UNPLANNED REBIRTH: MARRIED TO MY STEPSON

Chapter Eight — Venom in the Cup

Poison tastes the same no matter how many lifetimes you drink it.

Sweet first, to disarm you. Bitter second, to mock you. Then fire in the veins, as though your body itself has turned against you.

I knew what waited in the cup before it ever touched my hand. Lady Veyra’s ambition was more transparent than glass. In my last life, she had wasted no time plotting my downfall, too eager to see me stumble so she might rise into the Luna’s seat. I fell for her trick then—naïve, trusting, foolish. I drank, and I nearly died.

Not this time.

This time, I would fall only because it suited me.

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It began in the gardens, two nights after the stormy breakfast where Kael and Malrik nearly tore the hall apart with words sharper than steel. I walked among the frost-laced hedges, the moonlight pale across the wilted roses. My breath curled in front of me, white against the dark. Behind me, as always, Dorian’s footsteps followed—measured, unyielding, the shadow I could not shake.

Then came Veyra.

Her gown swept the stones like a whisper, crimson silk gleaming under torchlight. Jewels winked from her dark hair, though her smile was brighter still—too bright, like the gleam of a blade before it slips between ribs. Two handmaidens followed her, carrying a tray of crystal goblets, red wine sloshing thick inside.

“Lady Selene.” Her voice dripped honey, false sweetness layered over venom. She dipped into a curtsy so shallow it mocked the gesture. “You grace the gardens with such beauty. Allow me to honor you with a small gift.”

Her handmaidens stepped forward, bowing, offering me the tray.

My throat tightened at the memory—how it had happened before. The laughter of the courtiers. My body crumpling in front of them. The witch’s cool hands pressing an antidote to my lips.

The same story again. But now I knew the ending.

I bowed my head, lowering my lashes to veil the gleam in my eyes. “You honor me, Lady Veyra,” I said softly. My voice quavered just enough to mimic gratitude. “I would be foolish to refuse your kindness.”

Her smile sharpened. She believed she had already won.

Behind me, Dorian shifted. His voice, quiet as a blade sliding free, cut the air. “My lady, don’t—”

I silenced him with the faintest shake of my head.

I lifted the goblet. The wine gleamed dark as blood in the torchlight. I tipped it to my lips.

And I drank.

---

The poison slid over my tongue, sweet first, then bitter. My throat closed on instinct, but I forced it down. The fire struck within seconds—my limbs weakening, knees folding, vision blurring as if the stars had spilled into my eyes.

I let myself fall.

Gasps rippled through the garden. The handmaidens cried out. Veyra pressed delicate fingers to her painted lips, feigning horror poorly.

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed, her voice falsely high. “The Luna—she must be so fragile. Someone, help her!”

Her eyes glittered with triumph.

Strong arms caught me before the stones did. Dorian. His face hovered above mine, hard and grim, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

“Selene,” he whispered, the name like a vow. “Stay with me.”

I let my head loll weakly against his shoulder, breath shallow. “It’s… nothing,” I murmured, faint as smoke.

His eyes burned. “You’re poisoned.”

He swung toward Veyra, fury coiled in every line of him. “What did you give her?”

Her painted smile returned, cold and coy. “Why, only wine. If she cannot hold her liquor, that is hardly my fault.”

His grip around me tightened. “If she dies—”

“She won’t,” she cut in smoothly. “She has your devotion, after all. Surely you’ll keep her breathing.”

I felt the rumble of his growl through his chest. He didn’t answer her. He didn’t need to.

---

He carried me swiftly through the fortress, boots striking hard against stone. His scent—steel and leather, sharpened by anger—clung to me as the fire in my veins burned hotter. My fingers curled weakly in his cloak.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, voice rough, almost pleading. “I won’t let them take you.”

“I’m not afraid,” I whispered, letting the words slip out in a hoarse sigh.

His jaw tightened. “You should be.”

But his arms only held me closer.

---

The witch’s chamber glowed dim, lantern light glinting off shelves of jars and bundles of herbs. The crystal ball pulsed faintly on the table, as if it had been waiting for me.

The witch was already there, bent over the smoke curling inside his glass. When he turned, his eyes—ancient and knowing—met mine, and I saw recognition flicker.

“Again,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The same snare. The same venom.”

He crossed the room swiftly, his hands cool as he pressed them to my pulse. “But this time,” I whispered, meeting his gaze steadily, “it will not be the same ending.”

A slow smile touched his lips. “No. Not if we tug the right threads.”

Behind him, Dorian stood stiff, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me as if I might vanish if he blinked. Anger still seethed beneath his mask of discipline, but beneath it I saw something else—a crack widening, a shadow of care he did not yet know how to name.

The witch produced a vial, dark liquid glinting within. “Drink.”

I obeyed, the bitterness sliding down my throat, cutting through the fire. My pulse steadied. Breath eased. The poison’s grip loosened.

I closed my eyes, feigning weakness even as my mind sharpened like a blade.

Proof. I had proof now. The goblet, the witnesses, the mistress’s poorly veiled triumph. In time, I would drag Veyra into the light, strip away her silks, and let her choke on her own venom.

For now, I would play the frail Luna, the weak little pawn, until the board tipped in my favor.

---

A weight brushed my hand—Dorian’s fingers adjusting the cloak around me, lingering longer than duty required.

“You should have let me stop you,” he said quietly, voice breaking in a way I’d never heard from him before.

I turned my head, meeting his eyes through half-lidded lashes. “Sometimes, to win the game, you must first fall for the trap.”

His expression darkened, torn between fury and something softer. He said nothing more, but his hand did not leave mine.

The witch’s crystal pulsed again, silver threads shimmering in the smoke.

Yes, I thought, sinking back against the pillows, letting them believe I was broken. This life will not end the same way.

I will not burn for their amusement.

This time, I will set the fire.

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