“Yes. Her other face, the one none of you like to talk about.” Lara grunted, already nudging Cassidy and Margo toward the door, her body half-herding, half-shoving. “That’s the face who’s watching tonight. I’d rather not introduce myself.”
“Lay off, Lara, we’re coming!” Cassidy stumbled under the push. “We have to go anyway to report Margo’s attempted murder.”
Margo, already halfway through the door, paused just long enough to blow a kiss over her shoulder. “I expect that pin back and cleaned when you’re done!”
Then there was silence.
Emmaline stood over him—the man who she thought should’ve been her mate, the man who used her body like it was owed to him, the man who ripped her open and didn’t even bother to learn her name. Her knuckles paled around the hairpin, the metal slick between her palms.
She’d come so far. Pushed herself past fear, past shame, past every whisper telling her that she deserved the pain. And now here he was—bound, helpless, already ruined—and she wasn’t sure she could finish it.
Not because she forgave him. Not because her resolve had wavered. But because none of this felt real. Her body felt weightless, like she might drift out of her skin if she let go of the pin. Was this a dream? Some fevered hallucination born from the damage she’d done to her mind by rejecting Deyric? Would it end when she finished it?
Mate bonds didn’t heal. The Goddess didn’t speak to the Ellyllon, not anymore. Was everyone right? Was she simply crazy? She knew that’s what they thought.
Then she looked at Deyric as his thumb traced the back of her hand, and his fingers wrapped over hers, easing the hairpin from her grip. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush, just stood with her, shoulder to shoulder.
“Let me do this for you,” he said finally. “I knew what he was, and I didn’t protect you. Let me put this blade in his chest while you watch the essence bleed from whatever rotten thing pretends to be his heart.”
And just like that, the fear, the doubt, the fractured pieces of herself—all of it quieted.
“Okay.” She exhaled. And prayed this was real, that when the life finally drained from the monster chained before her, Deyric would still be there.
Chapter thirty-three
“Youknow…”Hisvoicedragged over her skin, warm breath raising goosebumps in its wake. His lips followed, grazing a path from the slope of her shoulder to just beneath her ear. “You really are a bit unhinged.”
She didn’t answer right away. His fingers had already found the edge of her sleeve, tugging the white linen down. His other hand drifted lower, tracing the dip of her spine as each button gave way under the press of his fingers. Old-fashioned closures—she’d always cursed them, hated how Isolde insisted on tradition over practicality, banning anything as useful as a zipper. But now, with his knuckles brushing the bare line of her back, each touch unhurried and careful, it might be the only time she’d ever thank that woman for anything.
“I’m supposed to be getting ready for the ball, Deyric.” Her head tipped back onto his shoulder, her voice just a touch breathless. “Not… whatever this is.”
He paused, hand resting against the last button. His mouth hovered at the curve where her neck met her shoulder. “Do you want me to stop?”
She reached back without warning, fingers tangling hard in his hair. “Not unless you want to piss off a crazy woman.”
Twisting, her teeth scraped his jaw, biting hard, just shy of breaking skin. She needed to feel him tense under her mouth, needed to know he was here, solid, letting her have this—letting her have him. His arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her in even closer.
“Are you sure?” His voice came rougher now, half-lost against her neck. “We might miss the show if we delay too long.”
She laughed, low and dark, the sound buzzing between them. “Tempting.”
He was right. She did want to see the culmination of their efforts. After Ursula had swallowed Caelith’s lifeless body in shadows and went to sweep the scene clean, Emmaline and Deyric slipped back into the castle. While Deyric kept watch, she tucked Allistair’s murder trophies into Lady Isolde’s jewelry closet. No one had looked twice at another servant in uniform, not with the whole castle in chaos that morning, scrambling through last-minute ball preparations. But…
Deyric’s hands were still on her, tracing slow lines down her sides, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric.
She turned in his grip, her dress sliding lower with the motion. “Isolde will get what she deserves,” she whispered, drawing her teeth along his jaw again. “What about what we deserve?”
Before she could pull him closer, his fingers dug in at the base of her skull, twisting her hair just enough to lock her still. He didn’t rush. He hovered just above her, close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting over her lips, but not the kiss she wanted.
The air between them thickened.
Then, his mouth fell down on hers, teeth catching her lower lip with enough bite to make her gasp. And the moment her lips parted,he took her—tongue sweeping past hers, claiming the space without hesitation. His fingers wrung deeper in her hair, tilting her head exactly where he wanted, leaving her no room to shift, no chance to take control.
Softening against him, she raked her nails down his chest, leaving faint lines behind in the fabric. It was the only resistance she had left.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmured.
The words hit like a hand around her throat—desire, panic, and need all tangled so tight she couldn’t tell one from the other. She was already reaching for him, searching, before her mind caught up.
