The scent of rosewood and dying embers clung to the palace corridor like a memory that refused to fade.
Lyra's heels echoed on the polished stone, the weight of her new title a ghost against her skin. Princess Consort. A name she wore like a knife tucked beneath silk — beautiful, but meant for blood.
Behind her, the court laughed in glittering clusters. No one dared meet her eyes.
Not since the wedding.
Not since she'd taken Thorne's hand with a smile carved from ice and ash and turned Evelyne's court debut into a public funeral.
And not since her smile lingered — sharp as a blade — while Thorne kissed her knuckles and said, loud enough for the whole court to hear:
"You can have the crown. I only want her."
That line had cracked something open in the capital.
And in her.
Not because she believed it.
Because it made Evelyne flinch.
She would collect those flinches like pearls on a string.
She turned a corner — and stopped.
The air shifted.
A flicker of shadow moved — not behind her. In front. Waiting. Watching.
"Spymaster." Her voice cut the silence like a dagger through silk. "You're following me."
Cassian stepped from the alcove like he'd always belonged to the darkness — tall, too lean, and too beautiful to trust. His hair was swept back in careless waves, clothes darker than sin, and his eyes…
Gods.
Those eyes had watched her die.
"Following is such a strong word," he said, smile crooked and criminal. "I'd call it… shadowing with intense curiosity."
Her body went still, fingers twitching at her sides. "You poisoned me."
"Allegedly."
She raised an eyebrow. "I tasted the hemlock on my own breath."
Cassian leaned in, close enough she could see the scar behind his left ear — the one he got saving Evelyne from a fire Lyra had tried to put out first.
"I didn't let you die, did I?" he said softly. "Would've been a shame."
"You let them burn me."
"No," he said. And for once, the smile fell away. "I watched. There's a difference."
Silence pulsed between them. Hot. Tense.
She should walk away.
She wouldn't.
Instead, she tilted her chin up. "So why are you here now?"
Cassian's gaze dropped to her mouth. Stayed there. Too long.
"Because you didn't stay dead," he murmured. "And because I can't stop thinking about the way you looked when you stopped screaming."
The words were a blade dragged gently across her throat. Not enough to kill. Just enough to remember.
Lyra stepped forward, nose to nose.
"And what do you want now?" she asked, voice cool as frost.
His smile returned — slower this time. Darker.
"I want to see if you taste like vengeance," he whispered, "or regret."
She shoved him against the stone wall, hand against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm. Not fear. Excitement.
"You get one chance, Cassian," she said. "Betray me again and I won't scream next time. I'll make you do it."
Cassian's grin split wide.
"Oh, Lyra," he breathed. "I think I just fell in love."
She turned, brushing past him — and whispered, without looking back:
"Then you're already doomed."
She barely made it to her chambers before the tremble hit.
Not from fear. Not from Cassian.
From memory.
From the scent of burning flesh that still sometimes clung to her lungs.
From the fact that, even now, part of her still remembered the sound of his voice at the trial.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Just… silent.
He'd watched her fall.
But now? He wanted to climb in bed with the ashes.
She sat at the edge of the bed — one she shared with Thorne now. Though they hadn't touched since the wedding. Not truly.
But his scent lingered. Like smoke and steel. Like the promise of something dangerous.
And strangely… safe.
She didn't know what to do with that.
---
Later that night, Thorne returned.
She was brushing her hair in the firelight, bare feet against the cold stone.
He entered like a storm bottled inside a man. Tension in every movement. His cloak hit the floor. His gloves, next.
He didn't speak until he was beside her.
"I saw Cassian with you today."
She met his gaze in the mirror. "He was watching me. As usual."
"You spoke to him."
She shrugged. "We shared a memory."
Thorne's jaw flexed.
"Do you want him?"
The brush paused in her hand.
She turned in her seat, facing him fully.
"You forget the rules, my prince," she said, rising slowly. "This marriage was not for love."
He stepped forward. "But it wasn't for him either."
She tilted her head. "Jealous?"
"No." His eyes darkened. "Dangerous."
He moved closer, until his breath touched hers.
"He will try to own you," Thorne said, low and rough. "Break you. The way he broke every woman before you."
She smiled. A cruel, wicked thing.
"Then he should've buried me better."
Thorne reached out, slowly — gloved hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch burned through the cool mask she wore.
"I told you I don't do love," she whispered.
"I don't need love," he said. "But I need the truth."
Lyra blinked. Once. Twice.
A crack formed in her mask. Just a hairline fracture. But it was there.
And he saw it.
"I won't lie to you," she said finally. "But I won't belong to you either."
"You already do."
His voice was soft. Deadly. Absolute.
And somehow, she didn't feel caged by the words.
She felt… seen.
The fire crackled behind them. The tension didn't break.
Neither did they.
That night, Lyra didn't sleep.
She stood at the window, watching the stars blink out one by one, the wind teasing her hair like ghost fingers.
She was being watched. Loved. Wanted. Hunted.
And all of it… was part of the plan.
But under her ribs, something had started to ache.
Not pain.
Not fear.
A hollow hunger that had nothing to do with vengeance.
A whisper from the past.
A promise from the future.
Burn them all.
But first?
Make them beg.