Adrian's POV
Morning came cruelly.
I had dismissed the court early the night before, retreating to my chambers under the guise of exhaustion, and yet sleep had mocked me. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands again, rough, unyielding, desperate against my skin. Every time I breathed, I heard his voice, his growl when I pushed him too far.
Damien Blackthorn.
I should despise him. He was the enemy, the embodiment of everything my people loathed and feared. He was chaos where I was order, heat where I was cold. He was the wolf that tore at the edges of our empire for centuries, never yielding, never cowering.
And yet…
And yet last night I let him touch me. I let him break me open, unravel the mask I have spent centuries weaving.
It was not supposed to matter. A weakness contained in shadows, a dangerous indulgence never to be repeated. But the truth was simpler, darker, he lingered. In my veins. In my thoughts. In the quiet hours of dawn, when even the castle itself seemed to hold its breath.
I rose before the sun touched the windows, dressing myself with mechanical precision. Robes fastened, crown settled, every detail immaculate. No one could see how I faltered. A king did not falter.
By the time the court gathered, I was already seated at the head of the long table, the mask firmly in place. My voice carried its usual even calm, and my eyes revealed nothing. To anyone else, I was unchanged.
But Lucien knew.
He studied me too intently from across the chamber, his expression schooled into obedience, but his eyes sharp as knives. I did not need to hear his words to know he was plotting. He always has been my shadow, my cousin, my rival in everything but title.
The council debated border patrols, new taxes, and the restless murmurs of the people. I listened, I nodded, I offered solutions. But even as my mouth moved, part of me drifted. When one lord spoke of wolves prowling near the eastern edge, my chest tightened. Were they his men? Was he there?
It was infuriating.
Lucien waited until the chamber began to empty before he struck. He always chose his moments well, never in front of the others, always when I could not ignore him.
"You're quiet," he said, approaching with that too-smooth tone.
"I've spoken enough."
"Mm." He tilted his head, watching me like a predator measuring distance before lunging. "The wolf rattled you yesterday."
My jaw stiffened. "He rattled no one. He wasted my time, as always."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Is that what you call it? Wasted time?"
I met his gaze, cold and unflinching.
"Careful, cousin."
"Of course," he murmured, bowing slightly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed him. "I only speak as one concerned for the throne. Wolves bite, Adrian. They bite deep. I'd hate to see one sink his teeth into you."
He left before I could answer, and I exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to crush the goblet in my hand.
He knew. Not the truth, not yet. But he knew enough. And Lucien with knowledge was more dangerous than any wolf.
The day dragged on with endless duties. Reports from generals, discussions with merchants, the same hollow cycle of rule I had endured for centuries. Normally, I found solace in it, the stability of order, the calm predictability of structure. But today, my mind slipped constantly, relentlessly, back to him.
How he had looked at me when I teased him, fury and desire warring in his eyes. How he had lost control in that chamber, hands trembling as though I were the only thing anchoring him. How, afterward, his voice softened when he apologized, as though I were something fragile.
No one had ever looked at me like that.
I leaned back in my throne, fingers curling against the armrest. Why did it matter? What was he doing now, was he thinking of me? Or had he brushed it aside, already lost in the noise of his wolf kingdom?
The thought that he could forget me so easily stung more than I wanted to admit.
That evening, I dismissed the council earlier than usual, ignoring their confusion. I needed quiet. Needed to think without eyes on me.
Alone in my chambers, I poured myself a glass of old bloodwine, the rich scent filling the air. It should have been enough to ground me, but even as I drank, the taste was dull. Everything was dull compared to him.
I set the goblet down and pressed my palms against the desk, bowing my head. This could not continue. I was a king, not some lovesick boy. My people looked to me for strength, for restraint, for control. To let this… attachment… grow was madness.
And yet…
And yet, in the depths of my chest, I felt it blooming like wildfire.
Desire, yes. But more than that. Something I had long thought myself incapable of.
Love.
The word frightened me. I had never loved anyone. I had ruled, I had fought, I had endured. But love was for the weak, for mortals, for those who could afford to lose. I could not lose.
And still, when I closed my eyes, I saw Damien's.
A knock at the door startled me. Sharp, deliberate. I straightened instantly, mask snapping back into place.
"Enter."
Lucien slipped in, bowing low. "Forgive the intrusion. I wished to report privately."
I gestured for him to speak, though every fiber of me bristled.
"The council grows uneasy. They sense your distraction. They whisper that your judgment falters. I have worked to temper their doubts, but…" He let the silence linger, heavy with meaning.
"But?"
"But their patience wears thin. If you continue to seem… preoccupied… they will begin to look elsewhere for strength." His eyes flicked up, meeting mine with calculated boldness. "Perhaps even to me."
I stood slowly, the motion enough to make him step back. "Be careful, Lucien. Do not mistake my silence for ignorance. I know what you plot."
His lips curved, unrepentant. "I plot nothing but the safety of our people."
"Lies taste sour, cousin."
He bowed again, but his smirk lingered as he withdrew.
When the door closed, I let out a low hiss of frustration. He was closing in. Each day he grew bolder, circling like a vulture, waiting for me to falter. And if he ever learned the truth, that my greatest weakness was not politics, not war, but Damien, he would strike without hesitation.
I moved to the window, staring out at the night sky. Somewhere beyond those forests, the wolf thought of me or didn't. I clenched the sill, forcing myself to breathe.
I should end it. I should cut the thread now before it strangled me. But the memory of his voice, the way he whispered my name like it belonged only to him, made the thought unbearable.
I could not end it.
I was falling. And for the first time in my long reign, I did not know how to stop.