You’ll only ever be his pet. Not his queen.

We come to an imposing set of double doors. The servant pushes them open, spilling warm light into the hallway.

The dining hall takes my breath away. White marble columns rise up to support an arched glass ceiling. Above, the sky is a perfect crystalline blue. Chandeliers hang in midair, suspended by nothing I can see, slowly turning to cast rainbow patterns across the glossy floor.

At the center of the chamber sits a table laden with food. Meat glistens with honey and herbs, fruits overflow in golden bowls, and bottles of wine stand ready to pour. The mingled scents of cinnamon, clove, and anise permeate the air, making my stomach twist with hunger.

Alexios lounges at the head of the table in an imposing thronelike chair, his prodigious wings draped around his shoulders. Tiny sections of his hair are braided at his temples, pulling the black strands away from his face. He wears a leather jerkin that’s worn in places—a warrior’s clothes rather than a king’s, revealing the tattoos covering his arms. The script along his forearms leads into constellations on his biceps.

When his burning crimson eyes meet mine, I see the calculation kindling in their depths. Like he’s imagining how my organs would look arranged across his fancy table.

“You look half frozen.” He tips his head, still studying me. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when you insist on staying in the dungeons.”

I cross my arms. “I’m sure my comfort is low on your list of priorities. Just above watching paint dry.”

His lips twitch in what might generously be called a smile, then his gaze drops to the chair at his right. “Sit. Even half-frozen Devaliants need to eat.”

Not with a knife aimed at their bellies, I nearly snap.

But I clamp my teeth around the words and sit.

“Eat,” Alexios orders.

Everything in me rails against obeying, but I have to be smart about this and choose my battles.

So I fill my plate with whatever is in front of me, spear a morsel of meat, and slip it between my lips. It’s almost offensive how good it tastes. I force down a moan and eat. Chew, swallow. Chew, swallow. By the time my plate is clean, I feel marginally more human. I set down my cutlery and lace my fingers in my lap, staring at him with all the poise expected of a princess.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “A simple lesson in obedience. You can be taught.”

“I was hungry. If you expect a trained pet, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He studies me like I’m an interesting insect he’s considering crushing. “You’re nothing like her. Amalthea. When she came begging during the war, she called me her salvation while her kingdom burned. The war had gone on for decades, and she was half mad with grief. But then, so was I. It’s funny how pride crumbles when you’re choking on ashes.”

I don’t let my attention waver from his. I spent too damn long on that altar to be afraid of him now. “Amalthea Devaliant drowned herself in the bathtub ten years after the Accords. Did you know that?”

Nothing. Not a flicker of regret or empathy in that beautiful, cruel face. “I’d heard something to that effect. And I can feel it when my Claimed die, little sacrifice.”

“Then I assume you can feel the fact that Devaliants don’t make it past fifty because sacrificing ourselves for your precious Shroud drives us all to madness. Or do you not care about that little detail?”

There it is. The change in the air. A building pressure against my skin. “You don’t want to ask me what I think your family deserves. You won’t like my answer. You ought to be grateful I let any of you live at all.”

I let him see all my hatred. The anger that’s been festering with every death, since my uncle took me to the Duehavn and sacrificed me to this god like I was nothing. “I died over and over while you lounged in your palace, and then you yanked away my protection on a whim, so excuse me if I’m not feeling grateful.”

The temperature plummets. Pressure builds against my eardrums like I’m sinking to the bottom of a lake. I can’t move. Storm clouds gather past the glass dome of the ceiling.

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” He’d seem calm were it not for the sudden rumble of thunder outside and the sudden pulsing glow of those blood-red eyes. “Lounging?”

The chandelier above us trembles, and lightning skitters across his skin. I can’t breathe—the air has turned solid in my lungs.

Then he blinks.

The clouds vanish like they never existed. The pressure releases. I gasp, sucking in air like I’ve been drowning, my fingers clutching the table’s edge.

“Yes, I suppose it must have seemed that way to you,” he says, almost gentle now.

I’ve struck a nerve. The realization should be a victory, but all I feel is the certainty that I’m about to pay for my mistake.

Alexios’ eyes flick to a servant. “The Blade. Is he still here?”

“Yes, my king.”

“Get him.”

The servant hurries off.

Alexios settles back in his chair, just watching me.

“Another threat?” I ask.

He smiles. “No. I’m feeling indulgent.”

Footsteps approach, and Bastien strides through the doorway, his shadow wings rippling behind. White hair falls carelessly across his forehead, softening the sharp angles of his face. Snowflakes are dusted along the shoulders of his long coat. Evander’s brother looks like a creature of winter, of ice, and dark, cold evenings.

He clasps his gloved hands behind his back. “You called?”

“The Wolf’s human seems confused about my duties.” Alexios’ voice holds dark amusement. “You’re uniquely qualified to deliver a lesson.”

“Which aspects?”

Alexios props his chin on his fist, studying me. “Yes, I suppose she’s used to incompetent rulers, isn’t she? The kind who drink themselves stupid while their kingdoms crumble. Don’t bother with court sessions and territory maintenance. Focus on my additional obligations.”

Bastien’s void-dark gaze cuts to me. “You want me to quantify the Shroud’s metaphysical burden?”

“In terms blunt enough that a dense child could grasp them, yes.”

Bastien nods and steps toward me. I flinch back instinctively. His power rises, a dark wave threatening to crash over me—

“Wait.” Alexios crooks a finger at me. “Here, Princess. I want you close for this. Skin to skin.”

So, this is to be an intimate dissection.

My heart slams as I peel myself out of the chair. Alexios grips my wrist and tugs me down into his lap, sliding an arm around my waist. I can feel every inch where we touch—the heat of him through my clothes, his chest against my back expanding with each breath. He smells of woodsmoke and thunderstorms.

His thumb brushes Evander’s Claim on my wrist, the touch almost contemplative as he traces the points of the star. “There we go. Much better.” He turns his attention to Bastien. “Link our minds but keep the barriers solid. I’d rather not have the Wolf battering down my door because I’m touching what’s his.”

Bastien’s gloved hand finds my nape. His grip tightens past the point of comfort as he splays his other palm over Alexios’ brow.

“Breathe,” Bastien instructs. Then, “Open.”

And seven thousand years of consciousness slams into me without mercy.

Alexios’ thoughts slice through mine like broken glass, leaving bleeding cuts behind. I try to fight, to push back, to find some corner of my mind that still belongs to me, but there’s no escaping him. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but drown in him.

“Shh, easy.” His fingers slide into my hair, smoothing it back. “Struggling will only make it worse, trust me.”

And then the voices start.

At first, they’re just whispers. Distant conversations I can almost understand—but they multiply, growing louder, more desperate, seeping through the cracks of my consciousness like water through broken stone.