The door shuts behind her with a sound like a coffin closing. A perfect way to start this disaster.
My room’s the exact opposite of Valen’s golden palace of ego—no flashy bullshit, no “look how important I am” decorations. Just stone, steel, and a window that lets the moon do whatever the hell it wants. Weapon rack that’s seen actual use, bed built for function over comfort, and absolutely zero personality.
“Wow,” Lucy says, scanning the place like she’s cataloging escape routes. “Really went all out with the interior decorating, huh?”
I’m standing by the window, shirt somewhere on the floor because the wolf’s been restless all day and fabric feels like sandpaper against my skin. Moonlight’s turning my scars silver—the battle ones, the self-inflicted ones, the ones I don’t like thinking about.
“They sent you like this?” I ask without turning around. Her scent’s filling the room, making it hard to think straight.
“Like what? Dressed up like a virgin sacrifice? Yeah, that was their idea, not mine.”
Sharp tongue. I like that. “Voluntary or not, it’s working.”
“I volunteered,” she says, and there’s a lie wrapped around something that might be truth.
I turn around. Big mistake. She’s standing there in silver silk that screams “offering to the monster,” but her eyes aren’t victim-scared. They’re calculating. Planning. And there’s something tucked against her hip that doesn’t belong on a diplomatic gift.
“Do you lie to everyone,” I say, keeping my voice level, “or just to me?”
“Depends on the day.” Her throat works like swallowing glass. “Today’s been pretty shit for honesty all around.”
She moves to the table, hands shaking as she sets down the goblet someone left there. Expensive silver, ornate as fuck, probably worth more than most people’s lives.
“You’re afraid,” I observe.
“Yeah, well. It’s been a rough week.”
“But not of me.” I tilt my head, studying her. “Interesting. Why?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, just reaches under her sash for something small and glass. The vial catches moonlight as she pulls it free—warm from her body heat, filled with something that makes my wolf’s hackles rise.
Cork comes out with a soft pop. Sweet, sharp scent hits the air—faint but unmistakable.
“Wolfsbane?” I ask, casual as discussing dinner plans.
She nearly drops the thing. “How did you—”
“I can smell it. Concentrated. Refined.” I step closer, catching her scent underneath the poison—fear, determination, something that tastes like desperate choices. “Expensive.”
“Yeah, well. Valen spares no expense when it comes to murder.”
The poison shimmers as she pours it, clear and deadly and silent. Just like they promised her it would be.
“Did he send you to kill me?” I ask.
The question makes her flinch, but I keep my tone gentle. Like asking if she wants tea instead of discussing assassination attempts.
She looks up at me. “Would it matter if I made it sweet first?”
Something shifts in my chest. Recognition, maybe. I know what it feels like to be backed into corners with no good choices. Been living there most of my life.
My hand catches hers as Lucy lifts the goblet. Warm, rough, careful—probably the first gentle touch she’s had in weeks.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, little wolf,” I murmur.
“I’ve already lost it.” The words come out whispered, broken. True as anything I’ve ever heard.
She’s close enough now that I can feel her heat, see the fear and defiance warring in her eyes. Close enough to count the ways Valen’s broken her and wonder how she’s still standing.
I take the goblet from her hand. Lift it like a toast to our mutual destruction.
“You know what’s in it,” she says, voice cracking.
“I do.”
“Then why—”
“I want to see what kind of poison they taught you to pour with your eyes open.”
And then I drink it. All of it. Like downing a beer instead of swallowing death.
The wolfsbane burns going down—refined enough to kill, bitter enough to remind me what I’m choosing. But the curse in my blood has been killing me slowly for years. Even if it does kill me I wouldn’t care.
“What the fuck,” she breathes, waiting for me to collapse, convulse, scream. Something.
But I just stand there, empty goblet in hand, watching her face cycle through shock, confusion, and something that might be hope if we’re both feeling optimistic.
“That was either really brave or really stupid,” she says.
“Probably both.” I set the goblet down, step forward. “But I’ve been dying slowly for years. This is just… more efficient.”
Then my hands are in her hair, and my mouth is on hers, and she’s kissing me like the poison isn’t in my blood. Like it’s in hers instead.
Her lips taste like wine and wolfsbane and something that might be hope if I was feeling optimistic. Which I’m not, because this is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some spectacularly stupid things.
But the wolf in my chest goes quiet for the first time in months. Not calm—quiet. Like it’s found something worth protecting instead of destroying.
The poison’s already working—I can feel it burning through my veins, fighting with whatever curse runs in my blood. But right now, with her mouth against mine and her hands fisted in my hair, I feel more alive than I have in years.
Even if we’re both about to be very, very dead.