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“King Riven,” begins the genie next to Lyrielle, leaning forward to get a better look at me, “I must say… You’re a lot kinder than your reputation makes you out to be.” She whistles, shaking her head. “The stories I’ve heard about you…”

My jaw clenches, and my fists tighten atop the table.

“Surely you don’t believe all the stories you hear,” I say, voice revealing my irritation.

I glance at Gwyn again.

Her story in Warnings from the Wicked is certainly laced with lies and mistruths. My little witch would never raise an army of the dead. She doesn’t even consume meat, for fuck’s sake. She might command Death, might be able to wield it like a weapon, but she wouldn’t. Not by choice.

Realization unsettles the wine in my stomach.

Is that why she’s so afraid of her coven?

I’m not going back. I won’t be used by them ever again.

What did they make her do?

Lyrielle’s light touch on my arm jolts me from my thoughts. I half expect my neck to burn, but it doesn’t so much as flare up. She grins at me. “Well,” she says, eyes dipping to the table’s edge like she can see beneath it, “I do hope some stories are true.” There’s a thud under the table, and the siren yowls. “Ow! Which one of you kicked me?”

No one owns up to it, but Thessaly, the vampire sitting diagonally from her, hides a smirk behind her drink. Neither of the vampires Quill sent are females I’d ever consider for a bride. Thessaly is all fangs and fire, while her companion—Darcia—seems to count the seconds until each courting session ends, clearly bored of me. Quill isn’t careless in his choices, which makes me wonder if he ever meant for them to be real candidates or if they’re a message I haven’t yet deciphered.

I rub the spot on my arm where Lyrielle touched me, her presence clinging to me like a burr as the thought lingers.

At the far end of the table, Zeryn jolts to her feet, wine glass in hand. “Fuck you, witch.”

Time seems to slow to an utter standstill as she tosses an entire chalice of wine into Gwyn’s face, drenching her and my vision in crimson.

Gwyn launches herself around the table, but I’m faster.

My chair slams to the floor, and I snatch Zeryn up before Gwyn can get to her. One hand clamps around the genie’s throat, her feet dangling just above the parquet.

She drops the chalice, fingers clawing at me as she gasps for air.

It’d be so easy—so fucking easy—to crush her windpipe, to take her life and toss her body aside like it’s nothing.

I could do it. I should do it.

“Riven, don’t.” Gwyn’s voice breaks through my haze. “Let her go.”

No formalities, no requests.

A command.

My pulse is a riot in my throat, chest heaving with rage.

Zeryn watches me, wide-eyed and gasping, trembling.

“Riven, stop,” Gwyn says, her tone sterner than before.

I’m supposed to be keeping my distance from her, pretending I don’t have any feelings for her whatsoever. Yet, here I am, ready to kill for her and enter a political firestorm with Sibylla, the genie supreme.

Her voice is in my head, her command timed perfectly with my pounding heart.

Riven, stop, Riven, stop, Riven, stop.

I am a breath away from losing control. All because this female attacked my⁠—

No.