The truth reverberates within me, shaking the very foundation of my trust. I'd consoled Anastasia, believing her tragic tale—an accident, she'd said. But how many times had she orchestrated such horrors? Perhaps Lavyrle was right; maybe that child wasn't even his. And the others—had she terminated their lives herself? The very thought sickens me. Which is worse: her birthing these innocent souls, endangering Barracks, or her cold-blooded killings?
I wept with her, a fool in my compassion. How heartless could she be, letting me believe her lies?
Emma's plea echoes in my mind. I burn the letter, ensuring no trace remains. The room suffocates me, so I flee, desperate for solace.
As I return, the palace looms before me, its grandeur swallowed by the encroaching darkness. I tread the familiar path, my footsteps muffled by the weight of my thoughts. Aldaire awaits within those walls—a man of shadows and secrets. His very presence sends shivers down my spine, a blend of fear and fascination.
What if he changes his mind? The thought gnaws at me like a relentless hunger. My contract with him has an expiration date, and I wonder: Will he honor it, or will I become another pawn in his deadly game? The council's judgment hangs over me like a sword poised to strike. Death or betrayal—both seem equally likely.
My frustration simmers, tears drying on my cheeks. Aldaire's voice reaches me before I see him, a velvet blade slicing through the night. I force myself to look away, unwilling to reveal the turmoil he stirs within me. His question hangs in the air, a spider's thread waiting to ensnare me.
"May I know where you were?"
I brush past him, my words sharp as flint. "Somewhere far from all of you." The truth tastes bitter, but I refuse to be a fool.
His eyes follow me, unyielding. "Why this sudden change?"
"Because I'm no fool," I retort. "I see the strings you pull, the pain you inflict. This isn't game—it's business."
He matches my pace, and I wonder if he feels the fractures in our fragile alliance. "You underestimate my motives," he murmurs.
I halt, facing him. "Let's not pretend you care. Our relationship—such as it is—should remain transactional."
His agreement lands like a stone in my chest. Did he ever consider trying harder? I want to scream, to pound the walls until they crack. But I swallow my frustration; melodrama won't save me.
In Aldaire's office, I find solace beside Xavier—the one who listens without judgment. And then the bombshell drops: "Anastasia got rid of her child." Silence blankets the room. They wait for my explanation, but I can't meet their eyes.
Xavier breaks it first. "How do you know? Weren't you the one comforting her that night?"
"Does it truly matter?" I muse aloud, my gaze fixed on the flickering candle. "Perhaps the others had the same ending, but I'll never unravel that mystery. This evening during my walk I heard the maids' hushed conversations about her clandestine journey to Sienna. It all clicks into place now. She's indifferent, unfeeling. But how? Who aided her?"
"Ah," Himley interjects, her eyes wide. "The women here—there are some who do that, to avoid procreating our kind. Also, she has ancient witch blood but has surrendered it long ago."
"We must delve deeper," I insist, my voice resolute. "If she indeed committed such acts, we need to understand why. We can ask these women." I turn to Himley. "Can you uncover their identities?"
Himley nods, vanishing from the room. Alone with Xavier and Aldaire, I feel an unfamiliar unease.
"My time wanes," I confess. "But I promise to unearth more."
Himley returns, her expression horrified. "Hart is dead," she blurts out.
Xavier and Aldaire exchange glances. "Hart—the next heir to the throne?" My breath catches. "The one who departed earlier?" I never meant to foreshadow his death with my games.
"Rogues attacked them," Himley reveals. "He fell victim to amethyst poison."
Aldaire's fist slams the table, rage consuming him. Xavier, uncharacteristically stunned. Time accelerates.
"He won't survive the night!" Aldaire says.
It doesn't take me long to understand who he is referring to. The stolen rocks—the amethyst—deadly to vampires. They've fallen into treacherous hands. Aldaire intends to end the boy, but I won't allow it.
As the royals exit for the meeting room, I slip away, my resolve firm. Tonight, I'll rewrite fate of that child.
My heart pounds in my chest, drowning out the clamor of my footsteps. The council member's demise has unleashed chaos, and I hurry toward the punishing room, grateful for the absence of guards. The door creaks open, and I step inside, squinting as my eyes adjust to the dimness.
But disappointment awaits me—no one. No guards, no prisoners, and certainly no trace of the missing child. The moon spills through the barred window, casting dramatic shadows on the vacant chair where the boy once sat. Anxiety gnaws at me; I can't afford lateness. I make my way to the palace, where the seasonal festival visitors congregate in the grand hall, flanked by the council members.
Superior Jonathan clears his throat, commanding attention.
"We mourn the loss of a council member," he announces solemnly. "We won't conceal that the rogues are responsible, but we also acknowledge the heretics and spies within our castle. Recent days have brought threats and attacks."
All eyes swivel toward me.
"We'll uncover the truth and deliver justice," he declares. The boy remains elusive, and the weight of it presses on us all. Lavyrle's claim to the throne grows stronger, yet there's no evidence linking him to this tragedy. Guilt or innocence hangs in the balance.
Stefani stands near Aldaire, their proximity igniting a spark of anger within me. I shift my gaze to Xavier, his eyes soft despite the stern set of his jaw. I slip away from the crowd, seeking solace. Anastasia materializes at my side, swift and purposeful.
"I'd like to speak with you," she says, urgency etched in her expression.
Surprise prickles my skin as her invitation hangs in the air. After our last encounter, I never anticipated her approaching me again. Honestly, I wished she'd kept her distance. But here we are, and I muster a strained smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she replies, her voice cool and distant. "Please meet me in the music room tomorrow. Midday. Don't be late." She exits as swiftly as she arrived, leaving no room for shock.
My heart weighs heavy as I retreat to my room. Aldaire's presence eludes me—I neither heard nor sensed him. Yet, when morning light spills through the window, his shoes and damp towel lie abandoned. The floor bears witness to his clandestine departure.
Anger has surrendered to disappointment. I draw a bath, hoping its warmth will dissolve the tension. I don't close my eyes for fear to have the other day's incident repeated. I find myself humming a soft lullaby, its melody both foreign and achingly familiar. Wrapped in a towel, I search for my clothing, clutching the fabric as if it anchors me.
And there he is—Aldaire, seated at his table. My song catches in my throat, heart stuttering. Feelings, once dormant, now surge—a metamorphosis I hadn't anticipated. His presence shouldn't affect me, yet it does. A dangerous spark ignites in the pit of my stomach. He touched me once, and it changed nothing.
His gaze lifts, locking with mine, and he smiles, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"I don't mean to be rude, but I need privacy," I manage, striving for normalcy. But normal eludes me.
"Don't bother," he teases. "I won't look."
I roll my eyes. Aldaire, always complicating things.
"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" His voice cuts through the room, and I catch him rising from the chair. His tone is playful, but inexplicably, my cheeks flush. As he approaches, shadows cling to him—different from our last encounter. At least this time, he's not starving.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I murmur, my gaze darting away. The proximity between us spins my head. Alone, nearly naked, my heart races with mortification over my thoughts.
"Get out of the room," I command, pointing at the door. His eyes follow my gesture, but he grins.
"My room?"
"Our room."
He leans closer, and I close my eyes. Why is he doing this? Playful or not, I'm not in the mood.
"You smell good," he declares, and I steal a glance. His grin widens.
"Stay away from me." I reach for the cloak on the bed, but he intercepts me.
"I was forgetting your scent," he admits. "But I'm glad I have another chance."
His words unnerve me. Where does this feeling come from?
I avoid his eyes, combing my hair instead. The changing screen stands a few meters away, but I refuse to use it. Changing in the same room as him feels too intimate. The bathroom beckons, but I remain stubborn.
"Tell me," he says, his voice low. "Are you scared of Xavier the same way?"
Xavier—why bring him into this? "I don't understand your obsession with dragging Xavier into every conversation."
"I am a curious man."
Aldaire's gaze locks onto my neck, and time itself seems to pause. His reaction is a freeze-frame, a tableau of hunger and primal need. The skin around his eyes darkens, and his teeth—sharp and dangerous—bare themselves. Is it the sight of my skin that stirs this primal urge within him? Or perhaps it's the scent of my blood, pulsing wildly through my veins, that draws him closer.
I hadn't realized what I'd done until the impact—the jarring collision of my body against the bathroom door. But strangely, it doesn't hurt. It's as if I've always been standing here, caught in this surreal moment, and everything else was merely a dream.
My eyes flutter open, and there he is: Aldaire, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His groan is both pleasure and pain as he adjusts his position, seeking better access to my jaw, my throat, my very essence.
With one of his hands, my arms are held captive above my head, caging me still. The pressure is firm, unyielding, and I try to wiggle out of his grasp, but it only intensifies the ache in my shoulders. My pulse races, blood charging through my veins with every beat of my heart. I want to keep calm, but it's impossible. The proximity of our bodies, the tension in the air—it all conspires to make my skin prickle with awareness.
If only he'd let me get changed, I think desperately. But Aldaire's gaze is unwavering, his eyes dark pools of hunger. I glance down, and horror washes over me. I'm naked. The towel, once wrapped around me, now hangs forgotten. And there, instead of my own hand, his rests over my chest.
Desire and fear collide, a tempest within me. I should be scared—terrified, even—but I'm not. A reckless confidence whispers that he won't hurt me. Both of us pant, breaths ragged, chests rising and falling in sync. His apology is a groan, lost in the charged atmosphere. We're suspended in this stolen moment, where curiosity and longing blur the lines between danger and surrender.
His groan reverberates through the small bathroom, a raw sound that slices through the charged air. "I am sorry," he confesses, and in that moment, I glimpse the true Aldaire—the one who isn't shrouded in mystery or danger.
But this is spiraling out of control. "Get off me!" I hiss, my voice a desperate plea. His grip tightens, and I feel trapped, pinned against the wooden door. "Please stop. Don't move."
The weight of his touch is both agony and ecstasy. My blood races, a wild river surging through my veins. I want to break free, yet the pull between us is magnetic. "You have your hands all over me," I whisper, the words barely audible.
He shifts, slowly pulling away. His face turns, not toward me, but to rest against the arm that still holds my wrists aloft. The memory of his rescue floods back—the way he swooped in, fierce and protective. But now, his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—hold no trace of that otherworldly side. Only hunger remains, primal and unyielding.
"I am so sorry," he murmurs, and the distance between us grows. "I must leave."
I shake my head, my pulse thrumming. "I can't move," I admit, my vulnerability laid bare.
He releases my hand, leisurely, yet his body remains a barrier. I study him from beneath lowered lashes, surprised by the urge to reach out, to hold him close. "Is something wrong? Are you sure you're okay?" I ask, my concern genuine.
He forces a chuckle, a brittle sound. "Very thoughtful of you. I must leave and stay away from you."
But I can't bear the thought of separation. "What happened? You can trust me," I implore. There's a soft spot for him, an inexplicable connection that defies reason.
"Can I?" His step takes him around me, and I know this is our eternal struggle. Honesty—the unyielding wall between us—threatens to crumble.
"Of course, you can," I declare, my voice unwavering. "The same way I've trusted my life to you."