“Her Tether?”
“Half-witch Nephilim,” I clarify. “From what I’ve gathered, the bond between them may be the only reason she survivedwhatever stripped her of her power. That connection and her fae blood literally kept her alive.”
“And Sam knows this?”
I don’t answer immediately, but my silence speaks volumes.
Rue follows my gaze toward the door. “You think he knows her survival depends on maintaining that Tether? That without it, she could. . .”
“Oh, he knows.” I run a hand through my locs, frustration bleeding through my careful control. “It’s just another chain binding her to him, another reason for him to hold her close. I can only assume he’s terrified of losing her, whether to death or to distance. Or to whoever this Tether is.”
Rue shakes his head slowly, his expression a mixture of pity and fascination. “You poor, beautiful bastard. Locke, listen to me, don’t get yourself wrapped up in this particular web of insanity. That’s enough emotional complications to fuel a dozen court tragedies. But alas, my impromptu therapy session must come to an end. Real duty calls, and I have actual intelligence to gather before tomorrow’s festivities.”
I smirk despite everything as he waves me off with characteristic drama and saunters back the way he came, his footsteps silent as shadows on the stone floor. Even in crisis, Rue moves like he’s performing for an invisible audience.
I wait until his presence has completely faded before I let the silence settle around me again like a familiar cloak. The castle sleeps, but I remain vigilant.
Esme is still behind that door, still wrapped in the arms of someone who would burn the world down to keep her safe. I should excise my growing feelings like the cancer they’re becoming, cut them out with surgical precision before they compromise my judgment further. I don’t have a legitimate stake in this game of hearts and politics, but I’m the one who’ll walk her into that court tomorrow morning.
I’m the one who’ll stand behind her like a living shield while the entire Night Court stares and judges and weighs her life against their personal ambitions. I’m the one who’ll read every micro-expression, every subtle threat, every whispered plot.
I’m the one who’ll kill for her without hesitation if it comes to that. No matter who she belongs to. No matter what magic she’s lost. No matter what fresh hell tomorrow brings.
Because I know something they don’t, something that burns in my chest like molten steel. She’s not some broken girl to be pitied or manipulated. She’s not a half-breed fae abomination to be dismissed or destroyed. She’s a storm they’ve catastrophically underestimated, and I’ll be the blade at her back when she finally lets that tempest loose.
I’m a soldier first, trained and honed for war. My most sacred duty is to protect what’s mine, even if she doesn’t know she belongs to me yet.
The first rays of dawn begin to filter through the high windows, painting the corridor in shades of silver and gold. Soon, the castle will wake. Soon, the games will begin in earnest, and I’ll be ready.
CHAPTER TEN
ESME
“Your Highness, you look absolutely divine.” Naera, my handmaid, breathes the words with clasped hands pressed over her heart, as if she might float away from sheer admiration. The reverence in her voice makes my skin crawl, and I resist the urge to fidget in this elaborate prison they’ve called a gown. This costume, this performance, it’s definitely not me.
“Please,” I murmur, meeting her wide, hopeful eyes in the ornate mirror that dominates one wall of my chambers. The reflection staring back feels like a stranger wearing my face. “Just Esme.”
She pauses mid-breath, like she wants to correct me, to insist on the propriety that’s been drilled into every servant in this castle. Then she simply nods, stepping back to smooth the heavy folds of my skirt with careful hands. The gesture is so gentle, so genuine, that guilt twists in my stomach for my earlier irritation.
Honestly, the dress is absolutely ridiculous. Crimson velvet so rich it seems to absorb light, with intricate gold embroidery that curls across the bodice like living vines before pooling at the hem in fiery spirals that seem to dance with each movement.The weight of the garment makes me feel unbalanced with each step, like I’m wearing armor instead of formal wear. The corset beneath? Pure, unmitigated torture. The bone stays dig into my ribs with every breath, forcing my posture into an unnatural arch. How the hell did women survive these elaborate deathtraps back in the day? I can barely manage to fill my lungs, and right now I need every precious breath I can steal.
The sleeves are fitted to my wrists with tiny pearl buttons that took Naera nearly twenty minutes to fasten, and the neckline is modest enough to satisfy court etiquette while still managing to make me feel exposed. Everything about this outfit screams wealth, power, legitimacy, of all the things I’ve never been and still don’t feel like I am.
Naera moves behind me, tucking a final strand of hair behind my ear with the practiced hand of someone who’s been dressing nobility for decades. The rest of my hair has been carefully curled into perfect ringlets that cascade down my back in glistening waves, each curl pinned and positioned with mathematical precision. Tiny pearls have been woven throughout the style, catching the lamplight like sparkling diamonds. I hardly recognize the woman in the mirror. She looks like something out of a Renaissance painting, like a figure meant to be admired from behind velvet ropes in some grand museum. Like something precious and untouchable, designed to be gawked at and worshipped from a distance. Definitely not me at all.
A sharp knock sounds at the chamber door, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.
My breath catches in my throat, sharp, panicked, and desperate. Not yet, I plead silently with whatever gods might be listening. I am absolutely not ready for this. I need one more moment, one more minute to gather the scattered pieces of my courage.
My eyes dart back to the mahogany writing desk that sits beneath the tall window. The letter still rests there, on top of the leather-bound journal Rue gave me just this week. The journal’s cover is embossed with Night Court symbols I’m still learning to read, and its pages smell like parchment and possibility. My fingers brush the letter’s crisp edges as I pick it up, my heart clenching tight around the words contained within. The parchment is soft under my fingertips, giving me strength from the connection alone. The words on the page are more than ink on paper: they’re a lifeline thrown across impossible distances. Micah’s unwavering strength reaches me from another realm entirely, a whisper that transcends the barriers between worlds.
Micah,
I’m alive. It took me a while to heal both mentally and physically, but you have never been too far from my thoughts. I wish I had been able to see you before I was so abruptly taken away. But fate decided for the both of us it seems. . .
I scan the opening sentences that took me hours to craft, each word weighed and measured for the emotion it could carry across realms. The letter represents so much more than simple correspondence, it’s proof that I survived, that some part of the girl who walked the halls of HellNight Academy still exists beneath all this royal finery. Finally, I fold the letter with deliberate care, sealing it with a wax impression of the Night Court’s sigil, a crescent moon wreathed in thorns. The weight of that symbol isn’t lost on me as I slide the letter into the hiddenpocket that Naera cleverly sewed into the side seam of my skirt, just large enough to conceal precious cargo.
A second knock follows, firmer and more insistent, making me turn sharply from the desk.
