That had always been the plan — you were meant to distract Kier, drawing the attention of the court so Azriel could slip unnoticed into the shadows and steal Veritas. Rhysand, of course, had been adamantly against your involvement from the beginning. He hadn’t wanted you anywhere near Hewn City. But you were relentless, stubborn in your desire to help — to be useful. And eventually, he gave in, though it cost him more than he let on.

Now, you stand at the center of that treacherous court. You’re surrounded — by Rhys’s subjects, who reek of cruelty and fear, and by his enemies, who would tear you apart if given the chance. You wear only two slivers of dark fabric, artfully placed to cover just enough — a costume meant to seduce and provoke.

And then he appears, with a tilt of his head and a flicker of command in those violet eyes, he gestures for you to come forward. You obey — slowly, deliberately — because you have to play your part. When you reach him, he pulls you gently — but firmly — into his lap. His hand finds your bare waist, and the other slides over your thigh, resting there possessively.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” he murmurs, voice smooth and unbothered, but loud enough for all to hear.

The room watches in silence, some amused, some envious, some enraged. But Rhysand’s eyes never leave yours. Beneath the mask, behind the arrogance and performance, something else simmers — fury, guilt, fear. Not for himself. For you.

Because what no one in that throne room knows — what even you don’t know — is that you are his mate. He hasn’t told you. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.

He hates this place. He hates what he has to become in it — cold, cruel, calculating. He hates even more what you must endure to stand beside Every time you tense beneath his touch, every flicker of discomfort in your eyes, cuts into him like a blade. In your mind, he sends you calm — soft waves of reassurance.

I’m sorry. I should have never let you do this. I should have protected you.