Page 68 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Eventually, they had gained control of the Videt. The history books called it a shift in leadership, a political realignment. The Cabot family had ruled for generations, wielding their mind-walking magic to “commune” with the goddess—also known as the Mother. Supposedly, she whispered through them, guiding their every decision.
Then her father had taken over.
Now the Videt was part museum, part sacred site, part supernatural capital, where laws were upheld, magic was studied, and her father played at being the goddess’s chosen voice. Nia wanted nothing to do with any of it. She had cut the Cabot name from her identity the way her ancestors once cut down anyone who challenged the goddess’s will.
So, yeah. No, thank you.
She never attended the Videt’s celebrations. The ones held in parks, or by the water, or tucked in the warmth of someone’s home were far better. But tonight, she had no choice.
Nia scanned the room. Witches she recognized by the subtle hum of their magic, fae were easy to spot, with their gorgeous ears and dazzling clothes, and several wolven who’d ditched glamour for full fur and fangs wove through the crowd. A few other supernaturals mingled at the edges: glowing, floating, or otherwise defying physics, all of them buzzing beneath the soft strain of music. Three guards stood along the perimeter, watching. She knew why they were here. They weren’t protecting the guests.
They were here for The Sword.
As a child, she’d seen guards stationed outside the manor, their presence a silent warning. She saw them again, later, as an adult, when she’d spied on her father out of morbid curiosity. The guards had never made sense to her.
They hadn’t saved her mother.
And her father didn’t need saving.
A warm brush against her fingers broke through her rogue thoughts. Lochlan. The touch was fleeting—just a whisper of contact before he turned and walked away toward the bar. She watched him go, her fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him.
But that wasn’t part of the plan.
There were only four weeks until Samhain. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. Their plan was simple: one drink, one lap around the room, be seen, and leave. Then they’d go home to Jade, where Nia could finally breathe—and maybe let her guard down enough to face whatever this thing with Lochlan was, without the weight of expectations pressing in from all sides.
And, if anything went wrong, they could always get naked.
A ripple of gasps and whispers tore through the crowd, pulling her attention to the stage at the far end of the ballroom.
Her father entered, arms spread wide, commanding the room with ease.
A bitter pang shot through her—resentment, frustration, and, if she was honest, a flicker of fear. Nia had never seen the monster her mother described in her journal, but she knew it was there, lurking beneath the polished facade of The Sword of the Goddess.
Lochlan returned, handing her a drink, his careful distance a silent reminder.
“Your father is here,” he murmured.
She tightened her grip around the glass. “Get ready to strip.”
Lochlan huffed a quiet laugh, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.
Nia thought Wulfric would only give her a passing glance, confirming she was here before moving on to his adoring fans. For eighteen years, she hadn’t existed to anyone but him. A secret. A ghost. Now the wider world knew her as someone else, someone he’d have no reason to give any particular attention to.
But as Wulfric’s gaze found and held hers, Nia tensed.
The room seemed to freeze.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“You said he wouldn’t out you as his daughter,” Lochlan murmured.
“He wouldn’t.” But as Wulfric’s sharp eyes remained locked on hers, amusement glinting in their depths, a sick realization settled in. He’s going to do it.
The energy in the room shifted—eyes bouncing between Wulfric and Nia, speculation blooming like wildfire.
Lochlan stepped closer. “Now doesn’t seem like the right time for the whole supernatural community to find out.”
Nia shot him a look. “You think?”
