The bond flared hot enough that Sabine felt it in her chest, her throat, the marked skin of her palm burning where it pressed against his shoulder.
Lucien groaned and kissed down her jaw to her throat, his mouth finding the exact place where the current had slammed her against stone.
Sabine’s fingers tightened in his hair.
For five heartbeats they stayed like that, bodies pressed close in the shadowed stair, breath harsh, the bond pulsing between them like a third presence that wanted and demanded and would not be ignored.
Then Lucien stepped back.
His control was visible. Strained. Barely holding.
“If I do not stop now,” he said roughly, “I will not stop at all.”
Sabine’s pulse hammered in her throat. “Maybe I do not want you to stop.”
“I know. That is the problem.” He touched her face briefly. “We are in a palace stairwell. Anyone could come. And if we are caught like this, Serast will use it to argue the bond has made us reckless.”
He was right.
Sabine hated that he was right.
She straightened her gown and tried to steady her breathing.
Lucien watched her with an expression that was equal parts hunger and strategy.
“I will have Elara trace the estate pressure order,” he said. “And I will make sure Serast cannot isolate you before the next trial. But Sabine, you have to let me protect you without making it look like I am ruled by it.”
“I do not need protection. I need a blade.”
“Then I will get you one.” He stepped back into the passage. “Keep the music hidden. Do not let Serast or Maelor corner you alone. And if the palace sends another letter, bring it to me immediately.”
He left before she could answer.
Sabine stood in the shadowed stair with her lips still swollen from his mouth and the mark still burning from his touch.
That night, Sabine hid the Corvyr letter with Isolde’s music in the false lining of her travel case.
Two pieces of proof.
One from a dead bride who knew the rite consumed women in patterns, not accidents.
One from a living crown that understood daughters made excellent collateral when houses needed discipline.
Sabine locked the case and stared at the mark climbing her forearm.
The bond was real. The danger was real. And the palace had made very clear that surviving the Trials was no longer enough.
If she only survived, the crown still owned the terms.
She needed to hunt.
She needed to find who authorized the estate pressure, who controlled the rite’s oldest records, and how many dead brides the temple had erased before Isolde tried to leave warning.
The next trial was coming.
Serast was positioning to remove her.
The crown was using Corvyr as leverage.
