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“Don’t do this,” my mother begs. “Once the betrothal is permanent, you’re his. He owns you. Controls you as your male fiancé.”
“It’s worth it to save them.” My voice comes out a whisper, but it’s strong—frightfully so.
I’ve made up my mind.
I’m giving away my life to save theirs.
“Once the betrothal vow is finalized by magic, it will eat away at any claim the Winter Prince has on you, including your mating bond, until any trace of your soulbond is erased.”
The idea of losing what Valerian and I share nearly makes me refuse. But I know—I know without a doubt that what we have goes beyond magic.
Beyond fate.
Love. Hellebore might be able to sever our mating bond eventually, but he’ll never be able to make me love anyone but Valerian.
My mother must see that I can’t be swayed because she begins to negotiate with Hellebore. “After the betrothal contract is made permanent, my daughter stays with me at my apartment in the mortal world, as is her right before the marriage. And she gets to finish her third year at the academy before the wedding.”
Hellebore contemplates that for a moment before shrugging. “Agreed.”
“And my friends won’t be punished any further for breaking in,” I add quickly.
His eyes narrow, but he nods. “What I have in store for you will be more than enough punishment for the prince.”
I glare at Hellebore. Funneling every bit of rage and hatred into my eyes, my mouth, my voice as I say, “Do it.”
Hellebore gives a signal and three guards leave their places against the wall. The vines lower my friends to the floor, slowly, until they’re laid out in a row next to one another.
As soon as the guards administer the antidote, a drop of silver fluid on each of their tongues, the sickly white of their skin begins to fade. Their lips go from bruised purple to pink, their flesh softens, and their chests begin to heave as air enters their lungs once more.
I nearly stagger with relief, hands flexing and unflexing at my sides.
“They will wake up in a few hours, perfectly fine.” Hellebore makes another flippant gesture and the guards begin to drag them away. “Throw them into the scourge lands with the darklings.”
“You liar!” I try to break free from my guards, fighting with all my strength.
Hellebore’s head falls back as he laughs. “Fae Hells, you’re going to be fun to play with. I’m teasing. How can I witness the prince’s public humiliation if he’s been ravaged by darklings?”
The guards halt, looking confused and wary as they try to determine what they’re supposed to actually do. I can tell it’s a common theme—read my psycho fiancé’s moods and try not to die.
Hellebore waves a hand. “Make sure they end up safely in the Winter territories.” He lifts his brows in exasperation. “Satisfied, little pet?”
Not nearly. Not until your smarmy head is on a pike, you maniac.
I nod, my entire body stiff as I wait for what comes next.
I don’t have long to wait. Hellebore’s eyes glitter with malevolence as he saunters over and says, “Summer Solstice, Princess and surviving heir to the Summer Court Throne, do you agree to complete the promise of marriage between us? To become mine after graduation by the law of Faerie forevermore? To become my possession, my ward, and eventually, my wife?” His words are cruel, jagged things that carve into the ever-growing wound inside me. Words I had once imagined falling from Valerian’s lips. Words that were supposed to fill me with anticipation, not hopelessness and despair.
Words that will bind me forever to the Fae in league with the Darken.
I make sure Hellebore can see the hatred seething from my entire being as I say, “I do.”
A dull throbbing pain wracks my right arm, where Valerian’s brand has claimed me as his for nearly two years. But I don’t have the courage to unzip my suit and pull down my sleeve to see what horror it hides.
Not until my Fae mother has dragged me as far away as possible from the Spring Court and I’m ensconced inside her penthouse in Manhattan, near her office skyscraper. A place that makes Mack’s top floor apartment look like a pauper’s dwelling in comparison.
Only then do I force my gaze over my arm. A single white Bloodstar bud grows between the metallic gold of Valerian’s markings. The tight bud has already begun to open. I know with a terrifying certainty that it will bloom, and then another bud will appear, and another.
Until Valerian’s brand is choked out and Hellebore’s mark is all that remains.
