Elara never trusted wine she didn't pour herself.
But in the Lycan court, refusing a toast was considered treason-adjacent.
So when a goblet arrived—brushed in black glass, filled to the brim with violet-red liquid—Elara accepted it without flinching.
Lysandra raised her own matching glass from across the table.
"To shared blood," she said with a serpent's smile.
Elara clinked the rim.
And drank.
The effects were not immediate.
First, the floor began to soften beneath her heels. The marble seemed to ripple, like water held in a bowl of silver.
Then came the shadows.
Dancing too slowly.
Moving where no one moved.
Laughter that echoed seconds too late.
The music crawled.
Elara blinked.
Kael was no longer beside her.
When had he left?
She turned.
And saw them.
Kael and Lysandra.
In the center of the ballroom.
Kissing.
No one else seemed to notice.
The crowd moved on.
Spoke.
Drank.
But to Elara, the world had narrowed to a point behind her eyes.
Kael's hand was in Lysandra's hair.
Lysandra's lips were bloody.
Elara couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Something inside her snapped.
Her hand found the silver dinner fork before she understood what she was doing.
She turned it.
Stabbed it into her own palm.
Deep.
The sharp edge slid into flesh and hit bone.
Hard.
She gasped—but didn't cry out.
Didn't flinch.
Blood dripped onto the tablecloth.
Onto her lap.
And then—
Onto the floor.
The bond roared.
Kael's head snapped up.
The hallucination shattered.
He wasn't kissing Lysandra.
He wasn't even across the room.
He was at her side.
Eyes blazing.
Voice ragged.
"Elara—"
She held up her hand.
Blood pouring from the wound.
Fork still embedded.
"I thought you forgot."
He took her hand.
Pulled the fork free.
Tossed it aside.
Then knelt in front of her.
In front of the entire room.
And pressed her palm to his lips.
Kissed it.
Licked it.
His tongue dragged along the cut.
Slow.
Reverent.
The crowd gasped.
Lysandra stood, her chair screeching.
"Elara," Kael said softly, "look at me."
She did.
"I'm here."
"I saw—"
"I know. The wine. Mandrake. Laced with bloodroot."
"She—"
"I know."
"Are you angry?"
Kael bared his fangs.
Lifted his gaze to the room.
To the elders.
To Lysandra.
And said, without raising his voice:
"Anyone who touches her again dies screaming."
They left the ballroom in silence.
Kael carried her.
Elara didn't protest.
Back in her chamber, he cleaned the wound in her hand with warm water and a cloth that smelled faintly of his own blood.
"You knew," she whispered. "Didn't you?"
Kael didn't deny it.
"She warned me she'd test you."
"And you let her?"
"I had to know."
"If I'd failed?"
"She would've torn you apart."
"You let me walk into a trap."
"I wanted to see if you'd walk out of it."
Elara stared at him.
Her voice dropped.
"You think I'm a test?"
"I think you're the answer to one."
He finished wrapping her hand.
Tied the cloth in a precise knot.
"You said I'd go mad," she said, "if you were late."
He didn't look up.
"You were late."
He finally met her gaze.
And said:
"You were seconds from breaking. I was seconds from ruining her."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you needed to win."
"I stabbed myself in front of a hundred nobles."
"And not one of them will ever forget you."
Elara stood.
Crossed the room.
Paced to the mirror she now loathed.
Touched her wrapped hand.
"You kissed my blood."
"I'll kiss worse, if it means keeping you."
"You'll kiss worse," she said, "because one day I'll make you."
Kael's voice dropped to a growl.
"Then bleed, Elara."
She turned.
Slowly.
"You already did," she said.
"I'll do it again."
They stared at each other.
Across the firelight.
Across a thousand unspoken things.
And when he moved toward her—finally, slowly, silently—
She didn't stop him.