Seraphine's POV
I stand in the crimson nightgown, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The silk clings to my body in ways my plain dresses never did. It's beautiful and terrifying and makes me look like someone else entirely—someone confident, someone desirable, someone who belongs in a king's chambers.
I'm none of those things.
My lady? Ryn's voice is gentle. It's nearly midnight.
My hands shake as I reach for the loose stone in the fireplace. The poison vial feels heavier than it should as I slip it into the hidden pocket Ryn sewed into the nightgown's side seam.
One drop. That's all it takes.
Are you ready? Ryn asks.
No. I'll never be ready.
Yes, I lie.
The walk through the fortress feels like walking to my execution. The corridors are dark except for torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Guards stand at intervals, but they don't look at me as I pass. They already know where I'm going. What everyone thinks I'm going to do.
My bare feet make no sound on the cold stone. The nightgown's hem brushes my ankles. Every step brings me closer to Daemon's chambers—closer to a choice I don't want to make.
When I reach his door, two guards stand on either side. They step apart without a word, letting me pass.
I raise my hand to knock, but my courage fails. I stand there like a fool, hand frozen in the air, heart hammering so hard I can hear it.
Come in, little bride. Daemon's voice carries through the door. I don't have all night.
He knew I was here. Of course he did.
I push open the door and step inside.
The room is nothing like I expected. Instead of torture devices or weapons covering every surface, I see books. Hundreds of books stacked on shelves, piled on tables, scattered across chairs. Maps cover one wall showing kingdoms and territories I don't recognize. A fire burns in the hearth, making the room warm and almost... comfortable.
Daemon stands by the window, his back to me. He's not wearing armor anymore—just dark pants and a loose shirt that shows the black veins spreading across his neck and arms. His dark hair is unpinned, falling past his shoulders.
He looks younger like this. More human.
Close the door, he says without turning around.
I obey, and the click of the latch sounds like a trap snapping shut.
Come here.
I force my legs to move, crossing the room until I'm a few feet behind him. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. Close enough to smell smoke and something else—something like cinnamon and steel.
Do you know what I see when I look out this window? he asks.
I follow his gaze. Beyond the glass, the volcanic mountains glow red against the night sky. Lava flows like rivers of fire through the wasteland.
Destruction, I whisper.
I see what I've become. He finally turns to face me, and his red eyes are brighter in the firelight. A monster ruling a kingdom of ash and death. Fifteen years of war, and for what? Revenge that never satisfies. Justice that tastes like poison.
His gaze drops to my nightgown, and something flickers across his face. Ryn dressed you well. You look like you belong in a king's bed.
My cheeks burn. Is that why you summoned me? To
To talk. He crosses to a table and pours two glasses of wine. Sit.
I perch on the edge of a chair, watching as he holds out a glass. The poison vial burns against my hip. This is it. This is my chance.
One drop. Just one drop.
But my hands won't move.
Daemon sets both glasses on the table between us and sits across from me. He doesn't drink. Just watches me with those unnatural eyes.
I know what you are, he says softly.
My blood turns to ice. What?
A throwaway. Someone they wanted gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. I've seen it before. The way your father wouldn't look at you at the treaty signing. The way that Northern official seemed relieved to be rid of you. You weren't sent here to make peace, little bride. You were sent here to die.
Relief and terror war in my chest. He doesn't know about the poison. He just knows I'm expendable.
You're right, I admit. I'm a bastard. An embarrassment. Worth more dead than alive.
Then we have something in common. His smile is bitter. I'm a monster everyone wishes would die. You're a burden everyone wishes would disappear. Quite the pair, aren't we?
The unexpected honesty catches me off guard. Why are you telling me this?
Because I'm tired of games. He picks up his wine glass but doesn't drink. Just turns it in his hands, watching the liquid catch the firelight. Seven brides before you. Do you know why I killed them?
You said they lied to you.
They tried to assassinate me. His red eyes meet mine. Every single one. Some used poison. Others used knives. One even tried seduction first—thought she could stab me in my sleep. He takes a sip of wine. They all failed. But at least they were honest in their hatred. They wanted me dead and tried to make it happen.
My mouth goes dry. He knows. He has to know.
The question is— He sets down his glass and stands, moving toward me with predatory grace. —did they send you just to die, or to do something first?
I press back in my chair as he looms over me. His heat radiates like a furnace, and this close, I can see the black veins pulsing beneath his skin. Fighting. Spreading.
So tell me, little bride. He reaches out and tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his burning gaze. Are you a victim or an assassin?
The truth sits on my tongue like poison.
I could lie. Pretend to be innocent. Play the helpless girl and wait for a better opportunity.
But his words echo in my mind: I despise liars more than anything else in this world.
And the way he's looking at me—not with suspicion, but with something that looks almost like hope. Like he wants me to be honest even if it means admitting I came here to kill him.
I reach into the hidden pocket and pull out the vial.
His eyes widen slightly, the only sign of surprise on his face.
Both, I whisper, holding up the poison. I'm a victim they wanted dead. And I'm an assassin they forced to kill you.
Silence fills the room like smoke.
Daemon stares at the vial, then at me. His expression is unreadable. The temperature in the room rises as the curse responds to his emotions—anger, betrayal, something else I can't name.
You're admitting you came here to poison me, he says slowly.
Yes.
And you're showing me the poison you intended to use.
Yes.
Why?
My voice shakes. Because you said you wanted honesty. Because I'm tired of being a liar and a coward. Because— I meet his burning gaze. —because you defended me today. Protected me. Showed me more kindness in one day than my own family showed me in twenty-three years. And I can't. My voice breaks. I can't kill someone who sees me as more than worthless.
He takes the vial from my trembling hand. Studies it in the firelight. For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then he walks to the window and hurls the vial into the night. Glass shatters against stone somewhere far below.
He turns back to me, and his expression is fierce. Give me your hand.
What?
Your hand. Now.
I extend my shaking hand. He takes it in both of his, and his burning touch makes me gasp. But it doesn't hurt, it's just heat, almost comforting in the cool room.
Seven women tried to kill me, he says, staring at our joined hands. Seven women I trusted enough to bring into my home. And every single one betrayed me. His red eyes meet mine. But you're the first who told me the truth. The first who chose honesty over survival.
I don't understand
Your touch. He turns my hand over in his, examining it. It should hurt you. The curse burns anyone who touches me. But you... His thumb brushes my wrist, and I feel my pulse jump. You don't burn. Why?
I stare at our hands, realizing he's right. His touch is warm, almost hot, but not painful. Not burning my skin despite the dark magic pulsing through his veins.
I don't know, I breathe.
His grip tightens. Impossible. Unless— His eyes widen with something like shock. No. It can't be.
What?
He releases my hand abruptly and steps back, his expression transforming from shock to something that looks almost like fear.
Get out, he says roughly.
But
GET OUT! The temperature spikes. Windows rattle. The fire in the hearth roars higher.
I scramble to my feet and run for the door, terrified. Whatever he realized, it's made him lose control.
But just as my hand touches the doorknob, his voice stops me.
Seraphine. He sounds different now, broken, desperate. Come back tomorrow night. Same time. We need to talk about what you are.
I turn to look at him. He's standing in the center of the room, surrounded by shadows, his red eyes blazing.
What I am? My voice shakes.
His smile is terrible and sad. The one thing I never thought I'd find. The one thing that could either save me—or destroy everything.