Adrian's POV
It was supposed to be a plan.
Every moment with him, every touch, every glance, every word had been designed in my mind long before it ever happened.
At least, that's what I told myself.
When Damien first crossed my path, I saw him only as an obstacle. The wolf king, the sworn enemy of my people, the man whose death would bring me victory. My strategy had been simple, lure him in, make him lower his guard, study his weaknesses, and then strike when the moment was right.
I told myself I could do it. That I could look into his eyes, smile at him, even touch him, knowing all of it was a lie because I was doing it for my kingdom.
And in the beginning, it almost worked.
I remember the first time I saw him clearly beyond the battlefield, beyond the roar of war. We had been caught in the same storm, seeking shelter in the ruins of a chapel neither of us had expected to find. He had walked in, dripping wet, his broad frame filling the broken doorway like some furious god. His eyes burned gold even in the dim light, sharp, dangerous, suspicious.
He had recognized me instantly. I recognized him too.
Every instinct screamed at me to strike, to bare my fangs and finish what centuries of war had begun. But something stopped me. The rain, the silence, the way his chest rose and fell like he was restraining himself from lunging forward.
We had stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. Two predators. Two kings. Two men carrying the weight of generations.
That night, my plan had sparked. I thought, what if I can use this? What if I can bend the wolf king to my will?
So I smiled. I softened my voice. I let him see not the king drenched in blood, but the man beneath it.
It was the beginning of my greatest deception.
Or so I thought.
The first time Damien touched me, it was nothing, at least, that's what I told myself. We had been arguing in that abandoned chapel, words hot and sharp, and when I turned to leave, he caught my wrist.
His hand was large, rough with calluses, his grip strong but not crushing. For the briefest of moments, our eyes met and I felt it.
A warmth. A pull. A spark that startled me so deeply I nearly jerked away.
But I didn't.
I told myself it was useful, that his touch meant he was softening, that the plan was working.
And yet, when I lay awake later that night, I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my skin.
It became easier, then. Easier to meet him in the shadows, to let our conversations drift away from war and blood to things far more dangerous.
He told me about his childhood, about Selene, about Kael, about the forest where he first shifted beneath the moonlight. He laughed, really laughed, and the sound was like fire cracking in a hearth.
I told him things I had never told anyone. About how I felt like a prisoner even in my palace. About how being king was a crown of thorns, always bleeding me dry.
He listened. He always listened.
And when his eyes softened, when the gold melted into something gentler, I felt seen in a way I hadn't since I was a child.
I told myself I was gathering information.
That the more he opened up, the more power I would have over him.
But the truth was crueler.
The more he opened, the more I did too. And slowly, silently, my plan began to unravel.
There are moments burned into me like brands, moments I cannot forget no matter how hard I try.
The first time he kissed me. Gods, I hadn't meant for it to happen. We had been standing too close, our argument collapsing into silence, our breaths colliding. His hand had cupped my jaw almost hesitantly, as though asking for permission even as his eyes darkened with want.
And then his lips were on mine, hot, fierce, desperate.
I should have shoved him away. I should have reminded myself of the plan.
But instead, I kissed him back.
I let myself drown in him, let myself forget crowns and wars and betrayal. For those stolen minutes, there was only Damien.
And afterward, when we pulled apart, both panting, I told myself it meant nothing. That it was all part of luring him deeper into my web.
But when he looked at me, lips swollen, eyes soft, I knew I was lying to myself.
The worst part, the cruelest part was how much he trusted me.
He let his guard down around me in ways he never did with anyone else. In those secret rooms, he wasn't the wolf king, the feared warrior, the protector of his people. He was just Damien. A man with burdens, with scars, with moments of tenderness he kept locked away from the world.
And I...I was the one he chose to share them with.
That trust should have been my greatest weapon. But instead, it became my undoing.
Because every time he looked at me with those trusting eyes, a part of me broke.
How could I betray that?
How could I betray him?
And yet, I did.
I gave the order.
Even now, the memory burns in me like acid. Sitting before the council, my voice steady, my mask perfect, as I told them to prepare the strike against Blackthorn.
I felt Lucien's eyes on me, sharp, suspicious, always waiting for me to falter. My people hungry for blood, demanding strength. And I...I was too afraid to appear weak, too afraid of what my silence might cost me.
So I did it. I ordered his death.
And in that moment, the plan came full circle.
The plan that had started as deception had ended in betrayal.
But in between, between the lies and the treachery I had fallen,
I had fallen for the one man I was never meant to love.
I sit here now, drowning in memories, and I can still feel his lips on mine, his hands on my skin, the weight of his gaze that made me feel as though I was more than a king, more than a monster.
And it kills me.
Because I will never feel it again.
I close my eyes, and I see him, smiling softly, teasing me when I tried to act unaffected, his voice low and warm when he whispered my name.
I hear him laugh.
I hear him groan in frustration when I bested him in our arguments.
I hear him gasp against my mouth when I pulled him too close.
And then, I hear nothing.
Because he's gone.
Because I killed him.
I wonder, sometimes, if he knew.
If he suspected that behind every kiss, every stolen night, I was lying.
If he ever saw through my mask and realized that I was never supposed to love him.
Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he believed every touch, every word, every moment.
Maybe that makes it worse.
Because if he believed, then he died betrayed not just by an enemy, but by someone he trusted. By someone he let into his heart.
By me.
And yet…
When I think of him, when I remember those moments, the storm, the laughter, the warmth, I can't convince myself they were lies anymore.
Because somewhere along the way, the plan stopped mattering.
The throne, the crown, the war, it all faded into background noise whenever I was with him.
The only thing that mattered was the way he made me feel.
Alive.
Free.
Loved.
Yes, loved.
Gods help me, I loved him.
And now it's too late.
I wipe my face with trembling hands, staring at the reflection of myself in the mirror across the room. My eyes are swollen, red, haunted.
This is what love has done to me.
This is what betrayal has done.
I had wanted to conquer him, but instead he conquered me.
I had wanted to expose his weakness, but instead he exposed mine.
And now, with him gone, I am left with nothing but ashes.
Ashes of a plan.
Ashes of a love I was too much of a coward to protect.
Ashes of a heart that will never beat the same again.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel him.
The warmth of his hand against mine.
The heat of his breath on my neck.
The sound of his voice whispering, "Adrian."
And then nothing.
Only silence.
Only loss.
Only the unbearable truth that I, who loved him most, am the reason he is gone.
I thought I was the one pulling the strings.
But Damien was never my pawn.
He was my undoing.
And he was my love.
Even if I never deserved him.