Kieran’s thumb traces another circle against my wrist, and I realize my hands are trembling.
The throne room is now silent. All eyes are on him, waiting. The trap has been sprung perfectly. There’s no way out that doesn’t cost him something.
“Very well,” Kieran says finally, his voice carrying through the vast space. “I will consider the candidates you have put forward.”
His words feel like claws raking down my chest.
I know why he’s doing this. I understand the politics, the impossible position they’ve put him in. He has to say yes. He has to play along or risk everything his pack needs from this alliance.
But knowing all this doesn’t matter. It still feels like someone is ripping my heart out with their bare hands.
Chapter Six
Kieran
I stare at the intelligence reports spread across my desk, trying to focus on the information I received last night about movement among the gypsy witches. With no allegiance to anyone, the witches have occupied a portion of my territory for centuries now. We don’t cross paths, and they usually keep to themselves. I have a weak spot for them, so I let them be. But for them to be this agitated is unprecedented. Something is happening.
My eyes wander toward Daciana where she’s sitting with Artisem, the two of them going over the heaps of proposals sent to me this morning.
She’s frowning at a piece of parchment, her nose slightly wrinkled, lips pressed into a thin line. She can’t hide her emotions worth a damn, and despite everything—the Council’s machinations, the witches’ movements, the mounting pressure—I find myself watching her instead of reading about potential threats.
She’s so much younger this time.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I shove it down before it can take root. I force my attention back to the report, but the words about territorial boundaries and unusual gatherings blur together. I’m far too aware of every rustle of parchment from her direction, every quiet comment she makes to Artisem.
A restless impulse takes hold. Maybe it’s the frustration of being cornered. Maybe it’s the unsettling news about the witches. Maybe it’s something else entirely—something I refuse to examine too closely. In any case, I find myself wanting to provoke a reaction from her.
“Find any suitable ones?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I pretend to study a passage in the report.
Artisem’s head snaps up so fast I hear his neck crack. He stares at me with an expression of pure horror, like I’ve just suggested stepping down as alpha and joining a traveling circus.
Daciana’s spine goes rigid. “They’re all noble ladies,” she says stiffly. Then, I hear her mutter under her breath, “This is not part of my job.”
I feel the corner of my mouth want to twitch. I set down the report, finally allowing myself to look at her properly. She is gripping a proposal hard enough that the parchment crinkles, deliberately not meeting my eyes. Her jaw is set in that stubborn way that makes warmth unfurl in my chest.
“I need your help figuring out who could be a potential spy,” I say.
Her gaze snaps to mine, and the force of it hits me as if it were a physical object. “What are you going to do with that information?”
I let a slow smile form. “They could be considered.”
It’s a lie. Complete fiction. I have no intention of considering anyone, spy or otherwise. But watching the color rise in her cheeks, seeing that flash in her eyes—of anger, maybe, or something more complicated—is addictive.
Her hand tightens even more around the parchment, knuckles going white. For a heartbeat, I think she might tear it in half, might even throw it at me, and part of me wants her to. Wants to see the fire that I know burns inside her unleashed in my direction.
But then, her shoulders droop, and guilt slams into me.
“I need to get some air,” she says quietly, already pushing back from the table.
The sense of satisfaction drains away instantly, replaced by an uncomfortable sharpness lodging itself between my ribs.
“Was that really necessary?” Artisem hisses the moment the door closes behind Daciana.
I stare at the intelligence report I’m no longer reading. “I was just…” Just what? Baiting her? Testing her? Watching for reactions I have no right to want? The words die in my throat. “I don’t know.”
I’m too old for this. Too old to be playing games like some foolish youth desperate for attention. Even with the fated mate bond muted between us—something I did deliberately, carefully, with magic that cost more than I like to remember—she might still feel some of the lingering effects. It would explain certain things, such as the way she sometimes catches her breath when I walk into a room or the flush that creeps up her neck when I stand too close.
I shouldn’t encourage it. Shouldn’t want it.
