“I want her.” Xyliria’s onyx eyes gleamed with a hunger that went beyond cruelty, beyond power. “Her magic.”

  Ashterion held her gaze. “You want the human,” he repeated, stripped of emotion.

  “Whether we can break her, and she serves us, or take her apart and make more like her. I don’t care. But she needs to be ours.”

  The blade slid down his thigh, parting skin and muscle.

  Xyliria’s lips curled into that smile he’d come to know too well, the one that promised blood and suffering, that meant she would get exactly what she wanted, no matter the cost. “I want her brought to me. Her and the High Lord.”

  “Of course,” Ashterion said smoothly, betraying none of the acid churning in his gut. “Whatever pleases you.”

  Xyliria’s smile widened, satisfied with his easy capitulation. She never questioned his compliance anymore. Why would she?

  The blade whispered against his flesh again, another stroke that left fire in its wake. Ashterion’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” she said, her voice light. “Ryleth will be arriving shortly.”

  The name sliced through him more effectively than any blade. Ashterion’s control slipped for a heartbeat. His pulse spiked and his shadows writhed beneath his skin.

  “Ryleth?” He kept the question steady through centuries of practice.

  Xyliria smiled, watching the flicker of reaction with undisguised pleasure. “Yes. He’s always been talented at reminding you of your place.”

  She finally stepped back, her blade slick with his blood. With a flick of her wrist, the chains binding Ashterion released.

  He collapsed to the stone floor, muscles screaming from hours suspended. His knees struck hard, sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body.

  “Clean yourself up,” Xyliria said, wiping her blade on a pristine white cloth. “I’ll allow you some rest before Ryleth arrives.” She smiled, the expression never reaching her eyes. “You’ll need your strength for what he has planned.”

  Ashterion remained silent, gathering his will to stand.

  “Oh, my love,” she crooned, returning to where he knelt. “You always look so beautiful when you bleed for me.”

  Xyliria’s fingers, warm with his blood, cupped his jaw. Her lips found his, cruel and demanding. Ashterion didn’t hesitate, he couldn’t afford to. His mouth moved against hers, returning her kiss with a fervour that had been perfected over centuries of survival. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as though she were precious to him.

  The taste of her was familiar. Sweet poison that burned his tongue, his throat, his very soul. But he kissed her back with the desperate intensity she expected. His tongue met hers when she demanded entrance, and he tasted copper—his own blood on her lips. She’d always enjoyed that particular cruelty, making him taste his own suffering.

  “There’s my good husband,” she murmured against his mouth, her fingers digging into the fresh wounds on his chest. Pain lanced through him, but he didn’t break the kiss, didn’t pull away.

  Xyliria’s mouth lingered on his, her teeth scraping his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She savoured it with a small hum of pleasure before finally pulling away. Her thumb traced the fresh wound on his lip, pressing hard enough to make it sting.

  “Rest well, my love,” she whispered, rising gracefully to her feet. “I want you strong enough to scream when Ryleth arrives.”

  The rustle of her crimson gown was the only sound as she glided toward the door, leaving him kneeling in a pool of his own blood. She paused at the threshold, casting one last glance over her shoulder, at her handiwork carved into his flesh.

  With a pleased smile, she was gone.

  Ashterion didn’t move. Not until the echo of her footsteps faded, not until the gilded door clicked shut and silence swallowed the chamber whole.

  Then, and only then, did he let his mask crack.

  A slow, shaking breath hissed through his teeth. Blood dripped from his lip, mingling with the mess already smeared across his chin. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone beneath him, bile rising thick in his throat.

  She wanted the human.

  Of course she did. He’d hoped the meeting would buy him time, but naturally it had the opposite outcome.

  Ashterion forced himself to move, muscle by splintered muscle. His arms shook violently as he pushed himself upright, every tendon protesting. The blood loss made the edges of his vision darken, but he stayed upright. He had to.

  With trembling legs, Ashterion pushed himself to his feet, the world tilting dangerously as he rose. Blood slicked the stone beneath him, making each step treacherous. He needed to heal. Or at least stop the bleeding before Ryleth arrived.

  The bath was carved into the floor itself, an obsidian basin fed by steaming water that trickled down from a spout in the shape of a serpent’s mouth. He fumbled for the vials stored in the shelf above.

  Healing tonics. Burn salve. A tincture for nerve damage. He usually ignored them. Let the wounds fade on their own. Let the reminders linger in his bones.

  But not this time.

  Not with Ryleth coming.

  His hand trembled as he uncorked the vial. Pale blue liquid. He poured the entire bottle into the bath. Then another. The scent of herbs filled the room. Sharp rosemary, crushed yarrow, something faintly metallic beneath it.

  Ashterion gritted his teeth as he eased himself into the water.

  It always burned, at first. The tonic sought out every raw edge, every torn seam in his skin, and lit them aflame. He hissed through clenched teeth, digging his nails into the edge of the tub.

  Steam curled around him, hiding the worst of it. His blood diluted in the water, curling like ink through the ripples. His breathing slowed.

  He let his head fall back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed.

  And he thought of her.

  The human. That impossible blaze that had spilled from her.

  Black flames—shadow fire—a magic he hadn’t seen in centuries. It had flickered across the table with such raw, untamed power that for a moment Ashterion had forgotten to breathe.

  He’d felt it then. A pull. A resonance. Ancient and familiar power stirring inside him. It called to him. Or perhaps it answered something in him.

  He hadn’t told Xyliria that part.

  He hadn’t told her that when he’d seen that fire, his shadows had curled toward it instinctively. That the scent of it had stayed in his lungs like smoke, like memory.

  That it had felt… right.

  Ash opened his eyes to the ceiling above, the black stone swimming with steam.

  That magic should not exist. Not in the hands of a mortal-turned-fae. Not when the last of that power had been burned from the world for a reason.

  He let his head loll to the side.

  He could kill the human.

  End it clean.

  Avoid the mess of Xyliria trying to harness power she didn’t understand.

  He’d eliminated lives for less. And he could blame it on Varyth’s recklessness. On bad luck. On fate. But the thought unravelled as quickly as it formed.

  Because he wouldn’t.

  He didn’t know why, and that only pissed him off more. His jaw ticked as he ran a hand through his hair, forcing his mind to quiet.

  His shadows curled tighter around his limbs, ghosting over his wounds with a touch lighter than breath. The humming started so quietly he almost missed it—a low vibration against his skin, a song without melody. Not a sound anyone else could hear, but a frequency that lived in the space between his heartbeats. His constant companions, his only true allies in this gilded prison.

  But even they felt… different lately.

  Louder. More alive.

  And worse, hopeful.

  He hadn’t sung to them in years. Not since Xyliria had poisoned every part of his existence. And yet, he had been humming again. Quietly. In the dark, when no one listened.

  They’d sung back. He hated how it made him feel. As though something long buried was clawing its way back up.

  He forced himself to breathe evenly, to shove it all down. The shadows throbbed against his wrist. Still waiting. Still listening.

  Ashterion sighed, and whispered, “Sleep.”

  And for now… they did.

  44

  The steady thrum of Varyth’s pulse beneath my ear woke me, the same way it had for two weeks now. His arm was a secure weight around my waist, fingers tangled in my hair like he’d been memorising the texture in his sleep.

  No nightmares. No shadow fire clawing at my ribs. Just the soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and dewed grass that had become as familiar as breathing.

  Mine, something wild and possessive whispered in the depths of my chest, and I didn’t shove the thought away this time. Didn’t let guilt claw me apart for wanting this, for taking what he offered with such devastating tenderness.

  Nyxaria had been quiet since the disaster with their delegation. It wouldn’t last, we all knew that with bone-deep certainty. We’d met every day to discuss what the silence could mean.

  But gods, I was going to savour every stolen moment of peace.

  Varyth’s fingers ghosted along my spine, tracing lazy patterns that made me arch into him like a cat seeking warmth. He was awake, had probably been for a while, just letting me sleep curled against him like I belonged there.

  Because you do, that voice whispered again. You belong exactly here.

  “Morning,” he murmured against my hair, rough with sleep.

  I hummed in response, nuzzling deeper into the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and power on his skin. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough.” His hand slid down to cup my hip, fingers digging in. “Long enough to watch you sleep and plan all the ways I’m going to keep you in this bed today.”

  My grin curled slow and wicked against his skin.

  “Oh?” I murmured, lips brushing over the line of his throat. I didn’t bother hiding the smugness, didn’t bother pretending I hadn’t just been thinking the same damn thing.

  I let the blankets slide with me as I trailed kisses down the carved lines of his chest, tasting heat and the ghost of a promise he hadn’t yet spoken but I knew was coming. His body shifted beneath mine, thighs parting just enough to let me settle between them.

  Varyth’s breath hitched, the kind of sharp inhale that fed me. That made me ache to unravel him piece by piece.

  “Isara…” he warned. Or tried to. His voice was sleep-rough, but there was already that delicious edge creeping in. The one that said he knew exactly where this was going and was already fighting to hold on.

  I glanced up through my lashes, all sugar and sin. “You said something about keeping me in this bed?”

  His hand was in my hair before I even finished the sentence, fingers curling just tight enough to make my scalp tingle.

  “Fuck, Isara.”

  Gods, the sound of it—wrecked, already. And I hadn’t even⁠—

  I took him in my mouth, lips wrapping around the tip of him like it was a secret I intended to savour. His hips jerked, a curse tumbling from his lips that turned into a half-growl as I dragged my tongue along the underside, tasting him like I meant to memorise every inch. As if I hadn’t already.

  His free hand fisted in the sheets.

  “Shit—Isara, fuck⁠—”

  It was a desperate sound now, tight and ragged, and I felt him throb against my tongue as I sank down deeper, humming just to feel the way his whole body bucked beneath me.

  Gods, he wasn’t ready.

  He was always the one in control, the storm behind his eyes perfectly leashed—but like this, with my mouth on him and my name falling from his lips like a prayer—he was mine.

  I pulled back slow, letting him slip from my lips with a wet, obscene sound that had his fingers tightening in my hair like he might lose what was left of his grip.

  “Did you plan this too,” I purred, licking my lips. “Or was this just a happy accident?”

  He looked down at me like I was a goddess and a fucking curse all wrapped in silk and teeth.

  “Get back here,” he growled. “Now.”

  I smirked—gods, I couldn’t help it—and took him back into my mouth like I’d been starving for it.

  His hips bucked helplessly, that beautiful, brutal body of his already vibrating with tension like a bowstring pulled too tight.

  I hollowed my cheeks, dragged my tongue along the underside of him and let my hand curl around the base to hold him still.

  His thighs were shaking. His grip in my hair went from possessive to brutal, like he didn’t know whether to pull me off or push deeper. I moaned around him, and that was it.

  That was the moment he snapped.

  One second I was worshipping him with my mouth, the next I was hauled up with zero warning, the blankets kicked down and my body flipped like I weighed nothing.

  My knees hit the bed. Hands braced against the headboard. And then—fuck—his chest pressed to my back, heat and fury and need wrapping around me like a goddamn vice.

  “You think you can just—” he snarled against my ear, one hand clamped over my hip, the other fisted tight in my hair. “Tease me like that? Drive me out of my fucking mind and expect me to just take it?”

  His voice was pure gravel now, wrecked and wild. Every word came out rough-edged, like he was struggling to keep from devouring me whole.

  His hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades, forcing me down until my chest kissed the mattress.

  And then he slammed into me in one brutal, claiming thrust.

  I screamed, hands fisting in the sheets as he drove deep, filling me so completely it burned in the best, filthiest way. He didn’t pause. Didn’t give me a second to breathe.

  Every thrust drove me forward on the bed, his hand stayed pressed between my shoulder blades, keeping me down, keeping me his. I was panting, moaning, begging, and he was grunting through gritted teeth, pace vicious, rhythm merciless.

  “Tell me who you belong to,” he growled.

  “You,” I sobbed. “You—fuck—I’m yours.”

  The way he groaned shattered something inside me.

  My climax hit like a wave breaking. A full-body convulsion that tore the air from my lungs. I screamed, hands slipping on the sheets, thighs shaking, pleasure obliterating me from the inside out.

  Varyth cursed violently, hips jerking as my body clamped down around him. Then he snarled, slamming deep one last time and spilling inside me, his release hot and pulsing, flooding me so deep I could feel it dripping already.

  He stayed like that—pressed tight against me, buried to the hilt, shaking with the force of it.

  His breath was ragged, mouth moving against my shoulder like he was whispering prayers. Or curses. Or my name, over and over again like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

  We stayed there, locked together, ruined and breathless and trembling in the aftermath. And when he finally eased back, pulling out with a groan that made my toes curl, he didn’t let me fall. Didn’t let me collapse. He pulled me against him instead, arms wrapping around me from behind, lips pressed to the nape of my neck.

  “I have to leave for the war camps later today.”

  The words hit me like cold water, shattering the warm cocoon of contentment I’d been drowning in. I went rigid against him, every muscle in my body suddenly coiled tight.

  “What?” I twisted in his arms, turning to face him so fast our noses almost brushed.

  “There’s been movement on our border with Nyxaria.” His hand slid up to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw like he was trying to memorise it. “Darian, Fenric, and Lincatheron left yesterday, but I need to visit the camp today.”

  The possessive warmth that had been curling in my chest turned jagged. “Movement. What kind of movement?”

  “The kind that requires immediate attention.” His tone was diplomatic. The one he used when he didn’t want to tell me the whole truth.

  I pulled back further, putting space between us that felt like a chasm. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A few days. Maybe a week.”

  A week. A week of sitting in this castle, playing house while he dealt with whatever crisis was brewing on the border. A week of being protected and sheltered and kept safely away from anything that mattered.

  Fuck that.

  “I want to go with you.”

  The words were out before I’d even finished thinking them, but I didn’t take them back. Couldn’t. The fire in my chest was already burning hotter, feeding on the familiar sting of being left behind.

  Varyth’s expression shuttered immediately. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?” I sat up fully, the sheets pooling around my waist. “You brought me to the meeting with Nyxaria’s delegation. You said you wanted me there because I was clever, because they wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

  “That was different.”

  “How?” My voice was getting sharper. “How is this different, Varyth?”

  He sat up too, running a hand through his hair. “Because a war camp isn’t a diplomatic meeting. It’s dangerous, unpredictable⁠—”

  “And I’m what, too fragile to handle it?” The black fire was stirring now, responding to my anger. “Too weak? Too human?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly needing distance from him. From the way he was looking at me like I was something that might shatter if he breathed wrong. “You need to trust me with the rest of this, Varyth. Not just the pretty political theatre. The real shit.”

  Silence stretched between us, heavy and brittle. When I glanced back at him, his jaw was tight, those silver eyes storm-dark with some internal war I couldn’t read.