Myperson.
My thoughts are so tangled up: There’s Lucien’s proposal, which felt too much like an ultimatum. The nightmarish fact that Nocturna is back under Alistair Brightbane’s control. The loss of my top general…
Whom I admittedly fucking loathed.
Still, Siegrid was one of my most experienced and trusted commanders.
I open a connection with Stark, but keep things simple, not wanting extra thoughts to leak over and not trusting myself in this turbulent state to be precise.“Where are you?”
“I’m on my way.”
Almost immediately, I canfeelStark’s presence barreling toward me through the castle halls. Hurriedly, I shore up the barriers between my mind and Anassa, Cratos, and Stark, not wanting news of the proposal from Lucien to slip through before I’m ready.
It’s no surprise that things are leaking through the mate bond again; both of us, and our wolves, are reeling after Siegrid’s death.
Even if Stark’s relationship with his mother was strained, weighted down with years of hurt and abuse, this must be a terrible shock for him.
Saela, Venna, and I are halfway back to our guest rooms when he catches up to us. Our bodies pull toward each other like magnets, each seeking the other. Venna gives me a knowing look and keeps Saela moving toward the guest suite.
“Are you well?” Stark pulls back and grips my shoulders, studying my face. “You’re still new to your powers as queen, and this is such a disturbance.”
Bemused, I grab his hand and pull him to the side of the hall, where a small windowed alcove with a half-circle window seat overlooks rooftops of the west wing of the castle.
Adisturbance? Who the fuck calls their mother’s death a disturbance?
“Stark,” I say, searching his eyes. “How areyou? What can I do? I’m so sorry.”
He stiffens almost imperceptibly, and his voice is controlled when he answers. “Don’t worry about it, princess. We’re Bonded. A violent death is our inevitable end.”
I almost recoil from him. He sounds so removed. But maybe that’s how he needs to deal with this. If he’s able to grieve Siegrid… I have to think it’s tangled up in a lot of other complicated emotions he may not be ready to face.
“You’re the Sovereign Alpha now,” I say lightly. “Is that… are you ready for it? Do you know how to use your powers?”
Stark’s gaze darkens. “I’ll master them swiftly enough.”
He stares past me, as if fascinated by the rooftops outside. That’s strange enough right there for me to know he’s not as stoic about this as he’s pretending to be. It’s definitely bothering him.
But when he looks back to me, there’s steel in his gaze. “You saw what’s happened, I assume? We need to return to Nocturna immediately. Every moment that we waste here is a moment that bastard is consolidating his power. Let’s get back there, face him, break him before his hold is complete.”
Typical Daemos, always ready to rush into battle. But this doesn’t seem like a reasonable solution.
“Give me a moment,” I tell Stark. “I need to check my foresight in case it offers us clues about what to do.”
He nods, and I close my eyes, dipping into the deep reserve of power that lives inside me.
What would happen if we returned to Nocturna immediately?
Images swim before my eyelids. Flashes of battle: direwolf tearing down direwolf as Bonded kill Bonded. Noemi, pierced by an arrow, lying in the dirt. Venna, bleeding from multiple wounds, dragging herself toward me. Shadow magic clashing, rebounding. Countless dead.
Stark falling. Cratos, howling a long note—and then cut off. Killian turning his gaze to me.
I pull myself away from the vision, nausea bubbling inside me at the gruesome sight.
And… what if I accepted Lucien’s aid? And his marriage proposal alongside it?
I see myself in a wedding dress, decked with jewels and gold. Lucien’s fangs glinting as he smiles, taking my hand. Beautiful Siphons press close to me wearing false smiles, congratulating me, kissing my hand, my cheek.
Blood drenches my vision. Blood spilling from Lucien’s mouth as a silver sword runs him through from behind, piercing his neck. His crown clatters to the floor, where rivers of blood flow from the dying Siphons all around us. Blood coating Stark’s face—he lies motionless at my feet, eyes unseeing. Killian, hands drenched in red, laughing as he turns to face me, sword raised high.
