We carry the yard in with us—sweat, grit, the sting where the staff kissed my palms raw. Both bedroom doors gape wide to the corridor, my mother’s decree made into architecture, the wards pricking along my skin to remind me privacy is a privilege she will never let me have.

Cassie sways toward the mattress like a sailor sighting shore. I catch her elbow before she can collapse into sheets anyone could wander past and catalog.

“Do not let me sit,” she mutters, voice frayed. “If I sit, I’m a ghost.”

“You’re sticky,” I say, steering her toward the en suite. “I’ll exorcise you after first period.”

The bathroom is cool tile and the promise of steam. I shut the door behind us, and the sound is more than a click—it’s sanctuary. The only hinge in this house that belongs to me. To us.

Water spits too hot, then eases into perfect. Steam unfurls across the mirror until its edges surrender.

“Your uncle is a sadist,” Cassie says, peeling her shirt over her head. She grins like the admission costs her nothing, though her body trembles with fatigue. “Crimes against hamstrings.”

We undress too fast, graceless in our exhaustion, but when she steps beneath the spray first, the sight guts me anyway. Heat slicks her skin, gold hair darkened, water catching on her collarbone and sliding lower. She is carved into something elemental. Something I want so badly I could choke on it.

I follow, breath catching as scald turns to release. Cassie braces her palms to the tile, head tipped back, lashes jeweled in drops. Her scent sharpens in the steam—lemon rind, camellia—and I bite the inside of my cheek because my body wants to devour her.

My hands need occupation or they’ll betray me. I reach for shampoo, work it into her hair in slow, steady circles. Nails grazing her scalp just enough to make her hum. That sound goes through me like a blade dipped in honey—sweet, dangerous, and impossible to forget.

She surprises me by catching my wrist, sliding the bottle from my hand, and tugging me under the spray. “Your turn,” she says, voice roughened but intent. Before I can protest, her fingers dig into my scalp, working the soap through, firm and grounding. I close my eyes, almost dizzy—heat at my back, steam in my lungs, Cassie’s hands in my hair. The noise in my head quiets for a breath, the fire pacing my ribs settling into her rhythm.

If she kissed me right now, I would let her. I would let her pin me against this tile and wreck every rule in this house. My parents, the open doors, the decree that my body is not entirely mine—none of it would matter.

“You kept up,” I murmur, because my voice needs something to say before it betrays me. My calves are still chanting Tharion’s drills, but my heart is beating a rhythm that belongs only to her. “For a human.”

Her smile is criminal. “Your feet were treason, Quinveil.”

“My feet are patriots,” I say too fast, too defensive, because looking at her is already an act of surrender.

She laughs, sudden and bright. The porcelain is slick; I slip. Her hand snaps to my waist, steadying me without hesitation. The heat between us ignites—her grip firm, her body so close I can taste the steam off her skin.

If I leaned forward, just half an inch, my mouth would be on hers. I feel the possibility of it like a live wire—every nerve screaming yes, yes, yes.

But she steadies me instead of pulling me under. Her hand lingers too long before sliding away, leaving a ghost-touch branded on my skin.

The clock doesn’t care about almosts. Towels bite into damp shoulders, gooseflesh rising and fading. Uniforms wait like treaties I never signed and will obey anyway if it gets us out the door.

The mirror coughs itself clear, and we are two blurred girls in the glass—hair dripping, cheeks flushed, trying to look like we aren’t seconds from crossing lines neither of us can uncross.

Cassie drags a brush through her wet hair, movements efficient, ritual-sharp. Then she steals my towel without apology, rubbing at my hair until it sticks up in damp rebellion. “You’d walk into school like a drowned kitten if I let you,” she mutters, and there’s no hiding the care under the bite.

My eyes betray me. They keep returning to the column of her throat, to the way water still clings there before it slides into the hollow of her collarbone. I force myself into my own blazer before I can drown in it.

She catches me looking, of course she does. Her smile tilts—half victory, half promise. My stomach flips traitorously, every inch of me screaming mine.

“We need rules,” she says at last, binding her hair high. Her tone is brisk, but her cheeks are still pink from the shower. She smells faintly of citrus warmed through steam, sharp and clean, and my body responds before my brain can tell it not to. “If we don’t set them now, we’ll implode by lunch.”

“Rules,” I echo, tugging at buttons that don’t want to behave, fingers clumsy from everything except exhaustion. “Fine. Like what?”

“No labels. Not yet.” She pulls a tie tight, movements efficient, ritual-sharp. “Soft launch. We carpool because our parents forced it. We sit together only if invited. No theatrics in the halls.”

I bite the inside of my cheek because every part of me wants the opposite. My fae blood hums for spectacle, for staked claims. I want to kiss her in the middle of Ravenrest’s cafeteria and dare anyone to look away. I want to burn my name into her skin with nothing but my mouth. I want them all to know. But that isn’t human sense—it’s instinct. The part of me that longs to bare my teeth and say, she’s mine, touch her and burn.

“And no one knows beyond who already does,” she continues, glancing at me in the glass, eyes catching mine in the mirror’s steam-smudged frame. “Naomi, Kess. That’s it. Everyone else stays guessing.”

My pulse thuds hot in my throat. Everyone else stays guessing. I want to scream instead. I want to paint her name on the walls of this house, tattoo it into my skin, salt the ground with proof. But I nod, because that’s what restraint looks like—silent, swallowing, suffocating.

“Fine,” I say, softer than I mean to. “But the dance—”

“The Gloamhearts Dance,” she interrupts, mouth curving. Her reflection looks smug enough to strangle. “We walk in together. No rumor, no dare. Just us.”

The thought drops through me like a coin down a well, ringing as it falls. A month feels both forever and one heartbeat away.

She notices the way my hands falter at the last button and steps in, close enough that her breath ghosts the edge of my jaw. The mirror fogs around her, leaving only us. Her fingers replace mine, fastening the button with infuriating care, knuckle brushing my sternum like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“This part of the rulebook?” I ask, trying for casual and failing miserably.

“This part is just me helping my wife not look like she dressed in the dark,” she says, voice low, dangerous.

The word wife unspools inside me like wildfire. She says it so easily, as if it doesn’t rearrange the shape of the world.

I want to tell her she’s mine. I want to bite the word into her skin until it glows there. Instead, I hook our pinkies for a single heartbeat, the promise small enough the world can’t confiscate it.

“Fine,” I say again, but in my head I am already breaking every rule.

The stairs ache in my calves, but not half as much as the space between my ribs does. Every step, I can still feel the ghost of Cassie’s thigh brushing mine in the shower, the way her laugh made the air steam hotter than water could. By the time we reach the dining hall, restraint is a blade I’m bleeding on.

The room smells of charred oak, sun-warmed steel, and clove-bright citrus. Tharion has claimed the head of the table, sleeves rolled, scars out for inspection like proof. Platters sprawl across the wood—eggs, seared meats, dark bread still sweating from the oven, fruit cut in neat halves. It looks more like a soldier’s war ration disguised as a feast than a family meal.

“Sit,” he says without looking up. “Fuel comes first. You’ll need it again tomorrow.”

Kaelen nearly launches himself out of his chair. “Mira! Cassie! You missed it—I saved the kingdom with a honey bun!” He brandishes the last bite like a weapon until Tharion hauls him gently back by the collar.

Cassie drops into the chair beside me, close enough that our thighs align. Just that small brush sends my blood humming, sharp and greedy. My fae instincts want spectacle—to slide into her lap, let her feed me fruit while everyone watches and burns. The image is so vivid I nearly drop my fork.

And then it happens. My scent flares—burnt-sugar heat, marshmallow sweetness tipping too close to caramel, citrus spark firing sharp. Too strong to cage.

Cassie inhales before she can stop herself, lashes fluttering. She shifts toward me instinctively, not close enough to be obvious but enough to catch the charge under my skin. Confusion flickers in her expression—want without a name.

Kaelen wrinkles his nose. “Mira smells…weird.” He says it like I’ve snuck dessert before dinner.

Tharion’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. His bronze-hazel eyes cut to me, sharp, then back to his plate. The muscle in his jaw works once, grinding down words he refuses to spend.

Seara, of course, has no such restraint. She sets her cup down with a deliberate click. “Really, Mira?” Golden eyes sweep over me like a judge at trial. “And you wonder why I insist the doors stay open.”

Heat roars into my face. “Mother!” I hiss, mortified.

Cassie coughs hard into her water, shoulders shaking, which does not help.

Kaelen blinks between us, baffled, then announces brightly, “I don’t get it, but Mira’s terrifying anyway.”

Tharion clears his throat—the sound of a general trying and failing not to be implicated in the battlefield of adolescence. “Protein. Carbs. Salt,” he says instead, redirecting like an army. “Don’t skip any of it.”

I groan, stabbing a piece of broccoli. “No iced mochas?”

His brow arches. “Caffeine doesn’t rebuild muscle.”

“Neither does broccoli,” I mutter.

Cassie’s hand brushes my thigh under the table, deliberate and steady. The look she gives me is bright, hungry, confused—and grounding. My body answers in scent again, citrus cutting through marshmallow warmth, impossible to cage.

Seara doesn’t miss it. Her lips curve, sharp enough to cut. “Control yourself, daughter, or the court will never believe you can.”

My appetite dies a dramatic death. I slump forward, forehead nearly hitting my plate. “I hate this family.”

Kaelen pats my shoulder with sticky fingers. “Don’t worry. You’ll live. Probably.”

Cassie’s laugh bursts out again, helpless and bright. Even Tharion’s mouth twitches like it might betray him.

And me? I stay folded against the table, burning from the inside out, wishing the floor would eat me whole—or that Cassie would.

The rest of breakfast sags into silence. Plates clink, forks scrape, Kaelen hums over his second bun. I chew dutifully, but every breath tastes like Cassie beside me: citrus brightened by my own sugar-burn scent, stubborn no matter how I try to rein it in.

I’ve never wanted like this. Not the stolen crushes at school, not the brief curiosities that never stuck. This is different. Thrilling, terrifying, relentless. Like being caught in my own fire, knowing it won’t stop at skin.

Cassie shifts beside me, her knee bumping mine, casual as air. The brush scorches anyway.

I force the last bite down, shove to my feet before I combust in front of my entire family. “Fine. I’ll stick to the plan, but I will get an iced mocha at school.”

Tharion doesn’t even look up from his eggs. “One a day,” he says flatly. “No more. And only if you follow the rest.”

A groan claws out of me. “Tyrant.”

“General,” he corrects, deadpan. Kaelen snorts juice down his nose.

I grab my bag and pivot toward the hall before my blush can root deeper—but Seara’s voice stops me cold.

“You held yourself well this morning,” she says. Praise, sharp and rare enough to steal my breath.

But then she tilts her head, golden eyes gleaming. “Though I do remember being just as…unruly, once. Around your father.”

The air deserts me. “Mother!”

Cassie chokes again, this time on laughter, and Kaelen stares like he’s just been handed forbidden knowledge. Tharion mutters something that sounds like mercies, spare me under his breath.

Seara only smiles—a true one, thin and cutting both. “Control, daughter. Or you’ll set fire to more than your own heart.”

I flee before she can say another word.

We march through Emberhall’s front to where my coupe waits in the drive, sleek black paint gleaming like a dare.

“I’m driving,” Cassie says, no hesitation.

My brows climb. “Excuse me? That’s my car.”

“Wife privileges.” She snatches the keys straight from my hand before I can close my fingers.

I freeze, bristling—she doesn’t just want to ride shotgun, she wants to command my car. But the way she slides behind the wheel, smug and radiant, forces a laugh out of me I can’t quite choke down.

Fine. Let her win this one.

The engine roars alive under her hands. She guns it down the drive like she’s been waiting her whole life, squealing tires and all.

I nearly choke on my own laugh, clutching the seatbelt as the house falls behind us.

With a thought, I glamour the consort rings into harmless mood bands, shifting colors to match our pulses. Then I slam my glamour down over myself, smoothing every sharp fae line into human-normal.

I tilt toward her, the wind in my hair, and ask, “Want me to do you, too?”

Her lips twitch, eyes still on the road. “I like me just fine, thanks.”

And the car eats the road ahead, both of us laughing into the sun as if the world isn’t waiting to devour us whole.