Ilyra shrugs, walks away.
Confident. Controlled. Growing into power with every passing day.
She's magnificent.
Mariselle's hatred radiates like sour perfume—thick, cloying, impossible to miss.
She watches Ilyra with vicious calculation, jaw tight, fingers curled into fists beneath silk sleeves. This isn't simple jealousy anymore. This is something sharper. More dangerous. Her gaze follows Bram with new interest, studying him like strategy instead of desire.
She intends something.
Sabotage during the ceremony? Public humiliation designed to destroy Ilyra's standing? Perhaps she'll seduce Bram herself, force a scandal that leaves Ilyra discarded and vulnerable.
Any outcome keeps Ilyra trapped.
My hands flex involuntarily, ember-veins flaring hot beneath obsidian skin. The urge to simplyendMariselle surges through me—quick, clean, permanent solution.
I stop myself. These thoughts, driven by the compulsive need to protect Ilyra, are blinding me. I'm seeing things that aren't there. Mariselle is just like her mother—pathetic and weak. Not like Ilyra.
And Ilyra doesn't want murder. She wants victory. Control. The satisfaction of dismantling this wedding on her own terms while securing her father's house permanently.
She wants choice.
And I want her to chooseme.
Not out of desperation this time. Not because I'm the only option in her limited arsenal. I want her to look at me the wayshe did when she touched my chest—curious, wanting,seeingme instead of just the contract.
I want her to say my name again. Not as summons.
As invitation.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and undeniable.
This stopped being strategic weeks ago. Maybe it never was.
My visits aren't tactical anymore—they're compulsive. Necessary. I appear in her room before she calls. I shadow her movements during daylight even when no threats emerge. I bring her gifts she never requests because seeing her smile matters more than maintaining professional distance.
I'm obsessed.
But the obsession didn't start when she touched me.
It began the moment I stepped through her wall and saw her—grief-stricken, terrified, yet still defiant enough to demand answers before agreeing. When I caught that strangely sweet scent clinging to her skin, something ancient and rare that made my senses sharpen. When her dark eyes met mine without flinching, holding steady despite facing an infernal lord.
There was no choice after that.
Only inevitability.
As if fate itself bound us before any contract formed.
I remain near her now even as sunlight streams through market stalls. Shadow-cloaked, invisible, unnecessary.
Watching her breathe feels essential.
Flower.
25
ILYRA