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“Then tell her that. Publicly. In front of the coven, where she can’t dismiss you, can’t ignore you, can’t pretend you don’t exist.” He smiled, sharp and dangerous. “Make her face what she’s done. What she’s lost. What she could still have, if she’s brave enough to choose it.”

The coven house was full when I got there. Just as Mack had predicted. I’d never seen the ritual chamber so crowded. Every seat was filled, every standing space occupied. Witches of all ages pressed together in their formal robes, whispering and speculating about why the formal witnessing of my exile had become an emergency assembly.

I walked in alone. Logan had wanted to come, had insisted on it, but I’d refused. This was between my mother and me. He’d suffered enough at her hands. I wouldn’t let her humiliate him again.

The crowd parted as I moved through them, their whispers following me like a wave. The exile. The traitor. The daughter who chose a vampire over her own blood.

I kept my head high. My spine straight. My hands steady.

I found my mother standing at the center of the chamber, her crimson robes glowing in the candlelight, her face composed and perfect. She looked at me as I approached, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw something flash in her eyes. Not anger. Not cruelty.

Fear.

“Carolina.” My mother’s voice carried through the silent chamber. She indicated the empty place beside her. “I wondered whether you would leave this space unfilled.”

“It stopped being mine when you exiled me.”

“Not tonight.” She extended her hand. “Stand with me before the coven, the ancestors, and the old gods.”

I hesitated. This felt like a trap. A trick. A way to humiliate me publicly, to demonstrate her power over me one final time.

But I stepped forward anyway. Because I was done running. Done hiding. Done being afraid of my own mother.

I stood beside her, facing the crowd, and waited.

“You were exiled three days ago,” she said, her voice echoing off the carved walls. “For choosing a vampire over your coven. For defying my will. For throwing away centuries of tradition and power for...” She paused, her lip curling. “For love.”

The word hung in the air, heavy with mockery.

“I called this assembly,” she continued, “to bear witness to your return. To your apology. To your acceptance of your place as my heir, and your renunciation of the creature who corrupted you.”

The crowd murmured. I felt their eyes on me, hungry for drama, for scandal, for the spectacle of the High Priestess’s daughter groveling for forgiveness.

I looked at my mother. Really looked at her.

And I saw the trap. Not the one she’d laid for me, but the one she’d laid for herself. She’d called this assembly expecting me to break. To choose safety over love. To become the daughter she wanted me to be.

But I wasn’t that daughter anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time.

“No,” I said.

The word rang through the chamber, sharp and clear. The crowd gasped. My mother’s eyes narrowed.

“No?” she repeated, her voice dangerously soft.

“No,” I said again, louder this time. “I won’t apologize. I won’t renounce him. I won’t beg for your forgiveness or accept my place as your heir if it means denying who I am and who I love.”

I turned to face the crowd, my voice carrying to every corner of the room.

“I love Logan Richards,” I declared, letting the words carry through the chamber. “But he is more than the man I love. He is my true mate.”

Whispers swept through the assembled witches.

I raised my voice over them.

“The bond between us is real. I felt it the moment we met, and Logan felt it too. Our magic recognized each other before either of us understood what was happening. This bond was forged by powers older than this coven, older than its laws, and older than the authority of any High Priestess.”

My mother’s expression tightened, but she said nothing.