Her skin glowed. Her lips were painted a deep, subdued rose. Lashes darkened, freckles softened but not erased, hair sculpted into something regal. The navy gown turned her into an offering—sharp collarbones and star-lit silk and impossible poise. The choker at her throat looked less like jewelry now and more like a branded seal.
She looked ready.
A sound came from behind her.
She turned.
Caelum stood fully dressed in formal evening wear: a black suit cut so precisely it seemed part of him, silver embroidery threading the cuffs and collar in the old Thorne pattern. His black hair had been brushed back. Every trace of the forest—cut, blood, dirt, deception—had vanished. He looked exactly as he always did when he stepped into the world he ruled: refined, immaculate, beautiful enough to make cruelty feel ceremonial.
Lyra hated him so much she thought it might split her open.
He crossed to her, slow and unhurried, and stopped behind her reflection.
“For someone who just killed a man,” he murmured, “you wear sapphire very well.”
She flinched.
His gaze met hers in the mirror. “I hate you,” she said.
Something flickered across his face—not pain, not anger. Recognition, perhaps. As if hatred were simply another bond between them now.
“I know,” he said. And that was worse than denial.
One stylist stepped forward with a final powder brush. Caelum lifted a hand; the woman froze.
“Leave us.”
The room emptied in a hush of skirts and soft shoes. The double doors clicked shut behind them.
Lyra did not turn.
She watched him in the mirror. “How long?”
He said nothing.
“How long have you been planning this?”
Still silence.
She laughed once, low and broken. “No, let me guess. Since before I arrived. Since before the blood oath. Since before the estate. Was that all rehearsal, Caelum? Was I just being softened up for tonight?”
His hand came to rest lightly at her waist.
She went rigid.
“It wasn’t like that.”
The answer was too quiet. Too late.
Her reflection smiled—stripped raw and bitter. “That’s what all men say when they’ve already done it.”
His fingers tightened. “Lyra—”
“Don’t.” Her voice shook. “Don’t say my name like it means anything. Not after Adrian. Not after the woods. Not after dragging me back here and dressing me up for them.” Her laugh fractured. “You wanted to see what I would choose, remember? Well, now I’ve seen what you choose.”
Something cold shuttered across his face. “You do not understand what is happening.”
“No,” she snapped. “I understand it perfectly now.”
