“Adrian,” I breathed and ran from the palace, halting when I saw my husband burst into the courtyard mounted on Shadow. I knew by the violence in his eyes that he had seen the carnage in Cel Ceredi, and I felt his relief shudder through my own body when he finally met my gaze. He dismounted his horse and strode toward me with determined steps, closing the distance between us.

He did not speak as he curled an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. I swallowed the pain ricocheting through my body as he kissed me, his tongue sliding across my mouth, but when he found my teeth clenched, he pulled away, studying me. Then he pressed a hand against my skin, eyes ablaze.

“You’re on fire.”

His grip on me tightened and my body went rigid, my fists clenching against his chest. He seemed to realize that his hold was the source of my discomfort and released me.

“What happened?” he demanded, but this was not the place to reveal my injuries, especially the bite—not with the crowd who had gathered around to witness Adrian’s return.

“Later, Adrian,” I said and leaned forward, pressing my lips to his—a soft kiss, a promise. As I pulled away, I asked, “Who have you brought me?”

Adrian studied me and then brushed his thumb over my cheek.

“I have brought you a pig to slaughter,” he said and stepped away, turning as Daroc and Sorin led a prisoner forward. His hands were bound behind his back, and yet I knew if he wanted, he could break those bonds, though the move would be futile given that his head was enclosed in an iron cage. It was eyeless and the weight of it kept his chin to his chest.

Despite this, I did not need to see his face to know that this was Gesalac—he was tall, and his shoulders were broad and stacked with muscle, unlike his thin counterpart, Julian, who was nowhere in sight.

Daroc and Sorin pushed Gesalac to the ground and removed the iron hood, revealing the traitor noblesse’s cruel face. His hair was soaked with sweat, pieces of it falling into his bloodred eyes, and as he looked at me from his knees, he shook—not from fear but from hate. I could feel it radiating from his body, see it in his soulless eyes. It felt like a physical blow.

It was the kind of hate that fueled vengeance and conquered kingdoms.

I knew it because I felt it too.

And Gesalac’s was about to be smothered.

“You are still a witch.” He scowled at me, and Adrian kicked him in the ribs. He arched, throwing his head back as a pained whine escaped his mouth.

“Do not speak to her,” Adrian said. “You are not worthy.”