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How many times have I been struck like this throughout my lifetime?

Memories threaten to resurface, and I struggle to push them down as my hand lifts to my cheek, slow and careful, then drops to the ribbon tied around my throat.

I swore I’d never be silenced again.

Not by my coven. Not by anyone.

And yet… Silence.

Just like they taught me.

No.

The past may have teeth, but so do I.

I escaped my coven matron when she tried—and failed—to silence me.

This is no different.

“Don’t ever lay your hands on me again, Lord Devlin,” I snarl. A flicker of shock passes along his face. “Not that you’ll have the chance once Riven learns you’ve overplayed your hand.”

“You aren’t going to tell him about this little conversation, Gwynnevere Halethorne.”

I blink.

How does he know my surname?

This close, his scent wafts over me.

Myrrh and blood oranges.

Dark and bitter and sickeningly sweet.

It dredges forth the memories I struggled to push down.

Why does he smell like that? Like her?

It’s impossible, isn’t it?

“There she is,” he purrs, taking in my wide eyes and parted lips. He reaches for me. I recoil, but too late. His fingers graze my collarbone, toy with my hair, like he has the right to touch me. “The frightened little witch who betrayed her coven.”

A hand—not mine—clamps around his wrist and bends it back until bone snaps like splintered kindling and juts through his skin.

The Covenant-Tongue goes to scream, but Arkyn slaps a hand against his mouth, silencing him as he thrashes.

“You’re so fucked.” Arkyn’s voice is as lethal as the sword strapped to his back. He flicks his gaze to me. “Go to your suite, Gwyn.”

But I can’t move.

In my mind, I’m not in the hallway anymore.

I’m kneeling on stone.

My cheek stings. My lungs won’t work.

How does Lord Devlin know my surname?

And—Dagny, help me—why does he smell like her?