Chapter 3
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he unwrapped the crude linen I had bound around my palm earlier.
The cut had stopped bleeding, but the wound was still raw, the skin angry and red around the silver-etched scar.
“You hold the steel like a dagger, but you cut yourself like a butcher,” he noted quietly.
“It was four minutes, Rowan. I didn't have time for precision.”
“There is always time for precision,” he said.
Before I could pull away, he raised my hand toward his face. I stiffened, my heart hammering against my ribs, expecting some dark fae ritual or a demonstration of power.
Instead, he simply pressed his thumb against the center of the wound.
A wave of cool, mint-scented magic rippled across my palm. It didn't burn like the binding; it soothed, knitting the torn flesh with the delicate precision of silk embroidery. Within seconds, the pain vanished, leaving behind only the faint, silvery line of the healed cut and the glowing serpent mark of our pact.
I stared at my hand, stunned. “You didn't need to do that.”
“A consort with infected wounds reflects poorly on my standards,” he replied smoothly, releasing my fingers as the carriage lurched to a halt. The door was pulled open from the outside by a guard clad in midnight-blue plate, the heraldry of a crescent moon and a black raven emblazoned across his breastplate.
Rowan stood, adjusting the heavy clasp of his cloak. The aristocratic mask slipped back into place—impenetrable, cold, every inch the terrifying sovereign of the Shadow Reach.
He stepped down onto the stone terrace, then turned and offered his hand.
“Welcome to the Night Court, Lady Elora,” he said loud enough for the gathering sentries to hear, his voice ringing like fine crystal. “Try not to let the vipers bite.”
I looked at his outstretched hand. The pale skin, the lethal grace, the invisible fractures beneath his silk.
I took a breath, anchored my core, and placed my palm in his.
“I was raised in the briars, Lord Rowan,” I whispered back as I stepped down beside him. “The vipers are the ones who need to watch their teeth.”
***
My quarters were less a bedroom and more a gilded fortress perched over the abyss.
The walls were dark slate, veined with veins of genuine amethyst that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat. A massive balcony overlooked the endless chasm, where the chill wind carried the scent of crushed juniper and ancient stone. An adjoining set of double doors of carved ebony connected my chambers directly to Rowan’s study—a constant, suffocating reminder of the terms. Sworn consort. Constant presence.
The court had greeted our arrival with a chilling, predatory silence.
I had felt their eyes on me as we walked through the Grand Colonnade—scores of immortal courtiers draped in shimmering velvet, their eyes like chips of flint, whispering behind silver-leaf fans. They had smelled my mortality. But they had also smelled the tether—the unmistakable, terrifying density of Rowan’s divine power clinging to my skin like heavy perfume. None of them had dared approach. Not while Rowan’s arm rested firmly around my waist, his aura flaring cold and sharp enough to freeze the breath in their throats.
Now, hours past midnight, the citadel had finally quieted into an uneasy hush.
I locked the balcony doors, drew the heavy velvet drapes, and moved to the small sitting area near the hearth. A fire of white wood burned without smoke, casting sharp shadows across the floor.
I sat on the rug, crossing my legs, and pulled my sleeves up to my elbows.
First, I reached inward.
I closed my eyes and descended into the quiet space of my weaver core. The tether was there—an enormous, shimmering conduit of midnight-blue and gold, anchored deep in my chest. I followed its trajectory through the spiritual ether, reaching outward, miles away, back to the mortal sanctum.
There.
Lyra’s presence bloomed in my mind like a warm lantern. Her soul-signature, which had been flickering like a candle in a gale for six months, was remarkably steady. The rhythmic pulsing of her heart was deep and unbroken. The divine energy flowing through the tether was acting like an impenetrable barrier, holding the degradation of her core at bay.
A deep, trembling breath escaped my chest.
*It works. The arrogant bastard really is holding her together.*
I felt a sudden, dangerous prickle of gratitude toward Rowan Vance—a sentiment I ruthlessly trampled underfoot. He wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He was doing it because my mortal bloodline provided the stable frequency his cracked mantle required to avoid total collapse. We were using each other. It was an even trade.
A fair trade, so long as I remained in control.
I opened my eyes and looked down at my left wrist.
The silvery ouroboros mark glowed softly against my pale skin. With a slow exhale, I channeled a microscopic thread of my own weaver-spark toward the serpent’s tail.
Instantly, a faint, hidden glimmer of crimson sparked beneath the silver.
The nullification ward.
The rune responded to my will, its hidden threads loosening slightly, perfectly primed. If Rowan ever decided to terminate the contract prematurely, or if he tried to bind me beyond our agreement, I could trigger this counter-weave in half a second. It would sever his control over the conduit, siphon a massive surge of his own divine reserves into a localized burst, and allow me to rip Lyra’s soul-anchor free before his court even realized what had happened.
I was safe. The leverage was mine.
A soft knock sounded against the ebony connecting doors.
My heart jumped into my throat. I immediately clamped down on my weaver-spark, extinguishing the crimson glow on my wrist, and smoothed down my skirts.
“Enter,” I called, keeping my voice steady.
The heavy door swung open on silent hinges.
Rowan stood in the threshold. He had discarded his heavy cloak and his formal doublet; he wore only a loose-fitting white linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, and dark trousers. Without the stiff imperial tailoring, he looked younger—and distinctly more dangerous.
And in the flickering firelight, the fractures on his chest were terrifyingly visible.
The glowing cracks reached almost to the base of his throat now, spiderwebbing across his collarbone like shattered glass. A faint, low hum resonated from them, carrying a vibration that tasted like ozone and burnt sugar.
He leaned against the doorframe, a crystal decanter in one hand and two glasses in the other.
“You’re still awake,” he said, his violet eyes scanning the room before settling on me. “Plotting your escape, or simply admiring the architecture?”
“Wondering how long a god can walk around with his chest cracked open before he turns into an explosion,” I replied coolly, rising to my feet.
Rowan let out a dry, quiet laugh. He walked into the room, his bare feet making no sound on the stone, and set the decanter on the low table.
“Longer than you think,” he murmured. “Though not nearly as long as my enemies hope.”
He poured two fingers of amber liquid into both glasses, offering one to me.
I looked at it, then at him. “Is it poisoned?”
