The reception hall glitters with wolves who want me dead.

Nobles in silk circles, questions barbed, smiles like teeth. I keep my spine straight and answer coolly. Malik stands a step behind—steady, silent.

At the dais, the King watches. Damon feigns boredom but keeps glancing over.

Then she enters.

Queen Mother Seraphine cuts through the crowd like a blade: golden hair, purple silk, ice-blue eyes. She stops before me. The room waits to see if I’ll bow.

I give respect, not submission. “Your Majesty.”

“So you’re the lost princess,” she purrs. “Elara’s secret, dragged into the light.” She circles once. “You look like her. Soft.”

Her gaze pins me when she referred next word to the court

“I raised Prince Damon as my own blood. Trained him to rule. He is my son. Nothing change that.”

“I’m not trying to change anything,” I say.

She laughs, bright and cruel. “You’ll be dead in three weeks. The prophecy demands it. Damon is ready. Don’t mistake yourself for a contender.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

A flicker in her eyes, then a sharpened smile. “Welcome to court, Princess Lyralei. Enjoy your brief stay.”

She glides away, nobles trailing like pulled by strings. I stand there, hands trembling, trying not to show how badly she rattled me.

Malik’s voice is quiet behind me. “Breathe.”

I do. One breath. Then another. The rest of the reception drags on—more nobles, more questions, more smiles that feel like threats. By the time the King finally dismisses everyone, I’m exhausted and barely holding myself together.

Malik escorts me out, his hand light on my lower back. We don’t speak as we walk through the corridors, past guards and servants.

Finally, when we reached my chambers, he opens the door, ushers me inside, then closes it behind us.

“That was…” I start, but the words die. I don’t know how to describe it.

Brutal. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

“You did well.”

Malik’s voice is rough and I feel it everywhere—sliding down my spine, pooling low in my belly. He’s standing too close, enough that I can smell the leather and raw masculine heat of him.

Close enough that every inhale brings his scent deeper into my lungs.

“Really well.” His eyes track down my body like a physical touch, lingering on the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “The Queen was testing you, seeing if you’d break. But you didn’t.”

“I wanted to.” I press my hands to my face. “I wanted to shift and tear her throat out.”

“Yet you held yourself together.” He steps closer, and suddenly there’s no air left, just the heat of him making me dizzy. “Showed them you’re not the scared little servant they expected.”

His voice drops on the word ‘little,’ and something predatory flashes in his eyes as they drop to my throat. My pulse hammers there, and I know he can see it.

Know he can probably smell the way my body responds to him.

“The court isn’t going to be easy.” Another step, and now I can feel his breath on my face, see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. “But if you can handle tonight…” His gaze drops to my mouth, stays there. “You can handle anything.”

The praise shouldn’t affect me like this. Shouldn’t make heat coil tight and desperate between my thighs. But the way he says it—low and rough like he’s imagining handling me in an entirely different way—has me pressing my thighs together.

“Malik…” My voice cracks.

“You should rest.” He’s too close, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back.

I can’t take it anymore. The tension. The waiting. The way he looks at me like he’s starving and I’m a feast he’s forbidden to touch.

I close the distance.

My hands find his chest, and the moment I touch him something snaps.

Leaving little marks that scream ‘mine’, makes me gasp.

“Malik—” I pant, arching into him, needing more, always more.

His hands fumble with the laces of my dress, trembling like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls, his voice thick with need, but I’m already shaking my head, my fingers clawing at his shirt.

“Don’t,” I gasp, yanking the fabric free, desperate to feel his skin against mine. “Don’t stop.”

The dress slides off my shoulders, pooling at my feet, and his shirt hits the floor a second later.

He’s glorious—all hard muscle and smooth skin. His chest heaving, his abs taut like a goddamn statue carved to tempt me. My hands roam over him, tracing every line, every ridge, and he shudders under my touch, his eyes dark and hungry.

We’re on the bed before I even realize we’ve moved, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts, thumbing its peaks until they’re hard and aching.

Sliding down my thighs, parting them like he’s unwrapping a gift. My hips buck against his, begging for friction, for him. Every inch of me is on fire, every touch a brand that I never want to fade.

Malik hovers over me, his breath uneven, eyes searching mine like he’s trying to find something. Permission, maybe, or absolution.

“This changes things,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low.

I nod, my fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw.

“I know,” I whisper, pulling him down to me, needing his weight, his heat, his everything.

When his lips crush mine again, it’s different—deeper, hotter, like he’s finally letting go of whatever restraint he’s been clinging to.

His hips grind against mine, the thick length of him pressing into my core. I moan and my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. His hands slide under my ass, lifting me into him, and the friction is maddening.

I don’t think about anything else. Not the blood trials, not the Queen, not the prophecies that hang over us like a death sentence. All I think about is Malik—his smell, his taste, the way his body moves against mine like we were made for this, for each other.

For tonight, I am safe. For tonight, I am wanted.

And for tonight, I let myself drown in him.