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“I love you,” he whispers against my lips, breath warm and carrying that familiar hint of mint he always chews during missions. “I’ve always loved you. In two days, after the trial fails and you realize what you really are, we can go back to how things were meant to be.”

Something in his tone—absolute certainty, like he knows exactly how the next two days will play out—cuts through the magical haze enough for clarity to surface. My eyes focus with sudden sharpness, thoughts clearing like fog burned away by sunlight.

“The trial won’t fail,” I manage to say, though the words feel thick and difficult.

“Of course it will.” His laugh carries cruel certainty that makes ice crystallize in my veins. “You’ll attempt to manifest treasures that don’t exist, exhaust yourself trying to channel power you don’t actually have, and prove once and for all that you’re human.”

“And then?”

“Then I take you home. Away from all this magical nonsense, back to a world where you can be exactly what you’re meant to be.” His hand slides lower, possessive and certain of his welcome. “Mine.”

The word detonates through my consciousness like a bomb made of pure fury.

Not his. Never his. No matter what the suppression magic tries to make me believe, no matter how compliance feels easier than resistance.

Fire detonates beneath my breastbone, burning through suppression magic like acid through silk. Heat races down my spine, pooling in my hands until my fingertips tingle with power that has nothing to do with Fae magic and everything to do with three years of rage finally finding its target.

“I belong to myself,” I snarl, and something deep in my chest flares with heat that burns through the magical conditioning like acid through silk.

“No, you don’t,” he corrects with that patronizing patience I’ve learned to hate, the tone he uses when explaining simple concepts to difficult civilians. “You belong to people who understand what you really need.”

When his mouth moves toward mine again, when his hands grow more demanding and possessive, heat explodes in my chest. Not the controlled magic I’ve been learning to wield, but something older and far more dangerous.

My vision blurs red at the edges, tunnel vision focusing on his face with laser precision. My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged animal desperate for freedom, pulse thundering in my temples until I can hear nothing else.

Every muscle in my body coils for violence.

The decorative crystal statue on the nearby table gleams in the chamber’s artificial light—a delicate sculpture of intertwined flowers that probably weighs three pounds and has several very sharp edges.

My hand moves before my conscious mind makes the decision, muscle memory taking over as training overrides suppression. The crystal sculpture fits perfectly in my palm, weight balanced like it was made for this moment.

The impact against Davis’s skull makes a sound like breaking glass mixed with something wet and final—sharp crack followed by the dull thud of bone giving way.

He drops like a stone, consciousness leaving him instantly. Blood pools beneath his head as his body hits the pearl floor, the sound echoing through the chamber like a punctuation mark on three years of manipulation.

The crystal sculpture shatters in my hand, leaving me with a jagged fragment that still pulses with Seelie magic and my own furious determination.

The moment Davis hits the floor, the suppression magic wavers—like a radio with a broken antenna, the magical interference flickers and fades. Sound becomes clearer, colors brighter, thoughts sharpening like someone adjusted the focus on reality itself.

My thoughts sharpen. The cotton-wrapped feeling lifts like morning fog burned away by sunlight. For the first time since entering this chamber, I can feel the thorns beneath my skin responding to my emotional state, warmth pulsing through channels that have been frozen for days.

“Never,” I whisper to his unconscious form, blood from the crystal cuts on my palm dripping onto the pearl floor in bright red drops that look like rubies against white marble. “I will never be yours.”

The chamber’s locks pulse with renewed strength, magical barriers humming with power designed to keep me contained. But for the first time since Amarantha’s guards dragged me here, I feel like myself again.

Dangerous. Powerful. Ready to fight.

I drag Davis’s unconscious body into the ornate bathing chamber, his weight heavier than expected but manageable with adrenaline singing through my veins like liquid lightning. The marble floor makes moving him easier, and I wedge the door shut behind me, buying precious time before someone discovers what happened.

The blood on the pearl floor wipes clean with water from the enchanted basin, magical properties ensuring no stain remains. By the time I’m finished, there’s no evidence of our struggle except for the missing crystal sculpture and the scratches on my palm that pulse with their own inner light.

When I finally settle onto the massive bed to wait for the next two days, it’s not as the compliant prisoner they expect.

It’s as someone who’s remembered exactly what she’s capable of when pushed too far.

The suppression magic still mutes my power, still makes resistance feel difficult. But something snaps into place in my chest like a bone setting—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, breathing deepening as my body remembers how to inhabit space with authority instead of apology.

The artificial calm can’t touch the core of fury that burns steady and bright beneath my sternum, untouchable as a flame sheltered from wind.