intend to use you.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I press my hands to my face, trying to steady my breathing. Trying to ignore the heat between my legs, the ache in my chest, the way my skin still tingles where he stood too close.
I can’t do this.
I can’t pretend.
I can’t survive seven days of this—of him, of the bond, of the dreams—without losing myself.
But I don’t have to.
Because I have a mission.
And today, I take the first real step toward it.
After breakfast—a silent affair of bloodwine and bitter tea served in the private dining alcove—Cassian leaves for a war council with the werewolf envoys. Kaelen escorts me back to the warded chamber, but I stop in the corridor.
“I need to bathe,” I say. “And change. The gown from last night is… unsuitable.”
Kaelen hesitates. “The king said not to let you out of my sight.”
“And he also said I’d have privacy when he’s asleep,” I counter. “He’s not asleep, but he *is* occupied. That counts.”
Kaelen frowns. “I’m not sure—”
“You’re not sure you want to defy your king’s orders?” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Or you’re not sure you want to be the one who stops me from washing the scent of *him* off my skin?”
His jaw tightens. Vampires don’t blush, but I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the slight shift in posture. He’s uncomfortable. Good.
“Fine,” he says. “But I’ll wait outside. And if you’re not out in twenty minutes, I’m coming in.”
“Fair.”
I step into the bathing chamber—a cavern of black marble and silver fixtures, steam rising from a sunken tub. I lock the door behind me, then move to the far wall, where a narrow vent runs along the baseboard. I press my fingers against the grate. It’s loose—barely held by two screws. I’ve noticed it before. A flaw in the warding. A weakness.
And now, it’s my escape.
I work quickly, using a hairpin to unscrew the fasteners, then slide the grate free. The space beyond is tight—just wide enough for me to crawl through if I go slow. I slip off my gown, fold it neatly, and shove it into the vent. Then, barefoot and dressed only in my slip, I crawl in after it.
The passage is narrow, dark, and stifling. Dust coats my skin. Spiderwebs cling to my hair. But I keep moving, guided by memory—five years of studying the Shadow Palace blueprints, of mapping escape routes, of planning every possible scenario.
This one wasn’t in the plans.
But it’s happening.
I emerge in a disused servant’s corridor—long abandoned, the air thick with mildew. The floor is cracked, the walls crumbling. No cameras. No wards. No one.
Perfect.
I pull my gown from the vent, slip it back on, and adjust my illusion—tightening the spell that masks my true face, reinforcing the lie that I am Elara Veyne. Then, I head for the east wing.
Cassian’s study.
The heart of his power. The vault of his secrets.
If the execution order for my mother exists, it’s there.
The corridors are quiet—most of the palace’s elite occupied with morning councils or private meetings. I keep to the shadows, moving with the grace of someone who’s spent a lifetime hiding. My pulse is steady. My breath even. I am not afraid.
I am *hunting*.
I reach the study. The door is locked, warded—runes glowing faintly blue along the frame. But I’ve studied these wards. They’re designed to keep out magic, not people. And I’m not using magic.
I pull a thin blade from my garter—enchanted iron, undetectable by vampire senses—and slide it into the keyhole. A twist. A click. The lock yields.
I step inside.
The room is exactly as I remember—black stone, ironwood shelves, maps of the Accord territories pinned to the walls. The scent of old blood and parchment hangs in the air. And behind the portrait of Cassian’s sire, the hidden vault.
I move to it, heart pounding now. This is it. The moment of truth.
I press the mechanism—three taps in a specific sequence—and the wall slides open, revealing a narrow chamber lined with sealed scrolls, ancient tomes, and locked caskets. My breath catches.
And then—
I see it.
A single scroll, bound in black silk, sealed with crimson wax. The seal bears the mark of the Fae High Court—the twin crescent moons of the Seelie and Unseelie. And beneath it—
My mother’s name.
*Lysara Amarys. Charge: Blood Treason. Sentence: Execution by Fire.*
My hands shake as I reach for it. This is it. Proof. The order. The truth.
I break the seal.
And my blood runs cold.
The signature at the bottom—
It’s not Cassian’s.
It’s *Malrik’s*.
Lord Malrik of the Unseelie Court. The man who cursed my bloodline. The one who wanted my mother dead.
Not Cassian.
Never Cassian.
He was *framed*.
I stagger back, the scroll slipping from my fingers. My mind races. If Cassian didn’t sign this, then everything I’ve believed—everything I’ve *fought* for—is built on a lie.
But why? Why would Malrik frame him? What does he gain?
And then—
Footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Coming down the hall.
I freeze.
There’s no time to hide. No time to escape.
The door creaks open.
And Kaelen steps inside.
His eyes lock onto mine. Then drop to the scroll on the floor. The broken seal. The open vault.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low.
“I—”
“You’re looking for proof he killed your mother.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
He picks up the scroll, reads it. His expression doesn’t change. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. He *knows*.
“This isn’t the only copy,” he says quietly. “There are others. In the Council archives. In Malrik’s private chambers. All bearing his seal.”
My breath catches. “Then Cassian didn’t—”
“No.” Kaelen meets my gaze. “He tried to stop it. But Malrik had the vote. The Council burned her anyway.”
“And Cassian—”
“—was blamed. Because he was the only one who spoke for her. Because he was the only one who *cared*.”
I feel like the floor has been ripped out from under me.
All this time—five years of planning, of hatred, of vengeance—I’ve been chasing the wrong enemy.
And Cassian—
He wasn’t the monster.
He was the only one who tried to save her.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper.
“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Kaelen says. “And I’ve seen the way you look at him. The bond is real. But so is *this*.” He gestures to the scroll. “The truth.”
“And what do I do now?”
“That’s up to you.” He steps aside. “But if you walk out of here with that knowledge, know this—Cassian will feel it in the bond. He’ll know you’ve seen the truth. And he’ll know you have to choose.”
I look at the scroll. At the name of my mother. At the seal of the man who destroyed us both.
And then—
I make my decision.
I pick up the scroll. Tuck it into my bodice, against my skin, where the sigils still burn.
“I’m not done,” I say. “Not yet.”
Kaelen nods. “Then go. Before he returns.”
I don’t look back as I leave.
But I feel it—the shift in the bond. The way it *changes*. No longer just fire and hunger.
Now, it carries something else.
Guilt.
And the first fragile thread of something I can’t name.
When I return to the warded chamber, Cassian is already there.
He’s standing by the window, back to me, hands clasped behind his back. The city of Edinburgh sprawls below—mortals unaware, vampires hidden in plain sight, fae dancing in the shadows.
He doesn’t turn.
“You were gone longer than twenty minutes,” he says.
“I took a long bath.”
“Liar.”
I don’t answer.
He turns. His eyes are black. But the edges flicker crimson.
“You found it, didn’t you?”
“Found what?”
“The truth.” He steps closer. “I can *feel* it in the bond. The shift. The doubt. The *guilt*.”
My breath hitches.
“You didn’t kill her,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smile. Just nods. “No. I tried to save her.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
I wouldn’t have.
“Malrik framed you,” I say.
“And you came here to destroy me instead of him.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” He reaches out, slow, deliberate. “So what happens now, Vivienne?”
I don’t pull away.
His fingers brush my cheek. The sigils flare—golden light tracing my jawline. The bond surges, not with hunger, but with something deeper.
Understanding.
“Now,” I say, meeting his gaze, “I make it right.”
He doesn’t smile.
But for the first time—
He doesn’t look like a monster.
He looks like a man who’s been waiting for me to see him.
And I realize—
Maybe I was wrong about more than just the past.
Maybe I was wrong about *him*.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
I was wrong about us.