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“I’d like to try and convince Alyvia, the werewolf supreme, and Eliphas, the warlock supreme, as they’ve disapproved of Mihal’s brutality in the past.”

“And for your fourth?”

My fingers still as my stomach fills with dread. There’s only one other creature on the Seven who might back me… but not without some sort of cost. Riven does nothing out of the kindness of his blackened heart. The lethal fae bastard.

Rory glances at me from over her shoulder. “Quill?”

“I believe Riven, the fae supreme, may be my best chance at a fourth backer,” I say with dread.

Her brow furrows as she turns fully around to face me. “You don’t sound too happy about that. Who is Riven?”

I despise the sound of his name as it rolls off her tongue, hate that it even crosses her lips to begin with.

“Riven is… my half-brother.”

Her honeyed eyes widen. “How are you related to a fae?”

“Godrick was Riven’s birth father, and in turn, sired me,” I tell her. “We’re half-brothers in that sense, but Riven has always disliked me for how our father favored me.”

“I can empathize with that,” she says. “That couldn’t have been easy for him.”

“Godrick certainly had his faults.”

She smiles softly. “Perhaps I can speak with Riven for you?”

“No.” I shake my head adamantly. “The less time you spend near him the better. He’s… tricky and harsh.”

“Is he worse than Mihal?”

I turn her around once more and tilt her head backward so I can drag my fingers through her long, silky hair to detangle the knots and rinse out the suds. “No one is worse than Mihal.”

“Your turn,” she says, sitting up and reaching for the bottle.

I lower myself deeper into the water, hoping the leftover bubbles will hide⁠—

“Quill.” She inhales sharply, and there’s a splash as the bottle sinks to the tiled floor.

“I’ll be fine. Silver scars take ages to soften, even with mortal blood,” I say quietly. “They’ll fade like all the others.”

Rory carefully traces the scars as her rage seeps into me through her thoughts of vengeance.

“It’s okay, tiny monster,” I murmur.

“No,” she growls. “It’s not.” She moves around me, her fingers searching for any lingering marks around my throat or wrist. “Where are the scars from the ambush? They choked you with a silver leash. You should still have the scar here”—she draws a line around my throat—“but it’s gone.”

“It—” Fuck.

She searches my face. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

I don’t want to lie to her, but to reveal she’s my mate after I’ve already resigned myself to keep it a secret…

“Quill?” she prompts.

I cannot deny her.

“There is a very sacred bond between some creatures called a mating bond,” I begin slowly. “If a vampire were to drink their mate’s blood, all previous unhealed wounds inflicted upon them would heal without delay.”

Her brows scrunch together as if she’s putting together a mental puzzle. Her gaze brightens the moment the pieces slide into place. “That means… I’m your mate, and my blood healed you. So when you said I was yours in that courtyard, you meant it as a literal declaration.”