"It worked," I breathe, feeling the strange duality of privacy and invasion.
"For now," Ivy says, her typical flippancy subdued. "But, Sera, be careful. The potion shields him from your thoughts, but it leaves you more vulnerable to his. The stronger his emotions, the more you'll feel them. Don't let his mind influence yours. I rather like you as you are—annoyingly noble and all."
I nod, though her warning seems distant through the new filter of calm that settles over me—a side effect, I realize, of the magical barrier.
Ivy moves to the window. "Two weeks," she reminds me. "And, Sera—" she turns back, her light dimming slightly, "—I'm sorry about Asher. He deserved better than to be caught in this mess."
The grief surges at his name, raw and undiminished, but I take comfort in knowing that Malakai can no longer sense it through our bond. "Yes," I agree, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "He did."
As Ivy slips out through the window, her silver light fading into the light, I move to my dressing table, composing myself. For the first time since Malakai claimed me, my mind feels like my own again—separate, protected, shielded from his awareness.
A knock at my chamber door makes me jump. When I open it, I find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair cut close to his head, wearing the uniform of Malakai's personal guard. The silver insignia on his shoulder marks him as someone of rank.
When he sees me, he stands straighter, his posture shifting from casual to formal. But it's his eyes that stop me in my tracks, a particular shade of amber, so familiar it makes my heart stutter. Not identical to Asher's, but close enough to be his brother's or cousin's.
"Lady Seraphina," he says, bowing slightly. "I am Cade, assigned to your personal guard by Lord Malakai himself. I just wanted to make a brief introduction."
I can only stare, fighting the surge of hope and pain that threatens to overwhelm me. The way he looks at me, that slight tilt of his head, the almost imperceptible softening around his eyes, reminds me painfully of someone I've lost.
"You...you remind me of someone," I manage to say, my voice barely steady.
For a heartbeat, his composure cracks. Pain flashes across his features, raw and familiar, before the mask slides back into place. "Loss has a way of marking us all, my lady," he says, his voice rougher now. "Some marks run deeper than others."
I want to ask what he means, want to demand answers to questions I can barely form, but he's already stepping back and walking away like he can't speak anymore words.
CHAPTER 10
BLOOD AND STEEL
MALAKAI
There's something deeply satisfying about watching someone's confidence crumble right before their eyes. The moment when arrogance transforms into realization, then fear, and finally, my personal favorite, desperate survival instinct. Some people call it cruelty. I prefer to think of it as educational.
Today's continuation of yesterday's lesson: don't challenge a Shadow Lord to a fucking duel.
"Again," I command, circling my wife as she picks herself up from the dusty dirt for what must be the tenth time in the past hour. Sweat darkens her training clothes, her chest heaving with exertion. A fresh bruise blooms on her cheekbone where my practice sword caught her moments ago.
The training yard is more crowded than usual this morning, and notably more integrated than tradition dictates. The Shadow Court maintains separate training grounds—Alphas in the main yard where we stand now, Betas in the eastern wing, and Omegas in their own carefully monitored southern garden where they practice "acceptable" forms of self-defense under watchful eyes. Yet here stands my Omega bride, fighting in the Alpha yard, and half the court has abandoned propriety to watch this spectacle.
I catch glimpses of familiar faces among the onlookers. Lady Morgana, a high-ranking Alpha from one of the old families, watches with barely concealed disapproval, her arms crossed. Beside her, Lord Cassius leans against a pillar, his expression amused—he's always enjoyed watching the rules bend. Near the weapons rack, three young Omega courtiers huddle together, their eyes wide with horror and fascination. One of them—Lady Isra—keeps touching her own throat as if imagining herself in Seraphina's place.
Seraphina glares at me, golden eyes blazing with hatred so pure it makes my shadows ripple with anticipation. Blood trickles from a split in her lower lip, and I find myself transfixed by the crimson droplet, remembering the taste of that mouth three nights ago. My body responds instantly, a hunger rising that I immediately try to suppress. Her natural scent is intoxicating, I catch traces of her—sunlight and steel, with an underlying note of rage that only makes me want her more.
This inconvenient desire is becoming a dangerous distraction.
"Pick up your sword," I tell her, tapping my practice blade against my boot. "Or are you surrendering already? I thought Light Court warriors had more stamina."
"I haven't begun to fight yet," she responds, her voice steady despite her ragged breathing. She retrieves her fallen practice sword, assuming a fighting stance far too polished for a diplomat's daughter.
"Then stop holding back," I taunt, shadows swirling around my feet and darkening the ground beneath them. The temperature drops as my magic gathers. "Show me what you're truly capable of, Omega. Or is this pathetic display really your best effort?"
A collective intake of breath from our audience. I've just used her designation as an insult in front of the entire court, a calculated provocation that breaks a dozen rules of decorum.
Her eyes narrow slightly, the only warning before she lunges forward with startling speed. Her blade arcs toward my head in a strike that would have decapitated me if I hadn't blocked it at the last second. The force vibrates up my arm, stronger than any of her previous attacks. Where our weapons meet, light and shadow spark, sending tiny bursts of opposing magic into the air like fireflies.
"There she is," I laugh, genuinely delighted. "I was beginning to think my wife was as dull as she is disobedient."
We exchange a rapid series of blows, steel crashing against steel loud enough to draw even more attention. She moves with unexpected grace, her footwork betraying years of formal training. Each strike flows into the next, forcing me to pay genuine attention for the first time since we began.
