She considered killing him that night.

The dagger waited beneath a silk scarf, inches from her hand. One move and she'd carve the truth into his throat.

She’d been pulling away for weeks, shorter replies, colder glances, fewer touches. But Alaric ignored it all. Or refused to see it. No was never a word he tolerated, especially not from her.

But that illusion cracked earlier at the banquet when he kissed her like he was staking territory. It had been a warning and a threat wrapped in control.

And now, as Alaric stepped into the room, something in his expression made her skin crawl. The softness looked practiced. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

He'd seen her with Caelan. Whatever brought him here tonight, it wasn't simple affection.

He loomed closer, fingers dragging along the carved bedpost like he owned the room and her.

"Come to bed, my love," he said, voice slick with fake warmth. "Cozy with the Wolf tonight. Trying to start a war, or just tired of me?"

She didn’t flinch. She smiled like a dagger in a velvet box, looked pretty, but meant damage.

"Well, you’ve always said I had a talent for spectacle," she replied, voice low, casual. "I thought I’d put on a good show for you."

She saw it. Just the flicker in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw. A crack in the mask.

Good.

She watched him cross the room, and for the first time, she wondered if she had ten seconds to carve regret into his throat before the guards arrived. He watched for signs of fear. She rehearsed his execution in her mind.

But easy didn’t get her what she wanted.

Impulse was sloppy. Precision gave her control.

She smiled. Tight. Rehearsed.

His breath hit her, thick with wine and arrogance. She nearly gagged. Her jaw tensed. The blade stayed hidden.

He kissed her first, soft and practiced. She kissed him back, just enough to sell the lie and feel nothing doing it. His hand slid over her hip, slow and possessive, testing her like she was property. He moved higher, brushing her breast, watching her reaction. She didn’t flinch, but every nerve in her body screamed.

He pulled her close. His mouth grazed her neck. "You’ve been distant," he murmured against her skin. "Is it because of him?"

Her stomach twisted. He’d seen her with Caelan. That much was clear. But the note? No sign he’d caught it. Either he missed it or he was saving it for later.

"No," she said softly, her tone feather-light, almost playful. "You know I only have eyes for you."

She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, slow and deliberate, letting the touch drag just long enough to tempt him. Her thumb traced the edge of his jaw, then brushed down to his throat where his pulse jumped under her touch. She leaned in, close enough for her breath to graze his ear, then pulled back with a small smile.

He swallowed, breath hitching.

Good. He took the bait.

That was the moment. She felt it. The shift. The flicker of belief behind his eyes.

He wanted to think she still cared.

Good.

She’d feed him that lie until he choked on it.

She let him guide her onto the bed, every motion practiced, timed to the lie.

He leaned in, nudging her thighs apart, testing her, pressing the moment.

But she didn’t let him go further.

Her body betrayed her.

She trembled.

Not in anticipation. In dread.

He paused, eyes narrowing. "You’re shaking."

She lowered her gaze. "I'm unwell," she said softly, lacing her voice with just the right hint of weakness.

He stared at her for a beat too long.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed her again. Deeper this time. Tongue sliding against hers, slow and deliberate, testing her.

She kissed him back with just enough warmth to keep the lie alive.

But she trembled again.

He pulled back and studied her face. Then reached up and pressed the back of his hand to her neck.

"You’re warm," he said slowly. "But I suppose stress can do that."

His tone was smooth, but his eyes said he wasn’t fully convinced. Then he smiled again, controlled, unreadable. He hesitated, barely a flicker, then moved on. Whatever suspicions lingered, he buried them for now.

"Rest, my love. I’ve already gotten what I needed tonight, for now." His tone was smug, but his eyes had softened, just enough to prove the lie had worked.

He stood, adjusted his coat, and turned to leave. But at the door, he paused. Glanced over his shoulder.

Then he was gone.

The moment the door shut, she stood. Then she froze, counted five slow seconds. Just in case he came back.

She then tore the robe from her shoulders with shaking hands, every motion jerky with disgust. It still carried his scent, wine, sweat, and entitlement. Her stomach turned as the fabric brushed her skin one last time.

She flung it into the hearth like she was gutting the past off her skin. The flames devoured it quickly.

It wasn’t just fabric. It was every lie she’d worn. And she was done wearing any of it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Caelan slipped out before the last toast.

He hadn’t waited for the kiss. He saw it coming and left before it landed. The thought of watching that man paw at her made his skin crawl.

But that wasn’t why he was here now.

Seraphina’s performance tonight? Calculated. Cold. Gone was the simpering duchess; what stood now in her place was a player.

She might’ve used him at the banquet. Maybe. But he’d let her, for now.

Good. If she was moving against Alaric, he’d make sure he moved her first.

In the bathing chamber, she scrubbed until her skin stung. Neck. Shoulders. Arms. Every place his hands had touched.

The water turned scalding. Steam thickened. Mirrors blurred. And in that haze, the fire returned.

She heard the crack of wood. The shriek of robes igniting. The weight of heat pressing down. The smell of scorched flesh.

Hers. Not just a body they burned, but a warning they should’ve heeded.

She blinked. Her hands were red, trembling. The water was nearly boiling.

Then it was gone.

She scrubbed until only fury remained.

But the fury didn’t erase everything. The fire had spared her life, not her mind. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over the same pyre. One mistake, and she'd burn again, this time for good.

Whatever had once believed in love or safety? Dead and buried. What remained was sharper. Ready. What remained knew better than to ever be soft again.

There would come a day when Alaric Vessant understood what it meant to be powerless.

And when he begged, she wouldn’t stay his execution with mercy.

A few minutes later, as she dried off, her maid entered to clean up the room. "Lady Evelyne just stopped by," the maid said casually. "Returned the book she borrowed. Thought you were already asleep, said you weren't feeling well, so she didn’t want to disturb you."

Seraphina froze. Of course, she came. Probably summoned right after he left her. She’d known. But hearing it, casual and unbothered, hit like a blade between ribs. Evelyne hadn’t hesitated. She ran to him the second Seraphina’s door closed.

She didn’t need proof of betrayal. She’d already been burned alive with it.

She stepped outside, skin still burning from the bath. The cold didn’t shock her, it sharpened her.

Below, the gardens rustled. The maze stood still under moonlight.

Somewhere, Evelyne whispered lies into Alaric’s ear. Seraphina knew her type. Silk-wrapped poison. Once, she’d believed they were allies. Now, she saw clearly. Evelyne didn’t just want Alaric’s bed. She wanted the duchess’s power.

Seraphina stood above it all. Watching. Waiting.

A flicker in the hedge maze caught her eye. Too large for a bird. Too fast for a servant. Someone was out there. Not a shadow. Not a servant. And definitely not a mistake.

Someone was there.

Watching her.

Good. Let them look. Let them see what fury looks like when it survives.

She turned to reenter her chambers, then stopped cold.

A slip of parchment lay just inside the threshold. Folded. Plain wax seal. No markings.

Her heart kicked. She bent to retrieve it, fingers careful, breath tight.

Inside: The Wolf agrees. Tomorrow night. Old wishing well near the maze. Come alone, or don’t come at all. No second chances.

No name, but she knew the hand. Knew who it had to be.

Not a message. A challenge.

She stared at it a moment longer, pulse steadying into something fierce.

Caelan had answered.

This wasn’t a surprise. It was permission.

A warning. A test. A beginning.

She held the note over the candle, watched the edges curl, then caught fire.

He’d either become her blade, or she’d burn him with the others.