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"Of course they did," I breathe, my grip tightening on the letter. "House Midnight possesses nullification. Unmaking. You can strip their glamour, unravel their dark blood spells, and break their immortality. Why would they ever let a legitimate heir take that seat? They created the rituals to assassinate every heir under the guise of tradition."

Lachlan lets out a low, guttural roar that rattles the brass fittings on the bedposts. He buries his face in his hands, his broad back heaving.

"Five hundred years," he chokes out. "Five hundred years of watching my clan's charges die, thinking our magic was cursed... thinking I failed them..."

"Lachlan, look at me." I drop the parchment and grab his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "Look at me."

He forces his eyes up to meet mine. They are red-rimmed, stormy, and blazing with a terrifying, apocalyptic rage.

"You didn't fail anyone," I tell him firmly, making sure every word sinks into his thick skull. "They were murdered by a corrupt cartel of immortal parasites. But they aren't going to murder me. Read the rest of the letter."

I thrust the parchment back into his hands, pointing to the final paragraph:

"Midnight does not ask permission from leeches to sit upon its own throne. The true seat of power is not in the Council chamber; it is anchored in the foundation of your own estate. Take the key to the vault. Seek the great Volvelle beneath the astrolabe. Align the wheels to the Zenith of Shadows, speak the Rite of the Hearth, and awaken the dormant leyline. Claim your House from the inside out, Miss Estrella. And let the Council choke on the silence that follows."

Below the signature of Elizabeth Anne, Duchess of Sanguine, is a hastily scribbled postscript:

"P.S. Keep the bear close. A shattered vessel cannot hold wine, but a mated stone does not crack under the river's rush."

I stare at the postscript, my brow furrowing. "A mated stone does not crack... what the hell does that mean?"

"The bond," Lachlan says, his voice dropping into a low, reverent rumble. He looks down at our wrists, where the living Celtic braid glows softly against our skin. "Shifters are earth magic, Vivienne. Primal, physical, anchored to the dirt and bone of the Highlands. The unmaking is something else, celestial, maybe—pure void, pure magic. It superheats your blood because your mortal vessels aren't built to ground that much raw power alone."

He reaches out, his calloused fingers sliding over the back of my hand, weaving his fingers through mine.

"The prophecy," he murmurs, awe creeping into his rough voice. "The alignment of Clan MacTavish and House Midnight wasn't just a political contract. Our blood grounds yours. When we are mated, my body acts as an anchor for your magic. It keeps you from burning up."

I blink at him, the science of it slotting into place behind my eyes. “You're like an industrial surge protector. My own personal GFCI."

Lachlan stares at me, completely bewildered. "A what?"

"Never mind," I say, a fierce, feral grin spreading across my face as I snatch the brass dial key off the sheets. "The point is, we don't have to go back to New Orleans. We don't have to play their freaky little blood games. We can steal our throne right from the basement."

"We aren't stealing it, lass," Lachlan says, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile that makes my pulse flutter. He swings his legs off the bed, completely unbothered by his glorious nakedness, and stands to his full, towering height.

For the record, I am not unbothered by his nakedness. I’m very much hot and bothered. I fan my face.

"We're taking back what belongs to you."

"Are you going to put some pants on first?"

Lachlan barks a laugh, leaning down to plant a kiss right on my lips before turning toward his wardrobe. "Get dressed, my clever little mate. Let's go find this Volvelle."

Twenty minutes later, I am back in my comfort zone—comfortable jeans, a soft black sweater, sneakers, and my hair tied back in a messy knot with a ballpoint pen shoved through the bun.

Just in case I need to take notes.

Lachlan walks beside me down the winding corridors of the ground floor, dressed in dark denim and a heavy charcoal wool sweater that clings to his broad shoulders. He carries his enchanted broadsword sheathed at his hip, his posture distinctly possessive. Every few steps, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me, keeping me within arm's reach.

I love it.

Kirk trots ahead of us, his wooden paws making pleasant, hollow clicking sounds against the parquet floor.

We reach the massive carved oak doors of the library.

I pull the heavy iron key of House Midnight from my pocket—warm as freshly baked bread—and slide it into the lock. The tumblers turn with a resonant clack, and the double doors swing open into the vast, two-story cathedral of books.

Morning light pours through the high stained-glass windows, painting the dust motes in shades of sapphire, amber, and deep emerald. The scent of aged paper, leather, and cedar washes over me, settling my frayed nerves faster than any alchemical tincture ever could.