Rhys' POV
The war room was suffocating.
Not physically—the space was large enough to accommodate twenty alphas comfortably. The tension made the air thick, made each breath feel labored. My chest ached from the curse's constant gnawing, worse now that I knew what I was denying myself. Every heartbeat reminded me of violet eyes and citrus-amber scent and the mate I'd locked away three floors above me.
I kept my face impassive and let the faction leaders tear each other apart with words.
"The heretic must be destroyed." Lord Castellan, vampire ambassador, spoke with the kind of certainty that came from centuries of believing yourself superior. His pale fingers drummed on the table, each tap like a nail in a coffin. "The Ashcraft accords are clear—"
"The Ashcraft accords were written by a madman we imprisoned in the Void." I kept my voice level, controlled. Cold. "Forgive me if I don't consider them gospel."
Castellan's eyes flashed red for a moment. My wolf stirred, ready. The curse purred, feeding on my aggression.
"Nevertheless, King Sterling, the coalition agreed—"
"The coalition was manipulated." I leaned forward, letting just enough dominance bleed into my posture that the other alphas in the room shifted. Responded. Recognized the threat. "By Cassius Ashcraft. Who wanted the Umbra-Blooded eliminated for his own purposes. Purposes that involved enslaving humanity and ruling us all."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Agreement from some. Doubt from others.
"That's revisionist history," Castellan said smoothly. "The heretics were dangerous—"
"The heretics were people." The words came out harder than I intended. "Powerful people, yes. But people nonetheless. Not the demons your precious accords claimed."
My mother's face flashed through my mind—the way she'd smiled, the way she'd taught me to be better than the monsters who came for her. The way she'd died so I could live.
The way I was cursed because of it.
My jaw ached from clenching. I forced myself to relax, to breathe through the pain in my chest as the curse twisted tighter.
"Be that as it may," Lady Siobhan of the Fae Court interjected, her musical voice cutting through the tension, "the Wylde girl exists. She carries the bloodline. What do you intend to do with her, King Sterling?"
Every eye in the room turned to me.
I'd known this question was coming. Had prepared for it. But my throat still wanted to close around the lie I needed to tell.
"She's dead."
Silence. Heavy, disbelieving silence.
"Dead?" Thorne Ashcraft's voice slid through the quiet like oil on water. He sat at the far end of the table, looking every inch the civilized businessman in his three-piece suit. But I could smell the anticipation on him, could see the calculation in his dark eyes. "How... unfortunate."
He didn't believe me. None of them did.
"An escape attempt." I kept my gaze steady, my heart rate controlled despite the lie burning on my tongue like acid. "She tried to flee during transport. Went into the river. The current took her before my people could—"
"How very convenient." Thorne smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "And the body?"
"Not yet recovered. The river feeds into the bay. If she surfaces, we'll know."
Another lie. Each one made the curse twist deeper, fed it with my guilt and self-loathing. My hands wanted to shake. I kept them flat on the table, steady.
Thorne studied me for a long moment, and I felt the weight of it—the assessment, the doubt, the hunger beneath his civilized mask. He wanted Sloane. Wanted her power. And he suspected I was keeping her from him.
He was right.
"Well." Thorne leaned back in his chair. "I suppose that solves our little problem, doesn't it? No heretic, no violation of the accords. We can all return to our respective territories and forget this unpleasantness."
The way he said it—like he was already planning his next move—made my wolf snarl silently.
"Indeed." I stood, signaling the meeting's end. My ribs felt compressed, my lungs struggling for air that wouldn't quite satisfy. "Gentleman. Lady Siobhan. Thank you for your... cooperation."
They filed out slowly, each faction eyeing the others, political alliances and grudges written in every glance and gesture. Thorne was the last to leave, pausing at the door long enough to meet my eyes.
"Such a waste," he murmured. "The Umbra bloodline, lost to a river current. Almost tragic."
He left before I could respond. Which was probably wise. My control was fraying at the edges, the wolf snapping at the chains I kept it wrapped in.
The door closed. The room emptied. And finally—finally—I let myself breathe.
Pain crashed through me immediately. The curse, no longer suppressed by sheer willpower, raked its claws through my chest. Black veins crawled up my neck, visible in the darkened windows. My vision blurred at the edges.
I gripped the table, my knuckles white, and rode out the wave of agony.
It passed. Eventually. It always did.
I straightened slowly, my whole body trembling with aftershocks, and found Kael standing in the doorway I hadn't heard open.
"That went well," he said dryly.
"They don't believe me."
"Of course they don't believe you. You're a terrible liar." He crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of whiskey. Brought one to me. "Thorne especially. He'll be watching."
I took the glass. My hand shook slightly, making the liquid tremble. I downed it in one swallow, welcoming the burn that had nothing to do with the curse.
"Let him watch." My voice came out hoarse. "The fortress is warded six ways to Sunday. He can't get in without starting a war."
"And when he does start a war?"
"Then we fight."
Kael studied me over the rim of his glass, his amber eyes too knowing. "This is killing you. Faster than before."
"I'm aware."
"Rhys—"
"I said I'm aware." I set the empty glass down too hard. It didn't shatter, but it was close. "What would you have me do, Kael? Claim her? Complete the bond? The curse would devour her in weeks. Maybe days. I won't—" My throat closed. I couldn't finish.
I won't kill her. Won't be the death of my own mate.
Even if keeping her at arm's length killed me instead.
Kael was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Have you considered telling her the truth?"
"What truth?"
"About the curse. About why you rejected her. About—"
"No." The word came out flat. Final. "She doesn't need to know. Doesn't need to feel responsible for..." I gestured vaguely at myself. At the black veins fading back beneath my skin. At the hollowness in my chest that had nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with a bond I'd shattered. "This."
"She deserves to understand."
"She deserves to live." I met his eyes. "That's all that matters."
Kael shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew when I'd made up my mind.
"Kael has prepared the suite," he said instead. "Your mother's old chambers. Warded, locked, but comfortable. She'll have everything she needs."
Except freedom. Except answers. Except the mate bond that might have made the cage bearable.
Guilt twisted through my gut like broken glass, jagged and cutting. My stomach clenched, cramping with it. The sensation crawled up into my chest, making it hard to swallow, making my lungs feel too tight. Heat flushed through me—not the warmth of desire but something sickly, feverish. My throat burned with it. The curse fed on it greedily.
"Good." I forced the word out past the tightness in my throat. "I want surveillance reports every hour. If she tries anything, if she—"
"If she what? Escapes through magically sealed windows? Breaks through doors you personally warded?"
"If she's afraid." The admission cost me. My jaw ached from clenching. "If she's afraid, I want to know."
Kael's expression softened, just slightly. "You're torturing yourself."
"Better me than her."
I pushed past him, my shoulder brushing his, and headed for the door. I needed to move. I needed to do something other than stand here and feel the mate bond pulling me toward the floors above, toward the woman I'd caged and abandoned.
"Where are you going?" Kael called after me.
"To make sure the wards are holding."
A lie. I was going to stand outside her door like a lovesick fool and listen for sounds of life. For her breathing, her heartbeat, any sign that she was okay despite what I'd done to her.
Pathetic. I was pathetic.
But I couldn't stop myself.
The walk to her wing of the fortress felt too long and too short simultaneously. My boots echoed on stone floors. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a reminder of what I couldn't have.
I stopped outside her door. Listened.
Nothing. Complete silence.
My hand lifted, hovering over the wood. I could knock. Could enter. Could see for myself that she was alive and whole and—
No. I couldn't. Wouldn't. The curse was already writhing at her proximity, eager for the warmth I could feel through the door. If I went inside, if I got close enough to smell her again, to feel the ghost of the bond we should have had...
I lowered my hand. Clenched it into a fist at my side.
"I'm sorry." The words were barely a whisper. Wouldn't carry through the heavy door. She'd never hear them.
That was probably for the best.
I turned and walked away, each step feeling like it took more effort than the last. The curse purred with satisfaction, gorging itself on my misery.
Three floors away, locked in a cage I'd built, was my mate.
And here I was, walking in the opposite direction.
Leaving her there.
Condemning us both.
"I'm sorry," I whispered again to the empty hallway.
But sorry didn't change anything.
Sorry didn't keep her safe.
And sorry definitely didn't make the hollow ache in my chest any easier to bear.