Page 9

Sapphire

Riven steps out of the water first, the water dripping down his chest following the sharp lines of muscle that I refuse to acknowledge I’m staring at.

His clothes stick to him as he pulls them on, making the simple act of dressing far more difficult than it needs to be.

Thanks to his affinity being ice instead of liquid water, he can’t dry himself. A handful of gifted winter fae can breathe underwater, but controlling it is a different skill entirely. Which means he’ll stay wet.

As he should.

He’s certainly getting no help from me. That would involve touching him, and that’s something I will never willingly do again.

Although, as I push myself out of the water, reach for my magic, and dry myself off, I’m not sure what just happened between us. Lysandra told us to go under the surface and kiss, and I remember submerging myself.

But after that? I’m sure we did kiss, but the details are already escaping me.

Apparently, it was bad enough that my mind locked it away into the deepest corners of my thoughts.

“You know,” Riven says, his voice dipping into that dangerous, teasing tone that threatens to break me if I listen too closely, “for someone who claims to hate me, you certainly seem to be enjoying the view.”

Heat rushes up my neck, searing and infuriating, but I lock my expression into something carefully neutral.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, sharp as steel. “I’m just appreciating how pathetic you look right now.”

He drags a hand through his soaked hair, water sliding down his face, over his jaw, and along the edge of his throat.

My body warms, and I internally curse him for being so irresistibly gorgeous.

“That’s an interesting way to say, ‘devastatingly attractive even while dripping wet,’” he finally says, watching me the entire time.

I narrow my eyes, hating how easily he twists my words.

He knows exactly what buttons to push, and he enjoys it. Even worse, the way he’s smirking at me makes it clear that he can see how painfully hard it is for me to resist.

We’re in the process of giving each other death stares when Lysandra’s musical laughter echoes through the chamber.

“You two continue to delight me with your… enthusiasm,” she says. “Wasting no time on embracing the most time-honored tradition of marriage—driving each other to madness. Just imagine how spectacularly insufferable you’ll be a few centuries from now.”

Centuries.

The word hits me like a sledgehammer.

Because firstly, I’m immortal. A fact that’s impossible to truly comprehend.

And now, I’m going to spend that eternity tethered to a cruel prince who views my heart as something to be manipulated, used, and discarded.

“We’ll do everything we can to end the marriage as quickly as it began,” I say to her, although even as the words leave my lips, I know it won’t be that easy. After all, this isn’t the mortal realm. We can’t just sign a few papers and be done with each other.

“Is that so?” Lysandra’s smile sharpens as she gestures to my left hand. “Perhaps you should look more closely at what’s already been done.”

A cold weight sinks low in my stomach.

I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see whatever new nightmare has just been forced on me.

But I do.

And I wish I hadn’t.

Because intertwining silver and blue lines coil around my ring finger, shimmering beneath my skin where a wedding band would be.

Lysandra watches my reaction with interest. “Only the rarest of fae marriages bear this mark,” she explains. “A union dictated by fate. It does not fade, nor can it be severed by force or magic. The two of you were meant to be bound, whether you wished it or not.”

I inhale sharply, fighting the helplessness constricting my chest. Because if fate decided to bind me to a man who’s so careless with my heart, I have no idea what I did to deserve such a cruel, horrific punishment.

“We most definitely didn’t wish it,” I say as Riven lifts his hand, examining the identical mark coiling around his left ring finger.

His expression, of course, is unreadable. A perfect picture of apathy.

“Fascinating,” he finally says with a shrug, so indifferent it makes me want to scream.

He doesn’t even look at me. Not once.

“Now, let’s return to what’s important here,” he says to Lysandra, as if it’s irrelevant to him that we’ve been marked and bound together for all eternity. “The duskberry. I assume you brought it?”

I huff in frustration. Because it always comes back to that stupid duskberry.

“Follow me,” Lysandra says, and she leads us to a small table near the side of the chamber, where she and Riven must have placed the other ingredients before I arrived. Then, swiftly, she pulls a vial out from her sleeve, filled with liquid that’s the same swirling colors as, well, dusk. “I took the liberty of mixing it with water myself.”

“A kind gesture,” Riven tells her. “A gift befitting a newlywed royal couple.”

“My pleasure,” she says with a smile that seems just a bit too sweet. “Now, we should discuss the final ingredient.”

“My blood,” I say automatically, but Lysandra shakes her head no.

“Mine,” she says, surprising me and Riven both. “A queen’s blood will do more than grant clarity—it will fortify the drinker’s will. It will ensure that the Winter King is not only lucid, but unshakable.”

Riven’s expression sharpens, as if sensing a trap. “And what do you want in return?”

Lysandra only smiles. “Nothing.”

Riven and I exchange a glance. We don’t agree on much, but we apparently agree on this—fae always want something. There’s no such thing as a free handout in this realm.

The dryad’s deal was proof enough of that.

Bitterness courses through me at the reminder, and I press my nails into my palms, forcing myself back into the present.

“But why?” I ask Lysandra, and from Riven’s confused expression, he’s wondering the same.

“Because this war is larger than you. Larger than him.” She glances at Riven, then turns her focus back to me. “And because whether you wish to accept it or not, you’re my daughter, and I will not see you fail.”

The weight of her words settles over me, but I refuse to let myself react to them. Not here. Not now. Not when we’re so close to finishing this.

“That’s very… generous of you,” I say, although I’m far from convinced that there isn’t something she wants.

She, however, doesn’t elaborate, instead simply gesturing to the ingredients laid out in front of an intricately crafted gold chalice.

“Shall we begin?” she asks, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the doubt churning in my stomach.

She takes me through what to do step by step, and soon, I fall into the soothing pattern of brewing the potion.

“You’re a natural with this,” she notes as I follow her instructions, and I don’t know if it’s a compliment or an observation.

“I’ve only done it once before,” I say, keeping my focus on the potion, powering through the instinct to glance at Riven as I work.

Lysandra makes it easier by continuing to talk to me.

“Magic is written into your blood,” she says, motioning for me to add the flowers I just crushed into the chalice. “Brewing potions requires more than knowledge—it requires a willingness to listen to what the magic asks of you. To letting it to become part of you.”

I press my lips together, but I don’t argue. Because I can feel the way the potion stirs beneath my touch, responding as if it recognizes something in my soul.

It’s the same way I always knew how to make drinks when I worked at the Maple Pig.

As I think about the Maple Pig, I can’t help but glance at Riven.

I immediately regret it.

Because he’s watching me with the same fascination he did on our first meeting at the bar, when I mixed him that pink drink and placed it in front of him.

Back then, I thought his interest was genuine curiosity. Maybe even attraction.

Now, I know better.

Because he was studying me. Analyzing my every move, looking for ways to twist my talent into something that served him. Just like he’s doing now. Making sure his asset is still worth the investment.

I narrow my eyes at him, force myself to break his gaze, and let everything other than the potion in front of me fade away, like I always did while mixing drinks.

Eventually, I’m done.

And when I take a step back, Lysandra lifts the dagger from the table, slices her palm, and adds the final touch—her blood.