Chapter 227

Lark's POV

In the months that followed, Morgravia's hold over me grew stronger. But it wasn't just her promises that kept me loyal—it was the results. Every few weeks, she would cast subtle enchantments on Lorcan, creating brief windows where his resistance to me weakened. These moments became my addiction, more potent than any drug.

"Magic isn't about brute force," Morgravia explained during one of our midnight sessions in her hidden workshop. The air smelled of burnt herbs and ancient parchment as she mixed potions in glass vials that glowed with unnatural colors. "It's about finding cracks in someone's defenses and gently widening them."

She taught me to recognize the signs of her magic working—a slight shimmer in the air, the barely perceptible scent of frost and shadow, the way Lorcan's pupils would dilate when the spell took hold. I became her student, her accomplice, her weapon.

I remember the first time she invited me to her sanctuary—a cave beneath an ancient willow tree that appeared ordinary from outside but opened into a vast chamber filled with arcane artifacts. Books in languages I couldn't read lined shelves carved directly into stone walls. Crystals pulsed with inner light, casting eerie shadows across the floor.

"Why me?" I'd asked that night, watching her grind silver moonstone into fine powder. "Of all the people who hate Lyrien, why choose me?"

Morgravia had looked up, her violet eyes assessing me with ancient calculation. "Because your hatred is pure. Uncomplicated by morality or conscience. And because Lorcan trusts you, despite everything. That makes you... useful."

I should have been offended at being called a tool, but her honesty was refreshing after years of pack politics and fake smiles. Besides, what did it matter if she saw me as useful, so long as I got what I wanted in the end?

The first time her magic worked on Lorcan happened at a pack council meeting three months after our arrangement began. Lorcan had been arguing with his father about border security when he suddenly paused mid-sentence, his eyes glazing over. I felt Morgravia's magic rippling through the air, invisible to everyone but me—she'd enhanced my senses to detect her power at work.

"Lark," he'd said afterward, approaching me in the hallway, "you looked stunning today." His fingers had trailed along my arm, raising goosebumps. "Do you remember that night by the lake? Sometimes I still think about it."

That night by the lake. The summer before he left for the divine realm. Moonlight on water, the taste of his skin, promises whispered between kisses. I'd replayed those memories until they were worn thin, but hearing him acknowledge them made them real again.

Before I could respond, he'd blinked rapidly, confusion replacing the desire in his eyes. He'd mumbled an apology and walked away, but that brief moment—that glimpse of what could be—had been intoxicating.

"What did you do to him?" I'd asked Morgravia later, both thrilled and unsettled by the experience.

She'd smiled that knowing smile. "I simply lowered his inhibitions. Everything he said, he meant. I merely removed the barriers preventing him from admitting it."

Similar incidents followed, each more intense than the last. At a pack celebration in the Great Hall, with crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across the marble floor, Lorcan had pulled me onto the dance floor while Pury was distracted by other guests. The moment Morgravia's spell took hold was evident in the sudden heat of his gaze.

"You're wearing the perfume," he'd murmured, holding me closer than propriety allowed, his lips brushing my ear. "The one I gave you for your birthday last year."

I had been. I wore it every day, a pathetic attempt to recapture his attention.

"You notice?" I'd whispered back, leaning into him, savoring his warmth.

"I notice everything about you, Lark." His hand had slipped lower on my back, fingers splaying possessively. "The way you laugh. The way you move. How your eyes follow me across a room."

For three glorious minutes, we'd danced as if no one else existed. I'd felt Pury's stare burning into my back but hadn't cared. Let her see. Let her wonder. Let her feel even a fraction of the pain I'd endured watching him choose her.

Then the music had ended, and with it, Morgravia's spell. Lorcan had stepped back as if burned, apologizing for his "inappropriate behavior" before returning to Pury's side. But the damage was done. I'd seen the seeds of doubt in her eyes, the beginning of fear.

What Pury didn't know—couldn't know—was that this was just the beginning. After each encounter, I'd return to Morgravia's sanctuary, where she'd extract my memories of the interaction. She'd capture them in enchanted crystals, studying Lorcan's responses, refining her approach.

"His resistance is formidable," she'd admitted after our fifth successful intervention. "The pixie's hold on him is stronger than I anticipated. But every magic has its weakness."

She began teaching me subtle ways to amplify her spells—certain words I could whisper when Lorcan was under her influence, specific touches that would deepen the connection. I learned to carry small talismans she created—a ring with a sliver of enchanted moonstone, a vial of potion disguised as perfume—that would make her distant magic more effective.

"You're becoming quite the apprentice," she'd remarked one night, almost proud, as I correctly identified which potion would best complement her next planned enchantment. "Perhaps there's more witch in your bloodline than you know."

The hunting expedition incident went further still. We'd been tracking a rogue wolf along the northern border when Lorcan suddenly suggested we split from the main group to cover more ground. I'd agreed immediately, recognizing the slight shimmer in the air that indicated Morgravia's presence.

Deep in the forest, away from prying eyes, he'd pushed me against an ancient oak, his body pressed against mine with an urgency that left me breathless.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he'd growled, his voice rougher, more primal than I'd ever heard it. "This thing with Pury—it's not real. Not like what we had."

His kiss had been desperate, hungry, his hands possessive as they roamed my body. I'd surrendered completely, knowing this moment was borrowed but unwilling to waste a second of it questioning reality.

"Tell me you want me," I'd demanded between kisses. "Tell me you made a mistake."

"I want you," he'd answered without hesitation. "I've always wanted you. Gods, Lark, the things I dream about doing to you..."

We'd gone further than before, his hands finding their way beneath my clothes, my name on his lips like a prayer. For fifteen glorious minutes, Lorcan had been mine again—until the spell had shattered like glass, leaving him disoriented and horrified by his actions.

"It's working," Morgravia assured me after each incident, her cold fingers tracing patterns of congratulation on my shoulders. "The more often he experiences these moments of clarity, the easier it will be to permanently redirect his affections once Lyrien is gone. His resistance is weakening."

I began to live for these moments—these brief tastes of the future Morgravia promised. The real Lorcan might still reject me publicly, might still claim Pury as his mate, but I knew the truth now. Under the right influence, he could be mine again. All it would take was Lyrien's removal and Morgravia's permanent spell.

My obsession deepened. I collected small tokens from our encounters—a button from his shirt that had come loose during our forest tryst, the handkerchief he'd used to wipe wine from my dress at a dinner, a sketch he'd absently drawn of my profile during one spell-induced moment of fascination. I kept them in a carved box beneath my bed, talismans of the future Morgravia had promised.