(Adrian's POV)
The morning sun dared to spill across my chamber floor, its pale light cutting through heavy curtains of obsidian velvet. I opened my eyes to its intrusion, though I did not rise immediately. For a king, mornings were not a luxury, they were obligations waiting to devour the mind. Yet for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself stillness.
I listened to the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth, the quiet footsteps of servants beyond the chamber doors, and the silence that stretched thin between breaths. A king's silence was never empty. It was anticipation.
My hand brushed across the sheets, where they were still cool, untouched. He wasn't here. He had never been here, not truly but the phantom ache of Damien's absence clung to me all the same. My throat tightened, recalling the warmth of his breath against my skin, the heat of his hand pinning mine, the hunger in his golden eyes.
I should not think of him.
But I always did.
With a controlled breath, I rose. A servant slipped inside, bowing low, her hands trembling slightly as she held out a folded robe of black silk embroidered with faint silver threading. I let her drape it across my shoulders, though my eyes did not leave the window. Beyond it stretched the expanse of my domain, jagged cliffs, forests like a sea of black pines, and the faint shimmer of the barrier that marked the edge of my kingdom.
A cage made of power and tradition.
And yet… even cages had cracks.
"Your Majesty," the servant whispered, "your council awaits in the Hall."
I dismissed her with a flick of my hand and turned toward my desk instead. Laid across its surface was a parchment, sealed with black wax, unmarked by insignia. My fingers lingered over it, tracing the smooth edges before finally breaking the seal.
The words I had penned last night stared back at me meant for one man alone.
Damien Blackthorn.
I had written to him carefully, each line a careful balance between kingly distance and dangerous intimacy. Not too much to arouse suspicion if intercepted, but enough that he would know. Enough that he would feel the pull, the tether I could no longer sever.
The messenger had already been dispatched under the guise of diplomatic correspondence regarding disputed borders. It was a dangerous game, but one I had mastered long before desire complicated the rules.
Now, I waited.
By nightfall, I would have his reply or nothing at all, which was reply enough.
I let the parchment fall and swept from the chamber, cloak whispering against marble floors.
The Hall of Shadows, as the council chamber was called, was already brimming with figures by the time I entered. Vampires of ancient lineage stood in their crimson finery, their pale faces etched with disdain or devotion. They bowed as one, though I noted the hesitation in a few. Always there were those who tested the balance of power, who mistook patience for weakness.
Lucien stood at the far end, near my throne.
My general. My most loyal weapon, at least, once upon a time. Now his loyalty tasted of iron and ambition.
"Your Majesty," he said smoothly, his bow deeper than the others. His dark eyes gleamed when they lifted to mine. Too sharp. Too knowing.
I ascended the dais and sat upon the throne carved of black stone, its high back arching like a crown of thorns around me. My fingers tapped lightly against its armrest, a rhythm of control.
"Speak," I commanded.
And they did. Reports of raids near the borderlands. Suspicions of wolves encroaching too far into neutral territory. Whispers that our strength waned. Always whispers. Always gnawing.
I listened, impassive. To rule was to wear masks heavier than armor. They saw cold calculation in my silence. None could see the storm beneath.
Lucien stepped forward last, voice rich, commanding. "My King, the wolves grow bolder with each moon. They press against us as though daring you to act. Perhaps…" His gaze lingered, subtle but sharp.
"Perhaps they believe you… distracted."
The word slithered through the chamber like venom.
I let silence stretch, my eyes locked on his.
To the council, my calm was dominance. To Lucien, it was warning.
Finally, I spoke, each word slow and deliberate. "Let the wolves believe what they wish. Belief does not alter truth. The truth is simple, when I choose to strike, they will bleed."
The chamber shivered with the weight of my words. Even Lucien inclined his head, though his smirk was slight, hidden, yet I caught it. He thought himself clever, planting seeds of doubt in the ears of others.
I would let him plant them. And when the time came, I would uproot him with the same patience he mistook for weakness.
For now, I dismissed the council, their robes sweeping like shadows against the marble as they departed. Only Lucien lingered a moment longer, bowing low once more, but his eyes burned with something sharper than loyalty.
I watched him leave.
Yes. He suspected.
And yes, I knew.
The rest of the day unraveled in ritual. Audiences with nobles who spoke in riddles, feasts prepared and rejected, the endless charade of a throne. I walked through each hour with the mask of a king, cold and untouchable, while beneath it my thoughts strayed again and again to the same forbidden place.
Damien.
How long since that night in the forest? How long since his hand closed around mine, fierce and certain, even as our blades dripped with the blood of each other's men?
Too long.
And yet the memory lived in me as vividly as breath.
I ate little at the banquet, ignoring the rich goblets of blood offered by trembling servants. Hunger lingered, but it was not for what they brought.
By the time night fell, the ache in me had sharpened into something unbearable.
I returned to my chamber, dismissing the guards and servants with a glance. The silence of solitude was all I craved.
And then,
A knock.
Three short raps, followed by silence.
I turned, heart stilling. Only one kind of messenger used that code.
The door opened and a cloaked figure entered, bowing low before placing a sealed scroll upon my desk. Then, without a word, he disappeared back into shadow.
I moved slowly, each step deliberate though my pulse quickened.
The seal bore the mark of Blackthorn.
My hand hovered over it, trembling with something I would not name. Finally, I broke the wax and unfurled the parchment.
His handwriting. Bold strokes, sharp edges, a wolf even in ink.
Adrian, it began, no titles, no pretense.
Just me.
As I read, my lips parted, a rare smile tugging at the corner. His words were brief, carefully measured like mine, but between them lay the heat of him. He had received my message. He would answer.
Relief warred with desire, and I leaned back against the desk, letting the parchment fall across my chest.
But I was not alone.
A shadow stirred near the window.
"Working late, Your Majesty?"
Lucien.
I did not flinch, though my muscles coiled beneath stillness. His voice was silk wrapped around steel. He had no right to be here, and yet he stood there, as though testing the limits of my restraint.
"I was not aware you had taken to entering my chambers unannounced," I said coolly.
Lucien bowed faintly, his smirk razor-thin. "Forgive me, Sire. I merely thought you might enjoy company."
His eyes flickered to the parchment still in my hand, too quick for most to notice. But I noticed.
And I knew.
Yes. He suspected.
But I… I was still king.
And I would not fall, not yet.
"Leave," I commanded softly, my voice edged with steel.
He hesitated, then inclined his head and slipped into the shadows, vanishing as swiftly as he came.
I stood in silence, staring at the door long after he was gone, the weight of Damien's letter still warm in my hand.
I whispered his name to the dark.
"Damien."
And for the first time all day, I allowed myself to breathe.