He watched her pass, the curve of her shoulder brushing the edge of moonlight, still untouched by the truth that stalked him like a second shadow. She moved through the world with a kind of grace that made him ache—blissfully unaware, unburdened by the weight of what it meant to be his mate. What it meant to be tethered to a creature like him.

He could speak. Gods, he could let the words fall from his lips like a confession or a curse, and maybe she’d turn, maybe she’d understand. But then what? He was not some lovesick fool in a ballad. He was the High Lord of the Night Court—born of shadow, tempered by centuries of blood and betrayal. His hands had shaped wars in silence, his throne carved from secrets no light dared touch. To reach for her, to even graze the bond that hummed between them like a half-remembered song, would be to invite the darkness that had claimed him to claim her too.

She deserved peace. She deserved a life unmarked by the violence that built him, unchained from the monsters he commanded and the throne he could never abandon. And yet—gods, yet—he wanted her. Wanted what the Cauldron had given him. Wanted to defy fate, to rewrite the story with his own hands, to believe—just for a breath—that love could survive the night.

He clenched his jaw, the words bitter against his teeth as he whispered to himself.

“Gods. I hate this.”