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Then it hits me.
His dominion.
It doesn't land so much asconsume, rising like a tide that comes fromwithinme, from the place in my chest where hispower touched mine once and never truly let go. It’s not pain. It’s annihilation masquerading as reverence. My limbs go heavy, trembling under the force of a will that doesn’t belong to me.
I drop to one knee, snarling.
But not both.
The pressure builds, dragging at my spine, screaming in my blood. The world tilts, warps. This isn’t just power—it’s betrayal, rewritten in real time by someone who’s being forced to weaponize a bond that was never meant to chain.
Branwen watches like a goddess on the edge of creation, tilting her head with a smile that’s all teeth and triumph.
I meet her gaze from where I’m kneeling. One knee. One breath. And I spit the words like blood against her throne.
“You think submission means strength,” I say, my voice wrecked but steady.
Her smile drops, and I feel the rage ripple through her. Power lashes out again—but this time it doesn’t land on me.
Because I’m not alone anymore.
Ambrose moves first.
There’s no sound, no warning—just a shift in the world like something ancient cracking down its spine. One moment I’m locked in a silent war of wills with Branwen, and the next, he’s between us. Impeccably composed. A wall in a well-cut coat. But I see it—the flicker of possession crawling beneath his skin, the way his fingertips twitch like he’s already claimed the ground she stands on and is debating whether or not to burn it.
Then Riven is there, sharp-edged and coiled with barely contained fury, a heatwave in the form of a man. He doesn’t just step in front of me—he stalks into place like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice cuts the air, low and venom-laced. “Back the fuck off.”
Branwen’s mouth parts in amused surprise, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She studies him like a puzzle missing a piece she thought she’d swallowed long ago.
And then Elias.
Gods. Elias moves like he regrets it, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but he still drops into formation at Riven’s side. His smirk is lazy, crooked, already daring her to try something. “I mean, I’d say play nice, but I don’t think you know how.” He glances at me without looking at me. “Luce, you good? Still got all your limbs?”
Before I can answer, Silas bursts into the space between them like a chaotic star, shirt unbuttoned, hair windswept, somehow holding a glittery dagger and a half-eaten croissant. He’s grinning like this is his favorite kind of party—the kind that ends with blood on velvet. “Did someone say group pose?” he asks, then tosses the croissant over his shoulder and assumes a stance like he’s auditioning for a soap opera.
But when he glances at me, the humor flickers—just for a beat. His eyes shift, serious beneath the absurdity.
They're shielding me.
And it shouldn’t make me feel anything. Shouldn’t twist the bond tighter around my ribs. But it does. Because these are the ones who don't ask why I'm standing—just make sure I can keep doing it.
Branwen crosses her arms, head tilted, smile gone sharp. “How sweet,” she says. “All your little pets trained so well.”
Riven takes a step forward, but Ambrose’s hand lifts—barely. It’s enough. Stillness falls again, but this time it’s dangerous. Contained.
Ambrose turns his head slightly, not looking at me, but speaking like I’m the only one who matters. “Tell her,” he says, voice cool and calm as glass, “how this ends if she keeps pushing.”
And I do. Because my voice is steady again. Because I'm standing, and I didn’t kneel. Because the pain’s not gone—but it’s mine now.
“You can call them pets,” I say, stepping between them, between the past and the now. “But they chose to stand beside me. And that’s something you’ve never had, Branwen.”
Lucien flinches beside her.
Branwen doesn’t speak like someone issuing a threat. She speaks like she’s reading the end of a story she’s already memorized—confident, calm, cruel in her certainty. “You have to die,” she tells me, the words slipping from her mouth like silk over a blade. “They were mine long before they were yours. You’ve taken what was never yours to keep. So now, I’ll take it back.”
The dusk stretches behind her like it’s holding its breath, and all I can do is stare at the three figures flanking her—They don’t move at first. They just stand there like shadows unmoored, silhouettes sculpted from regret. But when she tilts her head, just slightly, they obey like puppets, the strings she’s yanked too tight now visible in every reluctant step they take.
Lucien steps forward first. The air around him hums with residual authority—his hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and the void splits open like it’s been waiting for him. His blade materializes before him, sleek and dark and hungry. The hilt bears the marks of old gods and older sins, and for a second, it hovers, as if even it is reluctant to be used against me. But Lucien closes his hand around it anyway. His knuckles whiten. His eyes stay downcast.