I tried to teach him—over and over—that showing weakness was a death sentence, that the world only respected strength and feared cruelty. He listened, wide-eyed and solemn, as if he understood, but the lesson never took root.
It became painfully clear—my son might never carry the darkness I had hoped to pass down.
As much as I hated to admit it, Tristan was too kind. Too soft.
Too pure.
Instead of dominance, he exuded calm. He had an unsettling ability to soothe those around him with little more than a few gentle words. People listened to him, trusted him, and this disturbed me deeply.
He reminded me of everything I despised. Everything I had tried to bury.
He was too much like his mother.
Too much like Cora—Mathias’ sweet, saccharine wife.
I had dreamed of raising a warrior like Malik—a blade forged in fire and vengeance. But instead, I got Tristan. The meek. The gentle. The disappointment.
Each passing day became a fresh reminder of my failure. My resentment festered, growing like wildfire until it consumed everything else.
And then, clarity struck like lightning. There was only one person to blame for this misfortune.
Alina.
The hunt would resume. She would pay for what she had done.
Chapter 40
Alina
Eight agonizing years had passed since my child was born—eight years of suffocating torment.
Hatred coursed through my veins like acid, eating away at the remnants of joy that once lit up my life with Balthazar. I despised who I’d become—nothing more than a slave to the needs of a child I could never love. Each day bled into the next, a relentless cycle of feeding, caring, and pretending—pretending this creature might somehow be my path to redemption. But no matter how hard I tried, the hollowness inside me never faded.
The days dragged on, heavy with loneliness. I drifted through them, gathering antiques for the shop Jack and I bought when Olivia was two—Life After Life. It kept my hands busy for a while, but eventually, even that couldn’t drown out the whispers in my head.
At first, I tried to hide the misery, but the mask began to slip. The voices came more frequently now, taunting me, hissing that I was pathetic, a failure, and weak.
I feared I was losing my mind. Still, I refused to believe it. I needed to prove I was sane.
Then, one night, I heard voices outside the shop. Or thought I did. I crept down the stairs to the rear of the store, heart thudding, breath shallow.
And then—I gasped.
Balthazar stood at the window, shrouded in moonlight,his black coat gleaming silver at the seams. He looked as I remembered—tall, commanding, his dark hair tousled by the wind, as though the night bowed to him.
Without thinking, I bolted through the door.
I needed to feel him again. Needed his mouth on mine, his arms around me, anchoring me to something real. The air snapped with tension as I closed the space between us, my desperation eclipsing every flicker of fear.
The door slammed shut behind me, and Balthazar turned.
His eyes caught the moonlight, cold, gleaming with something feral. He stepped toward me.
I froze.
“Balthazar—I abandoned you!” I screamed, my voice breaking with my confession. “I won’t deny it. It was the only way to find the daggers. Every moment without you has been a living hell. I sold my soul in pieces to chase the shadows of power. I married a fool just to bleed secrets from his lips.”
My chest heaved. “But none of it mattered. Not compared to you. You are still my King. And I am still—will always be—your Queen.”
