Chapter 70 The Bargain I Make With Teeth

Chapter 70 The Bargain I Make With Teeth
Negotiation in a ruin made of broken glass feels like trying to whisper in a storm.

Every sound carries.

Every expression is amplified by moonlight and reflection. The Mirror Court watches from behind their polished masks, their bodies still as statues, their hunger palpable in the way they lean in without moving.

They want a fracture.

They want a story.

They want proof that a king who kneels can be baited into bleeding.

The Glassmaker smiles like he’s already written the ending.

Malachi stays close—hand still at my waist, thumb resting lightly against my side as if he can hold my ribs together by sheer stubbornness. His presence hums through the bond, dark and taut.

He doesn’t speak.

Not because he has nothing to say.

Because he’s giving me the room to choose.

And I feel how hard it costs him.

I lift my chin and face the Glassmaker.

“You want one night,” I say. “You want me alone. Without the bond humming. Without Malachi in my head.”

The Glassmaker inclines his head. “Yes.”

“You want to prove you can quiet the tether,” I continue. “And you want to show the Court that my autonomy can be turned into a wedge.”

His smile sharpens. “How perceptive.”

“And you want me to be tempted,” I add, voice steady. “To mistake silence for freedom.”

A murmur ripples through the masked nobles.

Seraphine’s eyes glitter.

Rafe’s grin goes wolfish.

The Glassmaker’s composure is smooth, but his gaze narrows. “You speak as though temptation is beneath you.”

“It isn’t,” I say honestly. “That’s why I’m careful.”

I take one step toward the mirror, stopping well short of its shimmering surface.

“I’ll give you your night,” I say.

The Mirror Court goes very still.

Malachi’s power flares a fraction—contained, but sharp.

I feel his fear through the bond like a blade pressed to skin.

No, his mind whispers.

But he doesn’t say it aloud.

He doesn’t reach for my choice with violence.

He waits.

And that waiting—gods—makes my chest ache.

“On my terms,” I finish.

The Glassmaker smiles wider. “Of course.”

I turn slightly, letting my gaze sweep the Mirror Court.

“You brought masks,” I say. “You brought anonymity. You brought the illusion of safety.”

A few of them shift.

“Here’s what you’re going to learn tonight,” I continue, voice carrying through the ruin. “Masks don’t protect you from consequences. They only make you braver about earning them.”

The Mirror Court murmurs again, nervous laughter threaded through it.

The Glassmaker watches me like I’m an unfamiliar tool he’s trying to decide whether he can still control.

“Term one,” I say, lifting a finger. “The bond is not severed. Not broken. Not altered permanently. Quieted only, and only for the stated duration.”

The Glassmaker nods. “Agreed.”

“Term two,” I add. “No one touches my blood. No one feeds from me. No siphoning. No ‘tests.’ Your mirror does not get to drink me.”

The Glassmaker’s smile tightens. “Agreed.”

“Term three,” I say, gaze cutting to the masked nobles. “While I am in your Mirror Court, no one approaches my king. No challenges. No formal accusations. No attempted coups. No ambushes on the path out.”

A rumble of dissatisfaction runs through the masked line.

Seraphine tilts her head, amused. “Bold.”

“Necessary,” I reply.

The Glassmaker’s eyes gleam. “You cannot control what others do.”

I smile—small, sharp. “Watch me.”

I look straight at the Mirror Court.

“If any of you violate that term,” I say, “I will return to the palace and I will tell Malachi exactly which of you did it, and I will personally testify in open Court.”

A murmur swells.

“But you won’t know our names,” someone says from behind a mask, voice distorted by glass.

I point at them without hesitation.

“You,” I say. “You’re House Veyl. And you smell like cedar and old parchment. Your wards carry the scent of your library.”

The masked vampire stiffens.

A ripple of shock sweeps the group.

I point at another.

“And you,” I continue calmly. “You’re Sheriff Corwin’s cousin. Your left hand tremors when you lie.”

Another stiffens.

I sweep my gaze across them.

“You can hide your faces,” I say. “But you can’t hide your resonance. Not from me. Not anymore.”

The Mirror Court goes very, very quiet.

Seraphine’s smile turns delighted.

Rafe lets out a low whistle. “That’s my girl.”

The Glassmaker’s eyes narrow. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Revealing too much makes you dangerous.”

“That’s the point,” I reply. “Now you understand the consequence.”

I turn back to him.

“Term four,” I say. “If you can dampen the bond, you can also shield it from interference for that duration. No whispers. No nudges. No mind-games while it’s quiet.”

His smile falters. “That would defeat the purpose.”

“Then your purpose is manipulation,” I say. “And you don’t get to pretend it’s freedom.”

The air tightens.

Malachi’s presence in my mind is a hot, steady burn—approval and pride wrapped around fear.

The Glassmaker holds my gaze for a long moment.

Then he inclines his head.

“Agreed,” he says softly. “No interference. I will not touch your mind while the bond is quiet.”

Rafe mutters, “He’s going to find a loophole.”

“I’m sure he will try,” I say without looking back. “Which is why there’s a final term.”

The Glassmaker’s smile returns. “Yes?”

I breathe in.

Slow.

Steady.

“Term five,” I say. “You give Malachi a hostage.”

Silence crashes down.

Malachi’s head snaps toward me.

What are you doing? his mind demands.

I answer him silently, firm:

Making sure he can’t cheat.

The Glassmaker laughs softly. “Ah. And who would you like? One of my masked nobles? A token traitor? A pretty conspirator to parade through your throne room?”

“No,” I say, stepping closer to him—not to the mirror, to him. “I want you.”

His smile freezes.

The Mirror Court shifts, unsettled.

Seraphine’s eyes brighten like she’s watching theatre.

Rafe’s grin turns vicious. Mira mutters a curse.

Malachi’s power flares sharply enough that frost blooms across the shattered floor.

“No,” Malachi says aloud, voice like a knife. “Absolutely not.”

I don’t look away from the Glassmaker.

“You invited us,” I say calmly. “You want me to walk into your mirror. Then you walk out of it—bound. Restricted. Not harmed. Not tortured. Just contained under the king’s wards until morning.”

The Glassmaker stares at me, something cold and calculating moving behind his eyes.

“That defeats the purpose,” he says slowly.

“Then you don’t want a bargain,” I reply. “You want leverage.”

His cracks glow faintly, irritation bleeding through.

“You can’t hold me,” he says softly. “Not without my core.”

“No,” I agree. “Not permanently. But you’re not as untouchable as you want them to believe.”

I tilt my head toward the mirror.

“You came here stitched together from reflection,” I say. “You’re using this mirror as an anchor point. That means you’re connected to it.”

The Glassmaker’s gaze sharpens.

“And if you’re connected,” I continue, “then Malachi can bind the point where you manifest. Not your whole essence—just the piece you’re wearing tonight.”

Malachi goes utterly still.

Understanding clicks into place.

He looks at me like I’ve just lit a map inside his head.

The Glassmaker’s smile returns, slower now, more dangerous.

“You are clever,” he murmurs. “Too clever.”

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Agree, or the bargain is dead.”

The Mirror Court murmurs—agitated now.

They didn’t come here to watch their host be contained.

They came to watch us bleed.

The Glassmaker glances at them, then back to me.

His eyes narrow.

He smiles again.

“Fine,” he says softly. “One night. One walk. One silence.”

He spreads his hands. “And I will allow your king to attempt his little containment.”

Malachi’s voice is low, lethal. “If I succeed, you will be silent in my dungeons until dawn.”

The Glassmaker’s smile is cruel. “If you succeed.”

I meet Malachi’s gaze now, letting him feel the steadiness in me through the bond.

Trust me.

His jaw tightens.

Then he nods once.

“All right,” he says, voice like iron. “We accept. Under her terms.”

The Mirror Court shivers with excitement.

Seraphine’s smile is satisfied.

Rafe mutters, “This is insane,” like that’s a prayer.

The Glassmaker steps aside, gesturing toward the mirror with theatrical grace.

“Then,” he purrs, “enter.”

I take one breath.

Then two.

Then I step forward, toward the shimmering surface.

Malachi’s hand catches my wrist—not stopping me, not pulling me back.

Just anchoring me for one heartbeat.

His mind brushes mine, raw and aching.

Come back.

I squeeze his fingers once.

I will.

Then I turn and walk into the mirror—

and the world goes silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

The bond muffles.

The castle is gone.

Malachi is gone.

Even my own heartbeat sounds distant, as if it belongs to someone in another room.

The mirror swallows me whole.

And on the other side, in a place made of reflection and shadows, the Glassmaker’s voice echoes softly like a lover at my ear:

“Welcome, little thorn… to the Court that will show you who you are without your king.”