"Such gratitude!" She floats up toward the ceiling. "I’d best go, and let you calm down. Try not to do anything stupid like falling in love with Shadow Boy. Or letting him bite you. That mating mark would be awfully permanent."
"I'm not?—"
Before I can finish, she vanishes completely, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine.
"Damn it, Ivy!" I call into the empty room, but there's no reply. I stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. Ivy’s warnings echo in my head, but I push them aside. I have more pressing concerns than Ivy's cryptic lectures about mating marks. With Malakai believing me incapacitated and Ivy gone, I have a rare moment of true privacy—a chance to work on the nightshade extract I've been developing in secret.
I check the door to ensure it's properly locked, then cross to the windows and draw the heavy velvet curtains closed, plunging the room into semi-darkness. I light a single lamp—just enough illumination to work by without attracting attention.
I return to the large wardrobe against the wall, pressing the hidden catch I discovered during my first few days here, before the constant surveillance began. Inside sits a wooden box containing my makeshift laboratory—glass vials, mortar and pestle, dried nightshade harvested from the garden, and detailed notes.
The idea came to me during my first week here, while I still had access to the palace's botanical texts. Nightshade, when properly processed, can induce a death-like sleep—a state so profound it mimics death in all ways except the finality. If I can perfect the formula, I might administer it to Malakai, placing him in suspended animation rather than killing him outright.
The fated mate bond would remain intact because he wouldn't truly be dead, yet he would be neutralized, powerless. I could return to the Light Court, mission accomplished, without suffering the consequences of his actual death.
I work quickly, grinding dried nightshade berries with practiced movements. The powder must be fine, the proportions exact. Too much and it becomes lethal; too little and the sleep would be temporary.
As I work, a stray thought intrudes—a memory of Malakai's expression when I spoke of my mother, that fleeting moment of something almost like compassion. I push it away ruthlessly. He is the enemy. He has always been the enemy. The fact that he occasionally displays human characteristics doesn't change what he is—a monster who had a hand in my mother's death.
I've just sealed a vial of the refined extract when a noise in the corridor draws my attention. Quickly, I return my materials to their hiding place, ensuring the compartment is securely closed before moving to the door.
Opening it a crack, I peer into the hallway. A shadow moves at the far end—not one of Malakai's magical constructs, but a physical presence slipping from alcove to alcove with practiced stealth. The movement is familiar; I've used those same techniques myself on countless missions.
An assassin.
I slip into the corridor, barefoot to muffle my steps. The stone is cold beneath my feet, and I press myself into the shadows, barely breathing. The figure is dressed in nondescript servant's clothing, but the way they move betrays their true purpose. No servant glides like that—weight balanced, shoulders loose, each step deliberate. I've been trained to recognize killers. I am one.
They pause at an intersection, head tilting as they listen. I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. After a long moment, they glance around and take the left fork. Toward Malakai's study.
My mind races. I should let events unfold. Another assassin eliminating Malakai would solve my problems, wouldn't it? I could slip back to my room, feign sleep, wake to the news of his death with practiced shock on my face. But the fated mate bond complicates everything. If he dies violently, I'll suffer as well—perhaps not death, but pain beyond imagining. I've heard stories of mates who survived the other's murder.
The lucky ones went mad. That's the only reason I follow, I tell myself. Self-preservation. Certainly not the unexpected protectiveness that flares when I imagine him dead, or the way our morning conversation had shown glimpses of something almost...human.
I trail the figure through the darkened halls, keeping my distance, matching my breath to my footsteps. They never look back. Either they're overconfident, or they're very, very good. Malakai's study door stands slightly ajar. The assassin pauses outside it, one hand disappearing beneath their cloak—reaching for a weapon, no doubt. Through the gap, I see Malakai at the window, his back to the door, seemingly lost in thought. Moonlight silvers his profile. He has no idea what's coming. And I have seconds to decide what kind of person I am.
The assassin slips inside, moving in silence. From my position, I can see the glint of metal as they withdraw a blade—thin and coated with something that gleams wetly. Poison.
The assassin draws back their arm, preparing to throw.
I don't think. I move.
Bursting through the doorway, I slam into the assassin's side just as they release the blade. The impact throws off their aim. The dagger spins through the air, its trajectory altered—but not enough. It catches Malakai on the upper arm as he whirls at the commotion, drawing a thin line of blood.
The room plunges into sudden darkness as Malakai's shadows explode outward. But I'm already in motion, driving the assassin to the floor. They're good—strong, well-trained—but I'm better. Their body twists beneath mine, trying to throw me off, but I've already locked my legs around their torso, my hands finding their head.
One sharp movement. The crack of vertebrae. Their body goes limp.
It happens so fast that Malakai's shadows are still unfurling when the assassin's life is already gone. The darkness freezes, then withdraws slightly as the room's illumination returns.
"Seraphina ?" His voice holds a note I've never heard before—uncertainty. He looks from the dead assassin to the small wound on his arm, where poison is already creating a web of dark lines beneath his skin.
"You're welcome," I manage, my breath coming in short gasps as I rise from the corpse. "Though I'm beginning to think saving your life was a grave tactical error."
His eyes narrow suddenly, shock making him lash out. His shadows surge forward, encircling my ankles.
"Did you kill him to silence him?" he demands, voice ice-cold despite the poison visibly spreading. "Too convenient that you appeared just in time, that he's now conveniently dead."
I stare at him in outrage. "What?"
