“He’ll disown me if I do,” she whispers, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Times are difficult with Mathias free. It’s entirely possible that to cement Bram’s political advantage and keep magickind from falling under Mathias’s spell, I’ll need to mate with the son of a Council member.”
Not an impoverished Deprived everyone believes mad. The unspoken truth hangs between us, another barrier among many.
The thought of Sabelle with another wizard—some privileged Council prat who will never appreciate her fire, her courage, her heart—makes my blood boil. My fingers tighten around hers, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her of my presence, my claim.
“Who? He’s got Sterling MacTavish in his pocket. And since Tynan O’Shea has joined the Doomsday Brethren, I’ve little doubt his grandfather Clifden will side with your brother as well. No sense in you mating with any male in those lines.” The political machinations sicken me, but I force myself to think through them. “Thomas MacKinnett had no children, other than the daughter Mathias murdered. So who?”
She shrugs and looks away, a flush creeping up her neck. “Sebastian Blackbourne or Rye Spencer, I suppose. We…never actually discussed names.”
The casual way she speaks of being handed off to another wizard like a prize broodmare ignites my temper anew. My vision flashes red. I struggle to maintain control. Neither wizard deserves to touch her.
“So you’re going to let your brother pawn you off on another Privileged prick, even if he has no instinct to mate you, so Bram can secure his power on the Council?” I can’t keep the disgust from my voice. I wrench my hand free and cup her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Regardless of whether you’re happy? Are you willing to sacrifice the rest of your life for his ambition?”
Fresh tears spill from the dark fringe of her blue eyes, each one a dagger to my gut. “You make him sound so calculating. He’s trying to prevent Mathias from taking over and killing all who oppose him.”
That’s likely how Bram sees matters. He fancies himself as a hero. Admittedly, he’s one of the few who have both the privilege and the authority to mount the defense necessary to stop Mathias from rising to power. But fury scalds my veins at the chains of duty and expectation he’s bound Sabelle in.
I lift a skeptical brow. “Is he?”
“Of course. Do you understand what’s at stake? This isn’t merely about you or me—or even Bram. The Council is fracturing over what to do about Mathias. Some members believe Bram is overreacting or even lying about the threat, so they’re voting to ‘study the situation’ more. They’re refusing to act, which blocks any defense and ultimately helps Mathias. If he manages to sway enough votes his way, he can railroad through any policies he seeks, and nothing—short of war—will stop him.”
Does the witch think me a simpleton? “I understand Council politics, princess.”
“Then you should grasp that these political matings create alliances that secure votes. Every Council member Bram brings to his side is one less for Mathias to corrupt. But if we lose, Ice…if Mathias manages to press the majority under his thumb, magickind is finished. That’s why my choice of mate matters so much. The decision is bigger than anyone’s feelings. It affects all magickind and its future.”
Her voice is tight with both passion and fear. I’ve spent centuries despising the Privileged and their political games, and I can’t deny the threat Mathias poses…but Bram really expects his sister to forfeit her future happiness for him?
“Can you look me in the eye and tell me your brother isn’t ambitious? That he doesn’t want to ascend from magickind’s prince to its king?”
“Not the way you mean.” Her voice trembles. “Please understand.”
“You sacrificing your happiness is something I never will.” I release her and step back, the loss of contact like a physical ache.
End of conversation, at least for now. If I continue to malign the brother she reveres, she’ll Renounce me on the spot. As matters stand, I have only the slimmest hope that she’ll ever consider my Call. The primal part of me—the part that recognized her as mine after a single taste—rages against my restraint, demanding I take what’s mine.
“Ice—” Her voice softens as she reaches for me.
I cut her off before she weakens my resolve. “We will leave before dawn to ensure the Anarki don’t spot us. I suggest you retire to your room, princess.” The title falls from my lips, no longer mocking but possessive, a reminder of what she is to me regardless of her decision.
“Or?” She crosses her arms over her chest, golden hair clinging to her shoulders. The challenge in her voice stirs the beast within me.
My gaze rakes over her, from the elegant curve of her neck to the swell of her breasts beneath the silk, to the glimpse of shapely legs where the robe parts. Heat pools in my groin, my cock hardening painfully against the constraint of my own garment.
“You’ll spend every remaining moment of this night naked and under me. Your choice.” It’s an empty threat, and I know it. I’d never force her. But fuck, how I want her to choose me, to give herself willingly.
The air between us thickens, charged with possibility. Sabelle’s rosy mouth parts, forms an O. Her cheeks flush, the pink stain spreading down her neck to disappear beneath her robe. I don’t have to sniff to scent her arousal—it perfumes the air, teasing my senses, calling to everything primitive and uncontrolled within me.
My good intentions teeter on the edge of a precipice. She has three seconds to leave the room…or I fear the feral side of me desperate to take my mate would obliterate all good sense.
Standing utterly still, I begin counting in my head. One… She puts a hand to her chest and stares straight at me with a hot, torn gaze. Two… I clench my hands into fists and step forward, beyond ready to rip the dressing gown from her body and carry her to bed. Three…
The seconds stretch into eternity, the entire universe condensed to this moment, this choice.
“Good night,” she murmurs as she steps back, grabs the Doomsday Diary, then retreats into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
The soft click of the latch might as well be the slamming of a tomb. I’m frozen, every muscle rigid with unsatisfied desire and thwarted need. The beast inside me howls for release, for pursuit. But the man—what’s left of him—knows better.
I’ve spoken the Call. The choice is hers now.
